At Madrigueras a mist of fine rain had been falling for six days. It was the kind that soaks you to the skin without you noticing. Not that this had dented Nat’s spirits.
Three abreast, their platoon was off on another route march.
‘We’ll all be bloody good at marching, if nothing else,’ muttered Bernie as they fell in. All those city boys were toughening up. Not a moan about blisters for days. Nat felt he could dig a foxhole to match the wiliest vixen’s. He was stronger too. The muscles on his arms and chest were much more obvious, he noticed with satisfaction. He wondered if Felix would notice too, when he got back.
‘Think they’ll send us into battle with these things?’ He heaved his replica wooden rifle back onto his shoulder. It wouldn’t convince anyone.
‘The front’s the priority. Wherever that is.’
At the training camp, information like that was as sparse as ammunition.
Marching gave them too much time for thinking and Nat’s thoughts always turned to Felix. He loved just saying her name in his head. Felicity Rose. Felix. He’d said he would write, but he’d sent nothing yet. What had he actually done so far? Nothing that sounded heroic. What would she think of his wooden gun? But he would get something on paper. Tonight. He must. She didn’t know how she was keeping him going. He didn’t want to lose her. He wasn’t going to be in Spain for ever.
A pep talk that afternoon held Nat spellbound.
‘Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.’
Nat knew the next line. They had done ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ at school.
‘Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.’
The captain’s eyes moved across the rows of silent men. ‘Stirring stuff, eh?’ A few nodded, enthusiastically. ‘Except the thing is, it doesn’t apply to us. We’re a Brigade that’s going into battle because we do reason why. That’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re here. And in the end, that’s what’s going to make you a better fighter. Knowing what you’re fighting for – and believing in it.’
The warmth of brotherhood flooded the room, and made Nat glow.
‘Moving on. Some background. Yesterday we discussed the agrarian reforms undertaken by the Second Republic in Spain. Today we’ll be looking at the kind of models the Soviet Union can offer. Let’s start in the Ukraine. In the first five-year plan, grain output rose . . .’
There was a groan from the back of the hall. Nat didn’t look round. A few volunteers struck him as short on political commitment. Maybe they were after a bit of adventure, or just wanted to get off the dole. Heavy drinkers, mostly, always in the village bars. Nat tried to steer clear of them.
But as the lecture went on, the protests got louder.
‘Oh give it a rest, for Pete’s sake!’ came a voice from his left. ‘We’ve had enough of this bloody rubbish. What about some real training?’
‘Yeah!’ Others were joining in. ‘We don’t care about tractors. Just tell us when we’re going to fight.’
‘We want guns! We want guns!’ began the chant.
What could you expect from an army recruited from born rebels? Men who never marched in step, on principle.
That night Nat had a dream: a nightmare, really. He was facing a huge line of Franco’s Moroccan troops. Images from newsreels fed his sleep: white turbans, blank dark faces, nothing human about these dream soldiers. As he raised his gun to fire, Nat tried to move his trigger finger. He squeezed it gently, ready to take the kick, but nothing happened. Then he squeezed harder, and harder still, pulling at it viciously, then with despair. That was when he realised he had nothing but a wooden gun to fight with. He couldn’t save Spain with a wooden gun.
A few days later, in the vast empty church that towered over Madrigueras, they sat down to eat. The midday meal was chickpeas, sinking in oil and garlic. (‘Carbuncles again? You must be joking!’) As the men made their way back to the parade ground, a truck pulled up, causing such a commotion that even the company officers hesitated.
Nat stared as the tarpaulins slid off their load. He felt the carbuncles inside him knot and plummet.
‘What have they got in the back there?’ he asked a broken-nosed man on his right.
‘You’re thinking what I’m thinking. About the size of coffins if you ask me,’ replied Ronnie grimly. ‘But why would they bring them here? Stacked up like that?’
‘I don’t know.’
Nat was even more shocked to see how they were handled. With respect, yes, even with awe. But the men unloading the rough wooden boxes were looking positively cheerful. Were they hardened to death already?
The Political Commissar was approaching their captain. They conferred, the captain smiled, and suddenly the company was ordered to gather round.
‘Oh no!’ Nat said under his breath, when he saw they were prising open the lid of the first box. This was a macabre message.
The officer wore the expression of a father about to pick up his newborn son for the first time. He reached inside the nearest box. But there was no sign of a corpse. Instead sawdust and shavings and newspaper were cast aside and the man raised a gleaming rifle above his head.
A loud cheer rang out. At last. Real weapons. From Mexico. Or so the word went round. Those who knew about such things talked of Mosins and Remingtons and Lee Enfields. The rest tried to look knowledgeable.
They formed a line that was close to orderly.
Nat’s hands closed on a rifle. He felt its weight, and inhaled the thick grease and newness of it. He stroked its steel muzzle, and fondled the bolt. Five rounds, he was told. And yes, there was the bayonet clip they’d learned about. He fingered an engraved hammer and sickle on the side. Mexico? Really? Putting the gun to his shoulder, he nuzzled into the hollow he’d made and held the coolness to his hot cheek. Checked the sights. Beautiful, he thought, and wondered at himself.
He caught the ginger-haired boy’s eye. Tommy. He’d got over his nerves. He was OK, though he did go on a bit. They watched each other aiming their guns and tried to imagine firing them.
The weapons instructor was a gentle-looking man in his forties, who commanded attention by the softness of his voice. He’d once been a sculptor.
‘Now just remember, comrades, without the bayonet on, the sights won’t work. The guns will fire high. If you don’t bear that in mind, not only will you be wasting ammo: you’ll be putting yourself and others at risk. They may seem light, but they’ve got a real kick. If you’re not prepared for it, you’ll find yourself on the floor, not your enemy. So hold it tight against your shoulder or it’ll break your arm.’
Nat hunched his shoulder harder. The rifle didn’t seem light to him. On the instructor’s order, the men lowered their guns.
‘Bayonets ready? Good. I’m going to show you how they’re attached. What else have you got to remember before you put them on?
How close did you have to be to think about using a bayonet? Maybe it would be obvious. One of the old-timers spoke out from the back.
‘Keep the barrel clean.’
‘Precisely. Or you’ll never get it off again. Look after your weapon and it’ll look after you.’
As he talked, more trucks drew up. Men jumped out of the cabs with an air of urgency. The lecture was interrupted.
The Battalion commander had sent his adjutant, a wiry man with round horn-rimmed spectacles.
‘Listen carefully. You’ll be saying goodbye to Madrigueras tonight. I can’t tell you when exactly. If you go to bed at all, it’s got to be in full marching order, boots on, weapons ready.’ He hesitated for a moment, and coughed. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this now, but you’ll find out soon enough. The Nationalists are close to cutting off the Madrid–Valencia road. If we don’t turn ’em back, Madrid has had it.’