20

Tarragona,
20th February 1938

Dear Sis,

I don’t know what reports have reached you, but I hope this letter will reassure you that your little brother’s still in the land of the living, though not exactly up and about. I am, in fact, recovering well from a bullet-wound in the left thigh despite – rather than because of – the rough-and-ready techniques of the doctors who tend us in this large and cheerless hospital.

How did it happen? Well, to be honest, I’m not sure. My company was involved in a fairly desperate action to prevent the Canadian Battalion being cut off in the hills outside Teruel. In the course of it, we were exposed to rifle fire from a superior position and I was hit. All very random, you see. Nothing personal or even vaguely vicious about it. Just a misfortune of war.

And it may not have been such a misfortune. A friendly orderly brings me English papers when he can, so I know you’ll be well aware how badly – and predictably – wrong the Teruel operation went. Rumour has it that the final battle for the city has already begun and, frankly, there can only be one result. So you’ll understand that I’m more worried about my friends and comrades still stuck there than about my own condition, which seems to be a great deal better than I’ve any right to expect.

Frank Griffith and Vicente Ortiz both knew the generals were putting our heads in a noose at Teruel and, in many ways, I wish it could have been they who slipped out of it with nothing worse than a flesh-wound rather than I who was always thirstier than them for action. How they’ve fared since I was evacuated I dread to contemplate. I can’t help wondering whether I’ll see either of them again. If not, it won’t be the end of the matter, because— But let that pass. Suffice to say my thirst for action has been well and truly slaked. Whatever happens after this, I aim to call it a day as far as the International Brigade’s concerned. What follows I don’t know. When I volunteered last year, I wasn’t looking far ahead and I still can’t. But it seems I’ll be back in England before many months are out, with a limp to add to that albatross of a poetical reputation, facing the future with far from starry eyes.

I don’t know what sort of an impression my letters have given you of the seven months I’ve spent in Spain. Inaccurate and patchy, I dare say, as gauche and ill-formed as those sketches of poems you used to shape so adeptly into the real thing. When we can sit down together and talk it all through, you’ll have the true picture, of course. Then I’ll be able to tell you everything, including things which can’t be entrusted to the mail. And then you’ll understand, I promise. Then you’ll see it through my eyes.

Life’s pretty uneventful here, as I’m sure you can imagine. For once, it’s all going on somewhere else. And for once, I’m grateful. But, as soon as there is something to report, I’ll be in touch. Or maybe I’ll see you first in person. Who knows? The future’s a slippery commodity. You think you’ve grasped it, then it’s escaped you. Perhaps we’d better just await what it brings.

Much love,

Tristram.