themselves against the mud to let the visitors pass; they looked tired and sad, and they said little. Dru caught one man's eye, and smiled. 'It's not the Ritz, is it?' he said.
'Soddin' French did this,' the man said. 'Bleedin' spotless, we left this place.'
They turned into a communication trench which led forward to an observation post: a walled pit with sandbagged slots looking down the steep and bare hillside to a flat valley, almost a thousand feet below. 'Down there you see the Jarama River,' Summers said, 'and beyond the Jarama you see the enemy.'
The soldier on duty stood back to make room for them at the slots. There was no difficulty in seeing the enemy, only in counting them. There were hundreds of troops, probably thousands, with cavalry and horse-drawn artillery in separate encampments. Their many small sounds travelled clearly up the windless air: a motorcycle's buzz, a man singing, the tiny clang of a hammer on steel, the nervous whinny of a horse. Smoke climbed from a dozen fires like softly unravelling wool.
'Who's in command down there?' Dru asked. 'Still General Mola?'
'Mola is the henchman of the fascist rebel Franco,' Summers said, Dru took this to be confirmation.
'How on earth did you manage to hold them off?' Barker asked. 'I mean, Mola's got a fully equipped professional army. Your chaps are just . . . well . . . volunteers.'
'Exactly. Every man in the International Brigade is fighting for a cause. The fascist mercenaries are merely fighting for pay. Another thing is our superior position. We forced the enemy to attack uphill, with no cover. But above all we succeeded because of our international solidarity. The English battalion fought alongside the Balkan battalion, the Franco-Beige battalion, the Lincoln battalion. Jarama was a political as much as a military victory.'
'I see what you mean about the hill,' Barker said. 'Damn steep.'
'Don't look out so far.' Barker jerked his head back. 'There are snipers in a farmhouse, halfway down the slope,' Summers warned.
'Are there really?' Barker said.
With a sharp and savage bang a sandbag erupted, and dirt sprayed everywhere. The visitors drew back, startled rather than frightened, for the sandbag itself had seemed to explode, without cause. It formed part of the slit where Barker had been looking out. 'I didn't do that,' he said stupidly.
Summers allowed himself a brief, bleak smile. 'No,, that was an enemy bullet. They go off with a loud bang when they hit.'
Townsend looked interested. 'I thought explosive bullets were outlawed,' he said.
Summers merely glanced at him. 'Now I think you have seen everything. There is probably lunch waiting for you at Brigade H.Q.'
As they filed out, the American lingered to examine the shattered sandbag. He scorched his fingers on a fragment of bullet, and cursed himself softly: 'Damn idiot.'
'You are, if you believe all that codswallop,' the soldier said. He was squatting in a corner, eyes half-shut, arms resting on knees, hands dangling.
'Is that so?' Townsend sucked his fingers and looked more closely. 'Wait a minute . . . You're the guy we talked to in the church, right? David ...'
'Davis.'
'Well, I was close. Anyway, you've changed somewhat since then. What hit you? A Pontiac or a Plymouth?'
Davis raised his face. One eye was a shiny red, half-hidden by swollen flesh as black and puffy as an old mushroom. There were cuts and scrapes all over his forehead and jawline. His upper lip was lopsidedly bloated, and his nose looked crooked. 'There's a war on,' he said. 'Haven't you seen a casualty before?'
'You didn't get that collection from General Mola.'
'No.' Davis took an empty sandbag and began scraping dirt into it, using an old saucepan as a shovel. 'No, I didn't. When we came back here I found a Frenchman with his trousers down, right where I made my dug-out. Talk about smell. They eat snails, you know.'
'So I hear.'
'It's true, I seen 'em do it. So I smashed his face in and his friends didn't
'Soddin' French did this,' the man said. 'Bleedin' spotless, we left this place.'
They turned into a communication trench which led forward to an observation post: a walled pit with sandbagged slots looking down the steep and bare hillside to a flat valley, almost a thousand feet below. 'Down there you see the Jarama River,' Summers said, 'and beyond the Jarama you see the enemy.'
The soldier on duty stood back to make room for them at the slots. There was no difficulty in seeing the enemy, only in counting them. There were hundreds of troops, probably thousands, with cavalry and horse-drawn artillery in separate encampments. Their many small sounds travelled clearly up the windless air: a motorcycle's buzz, a man singing, the tiny clang of a hammer on steel, the nervous whinny of a horse. Smoke climbed from a dozen fires like softly unravelling wool.
'Who's in command down there?' Dru asked. 'Still General Mola?'
'Mola is the henchman of the fascist rebel Franco,' Summers said, Dru took this to be confirmation.
'How on earth did you manage to hold them off?' Barker asked. 'I mean, Mola's got a fully equipped professional army. Your chaps are just . . . well . . . volunteers.'
'Exactly. Every man in the International Brigade is fighting for a cause. The fascist mercenaries are merely fighting for pay. Another thing is our superior position. We forced the enemy to attack uphill, with no cover. But above all we succeeded because of our international solidarity. The English battalion fought alongside the Balkan battalion, the Franco-Beige battalion, the Lincoln battalion. Jarama was a political as much as a military victory.'
'I see what you mean about the hill,' Barker said. 'Damn steep.'
'Don't look out so far.' Barker jerked his head back. 'There are snipers in a farmhouse, halfway down the slope,' Summers warned.
'Are there really?' Barker said.
With a sharp and savage bang a sandbag erupted, and dirt sprayed everywhere. The visitors drew back, startled rather than frightened, for the sandbag itself had seemed to explode, without cause. It formed part of the slit where Barker had been looking out. 'I didn't do that,' he said stupidly.
Summers allowed himself a brief, bleak smile. 'No,, that was an enemy bullet. They go off with a loud bang when they hit.'
Townsend looked interested. 'I thought explosive bullets were outlawed,' he said.
Summers merely glanced at him. 'Now I think you have seen everything. There is probably lunch waiting for you at Brigade H.Q.'
As they filed out, the American lingered to examine the shattered sandbag. He scorched his fingers on a fragment of bullet, and cursed himself softly: 'Damn idiot.'
'You are, if you believe all that codswallop,' the soldier said. He was squatting in a corner, eyes half-shut, arms resting on knees, hands dangling.
'Is that so?' Townsend sucked his fingers and looked more closely. 'Wait a minute . . . You're the guy we talked to in the church, right? David ...'
'Davis.'
'Well, I was close. Anyway, you've changed somewhat since then. What hit you? A Pontiac or a Plymouth?'
Davis raised his face. One eye was a shiny red, half-hidden by swollen flesh as black and puffy as an old mushroom. There were cuts and scrapes all over his forehead and jawline. His upper lip was lopsidedly bloated, and his nose looked crooked. 'There's a war on,' he said. 'Haven't you seen a casualty before?'
'You didn't get that collection from General Mola.'
'No.' Davis took an empty sandbag and began scraping dirt into it, using an old saucepan as a shovel. 'No, I didn't. When we came back here I found a Frenchman with his trousers down, right where I made my dug-out. Talk about smell. They eat snails, you know.'
'So I hear.'
'It's true, I seen 'em do it. So I smashed his face in and his friends didn't
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