9

Albacete,
30th October 1937

Dear Sis,

The Aragon offensive is over and I’ve survived my first taste of action. With some distinction, I’m assured, though believe me I’ve no wish to crow. I enjoy a big advantage over most of my comrades. This was my first, not umpteenth, experience of military defeat. And I haven’t yet come to share their no doubt justifiably cynical view of the cabals and commissariats that govern our fate.

So, as we rest here and try to recuperate, there’s time to reflect on the consolations of a soldier’s life, whether he’s on the winning or the losing side, the right or the wrong. The greatest of all is the peerless brand of friendship bred by danger and adversity. I spent the best part of a day trapped in no man’s land with two men who I’d never have met but for each of us being caught up in this chaotic affair and, absurd as it may sound, I’m glad I volunteered for that reason alone.

You may meet Frank Griffith one day and I’m sure you’ll like him if you do. He’ll never be invited to a Bloomsbury cocktail party – unless it’s one I throw in his honour – but you could trust him with your life and not be disappointed. There’s not much higher praise than that, is there?

Vicente Ortiz is an anarchist, by party and inclination. But he recognizes his party’s faults. He knows – and he’s told me – the mistakes their leaders made and how they undermined their position in the Republican movement. He also knows his ideology makes him a marked man, at best an embarrassment, at worst a target. But he doesn’t seem to begrudge the fact. It’s all one to him. Fighting the Fascists is what he regards as important, not evening the ideological score. If only more Republicans thought the same! Remember what happened to the POUM?

But you don’t want me to lead you into the tangled forest of Republican factions. Perhaps you knew the fervour we sensed in Madrid six years ago would lead to this. Perhaps you even told me so. It wouldn’t have been like me to listen, would it?

With autumn well entrenched, my thoughts turn to Mary and the boy. How is the little chap? He must be seven months old now and growing fast. I worry about him more than I worry about his mother. I feel nervous about what sort of a man he’ll grow to be, about how my example will influence him. It’s not much of one, after all, is it? Not what you’d want anybody to model their life on. What do you think he’ll say about me when I’m dead and gone? Will he thank me or curse me, respect my memory or revile it? If only we knew, eh, Sis? If only we had the chance to alter the effect we have on the future and the people who inhabit it. Well, on reflection, perhaps it’s best that we don’t. We’ve plenty to put right in the here and now. Why waste energy on the yet to be?

Don’t worry about me. I don’t feel half as gloomy as this letter sounds. And I’ll write again as soon as I can.

Much love,

Tristram.