could have meant anything.
'Show him identification,' Luis suggested. 'Anything, it does not matter. This is just an ignorant peasant.'
'Not true,' the sentry said. 'Ignorant, yes. Peasant, no. Beneath this dirty shirt there beats an indelibly bourgeois heart, I'm sorry to say.' He put the knife away. 'I know you,' he said to Barker. 'We were at school together. Templeton.'
'Were we?' Barker tried to stare beyond the stubble and the grime. 'Wait a minute. You're not Charles Templeton? The cricketer?'
'None other.'
'Good God.'
'Ah, now there I can't agree with you.' Templeton gave a rueful grin. His teeth were not bad; just dirty.
'Listen: can you let us in?' Townsend asked. 'We want to find out what's happening in this damn war.'
'Well, you won't learn anything here,' Templeton said. 'They're holding a brigade conference. It's like the Chelsea Arts Ball gone wrong. Still, you can go in if you like.'
He led them into the farmhouse. 'Weren't you an artist? A painter?' Barker asked.
'I still am an artist,' Templeton said with conviction. 'But here in Spain I can fight for truth as well as paint it. Mind your head.' He opened a door and they ducked into a long, dim room in which forty or fifty soldiers were engaged in half a dozen arguments.
The correspondents stood against the wall while their eyes and ears adjusted to the gloomy uproar. They could see a whole theatrical wardrobe of uniforms, ranging from khaki overalls to black flying jackets, and from red cavalry cloaks to blue tunics. They could hear most of the languages of Europe. Everyone seemed to be talking, no one seemed to be listening. They all had two things in common: fervour and sidearms. Every man present was wearing a large automatic or a revolver on his gunbelt.
'This is a conference?' said Barker. 'It sounds more like a difference.'
'Oh well, everybody is free to give his point of view, in the International Brigade,' Templeton said. 'We are, after all, fighting for democracy.'
'What happens when they don't agree?' Townsend asked.
'It depends. Sometimes the Brigade commander orders lunch. Sometimes the enemy attacks. Something always happens.'
'Doesn't sound very organised.'
Luis felt that the conversation was lacking spark. 'Sir, how many fascists have you killed?' he inquired.
'Oh, hundreds. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds. Perhaps as many as three. Of course, some may have been dead already.'
Luis flushed. He thought that Templeton was mocking him. 'Perhaps it is so easy to kill fascists that you cannot remember?' he said.
'I can remember killing,' Templeton said, looking openly and easily into Luis's stiff face, 'but thank God I can't remember counting while I did it.'
Barker's pencil skidded wildly off his notebook as the door swung open and banged his arm. A tall and very fat man with angry eyes and a shaggy, mistrustful moustache strode into the room, picked up a stool and hammered it thunderously against a table-top. He wore' tunic and trousers of workingmen's blue, with a giant pistol tugging down his belt, a flaring red kerchief, and an absurdly large black beret, so big that it fell over one ear, almost to the collar. Even before his table-battering had created silence, he was shouting. The language was French, but the style was universal. The fat man was hysterical with rage. His jowls wobbled, his nostrils flared, his voice and his gestures ripped the air.
This hulking, howling harangue went on for several minutes, while the atmosphere grew unhappier. Townsend nudged Dru and Barker. They backed out, Templeton following, and shut the door.
'Andrea Marty,' Dru said. 'Three hundred pounds of mouth. The moustache is camouflage. Low-flying aircraft mistake him for a horse's ass, and fly on.'
'Marty the Commissar?' Townsend asked. Next door, the ranting seemed to have gained in fury. 'I understood he was a horse's ass.'
'You didn't see anyone in there laughing. Marty is Chief Political Commissar of the International Brigades.
'Show him identification,' Luis suggested. 'Anything, it does not matter. This is just an ignorant peasant.'
'Not true,' the sentry said. 'Ignorant, yes. Peasant, no. Beneath this dirty shirt there beats an indelibly bourgeois heart, I'm sorry to say.' He put the knife away. 'I know you,' he said to Barker. 'We were at school together. Templeton.'
'Were we?' Barker tried to stare beyond the stubble and the grime. 'Wait a minute. You're not Charles Templeton? The cricketer?'
'None other.'
'Good God.'
'Ah, now there I can't agree with you.' Templeton gave a rueful grin. His teeth were not bad; just dirty.
'Listen: can you let us in?' Townsend asked. 'We want to find out what's happening in this damn war.'
'Well, you won't learn anything here,' Templeton said. 'They're holding a brigade conference. It's like the Chelsea Arts Ball gone wrong. Still, you can go in if you like.'
He led them into the farmhouse. 'Weren't you an artist? A painter?' Barker asked.
'I still am an artist,' Templeton said with conviction. 'But here in Spain I can fight for truth as well as paint it. Mind your head.' He opened a door and they ducked into a long, dim room in which forty or fifty soldiers were engaged in half a dozen arguments.
The correspondents stood against the wall while their eyes and ears adjusted to the gloomy uproar. They could see a whole theatrical wardrobe of uniforms, ranging from khaki overalls to black flying jackets, and from red cavalry cloaks to blue tunics. They could hear most of the languages of Europe. Everyone seemed to be talking, no one seemed to be listening. They all had two things in common: fervour and sidearms. Every man present was wearing a large automatic or a revolver on his gunbelt.
'This is a conference?' said Barker. 'It sounds more like a difference.'
'Oh well, everybody is free to give his point of view, in the International Brigade,' Templeton said. 'We are, after all, fighting for democracy.'
'What happens when they don't agree?' Townsend asked.
'It depends. Sometimes the Brigade commander orders lunch. Sometimes the enemy attacks. Something always happens.'
'Doesn't sound very organised.'
Luis felt that the conversation was lacking spark. 'Sir, how many fascists have you killed?' he inquired.
'Oh, hundreds. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds. Perhaps as many as three. Of course, some may have been dead already.'
Luis flushed. He thought that Templeton was mocking him. 'Perhaps it is so easy to kill fascists that you cannot remember?' he said.
'I can remember killing,' Templeton said, looking openly and easily into Luis's stiff face, 'but thank God I can't remember counting while I did it.'
Barker's pencil skidded wildly off his notebook as the door swung open and banged his arm. A tall and very fat man with angry eyes and a shaggy, mistrustful moustache strode into the room, picked up a stool and hammered it thunderously against a table-top. He wore' tunic and trousers of workingmen's blue, with a giant pistol tugging down his belt, a flaring red kerchief, and an absurdly large black beret, so big that it fell over one ear, almost to the collar. Even before his table-battering had created silence, he was shouting. The language was French, but the style was universal. The fat man was hysterical with rage. His jowls wobbled, his nostrils flared, his voice and his gestures ripped the air.
This hulking, howling harangue went on for several minutes, while the atmosphere grew unhappier. Townsend nudged Dru and Barker. They backed out, Templeton following, and shut the door.
'Andrea Marty,' Dru said. 'Three hundred pounds of mouth. The moustache is camouflage. Low-flying aircraft mistake him for a horse's ass, and fly on.'
'Marty the Commissar?' Townsend asked. Next door, the ranting seemed to have gained in fury. 'I understood he was a horse's ass.'
'You didn't see anyone in there laughing. Marty is Chief Political Commissar of the International Brigades.
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