Chapter 6

As the Battle of the Ebro drifted on into September 1938, it took on all the drama, and international attention, as any battle in France during the 1st World War. Casualties, sickness from unsanitary conditions, and the new horror of systematic bombing from aircraft as well as the usual relentless artillery bombardments, were horrific. Fully 12% of all Republican soldiers who fought in the War were killed, and a good percentage died on the Ebro.

Falangist success in the North and South had released new Nationalist assets for the continuing sore of the Ebro. Gradually some three Nationalist Armies, De Llano's, Yague's and Moscado's amassed along the front. Unprecedented masses of artillery batteries and armour were collected and the full resources of the German Condor Legion were devoted to the battle. This was going to be the decider, the final breaking of Republican resistance.

It was about this time that Juan Negrin, Prime Minister of the Popular Front Government, came up with the desperate scheme to persuade General Franco to send home his German and Italian allies. He would send home all foreigners fighting for the Republic, including the International Brigades and the Russians, and 'invited' Franco to do the same with his Germans and Italians. 'Let this issue be decided by Spaniards, ' he declared.

Accordingly, in a grandiose statement to the World's Press, he announced the recall of the International Brigades to take effect on September the 23rd. The plan continued even after a stoney silence from Franco. Meanwhile, Nationalist forces continued to build up along the Ebro.

As John convalesced at the Swedish Hospital at Sabadell, he watched the Republican cause deteriorate. Fueding within the Government deepened and was gleefully reported in the various broadsheets printed by the different factions.

PCE Militiamen and their Russian NKVD advisors hunted down the remnant of the POUM leadership. Disgruntled CNT members assassinated a number of their Communist rivals. Socialists bickered with the Russians over the influence they were having on strategy. The CNT ministers were sacked from the Government, which had moved to Barcelona. The Andalusian Assembly was wound up and the remaining free territory there came under the direct control of the Government. Similarly, the Generalidad was suppressed by Negrin.

In the North, the Basque Government was dissolved. 'Euskady, ' had practically ceased to exist in any case. A motly collection of CNT, Basque seperatists and other Left Wingers split into guerilla groups and went on fighting. Gradually, they would coalesce as ETA, 'Basque Homeland and Freedom, ' which still exists today.

The 1st Escuadrillo was to be disbanded, John heard. There was not enough Moscas left in working order for the squadron to continue. The Spanish were to be reassigned and the foreigners, like himself, sent home. Even the Russians appeared to be packing.

He'd not heard from Benin since he'd left to return to the squadron at the opening of the battle. He began to suppose she must be dead.

If so, he wanted a grave to grieve over. If she was alive he wanted to bring her out of this hellhole. He knew he couldn't live the rest of his life not knowing. New Zealand? He had nothing to return there for. 'Complacent, self-righteous, little country in a faraway corner of the British Empire, ' he thought.

'Oz' Calaghan was preparing to leave. He stopped by with a bottle of ouzo he obtained from some Greek volunteers from the 'Dimitrov' Batalion. This they downed quickly until they were good and drunk.

"Eh!" the Australian said suddenly, "you're not leavin' are ya?"

"Nope!"

"Mug!"

John shrugged, "no point... ain't no point goin' home."

"No point stayin'."

"I need her... need to know..."

"Waa? How long... how long you know her? Days? Hours? Yer a fuckin' mug."

"Long 'nuff... long 'nuff to know... I know..." John's head slumped.

"Fuckin' romantic!" the Australian spat.

Outside, in the roadstead off Barcelona, warships from Britain, France, Italy, Germany and Russia anchored in uneasy proximity to one another. The Royal Navy's HMS London lay between Germany's 'Admiral Graf Spee' and the Soviet 'Tchervonaya Ukrainiya.' There was no fraternising between the crews. In fact there was little contact at all that wasn't strictly business.

Admiral Gorshin found it depressing. Whenever Soviet ships called at Western ports there was always something; a dance, maybe, a guided tour or even a formal lunch for the officers. He thought Barcelona was the least desirable duty he'd ever had.

'The Internationals were pulling out, ' he'd been informed by Moscow, 'Soviet citizens were to be collected by a flotilla of transport ships. The 'Tchervonaya Ukrainiya's' role was to oversee the evacuation.' 'And to let it be known to the Germans that the Soviet Union wasn't going to be pushed around, ' Gorshin thought.

The 'London' had insinuated itself between the two enemies. It was a clear warning to two of the cheating members of the 'Non-Intervention Treaty' that His Brittanic Majesty wasn't going to put up with any 'irregularities.' 'Bloody English!" Gorshin mused, 'forever hypocrites.'

'There was more than one way to take sides, ' Gorshin pondered, 'more than one way.'

Compared to the clean lines of the modern ships of the other powers, the 'Tchervonaya Ukrainiya' looked old-fashioned. In fact the ship was originally laid down in 1913 as one of 6 cruisers of the 'Svetlana' class. The War and the Revolution had delayed completion and it wasn't finally launched until 1923. Some attempts at modernisation had occurred over the years but her guns and propulsion were still the same 1913 design. The German 'Armoured Cruisers, ' that the English dubbed, 'Pocket Battleships, ' would have no difficulty at all overcoming the Soviet Cruiser's modest armament.

The British, French and Russians had supplied a fleet of merchant vessels that were to carry off the estimated 60,000 or so foreigners. These thronged the roadstead. A negotiated truce with the Italian 'Legiero' ensured that no ships were to be bombed during the exercise. Gorshin noted that HMS London had her anti-aircraft guns manned, just in case, as indeed, did the 'Tchervonaya Ukrainiya.'

Benin and her gun crew improved their dugout until it was reasonably habitable. A shield from a destroyed gun served as a roof, the walls were butressed with timber baulks and they'd made little alcoves where they could sleep.

Sleep, however, was at a premium, what with round the clock shelling and frequent bombing by German planes. But the mind adjusts to the noise and constant fear. Benin found she could doze for an hour or more, yet be instantly on alert if need be. 'Rather like a cat, ' she thought.

It had been three weeks since Captain de Castries had been killed. He seemed like a distant memory, now. Three others had been killed and several had been wounded. She wondered when it was going to be her turn.

The Gun Sergeant was still with them. He'd recovered from his bout of concussion and had sought out his old crew. Regretfully, he told them, the young lad, de Castries son, hadn't made it. He'd died that evening. Father and son together, this was a filthy war, Benin thought.

She wondered every night about John Greenhaugh. Had he been shot down? Or maybe waiting to be evacuated with the other foreigners in Barcelona? She knew it was the latter. She refused to believe that a big, confident man such as John could be lying in some anonymous grave somewhere.

At night she wrote in her diary by the light of a flickering wax candle. She drew little sketches to pass the time; sketches of John as she last remembered him, and of the little Mosca, although they hadn't seen any Republican aircraft for some time.

The International Brigades had been withdrawn from the lines to be replaced by conscript units. Benin thought they looked like frightened school boys, their ill-fitting uniforms hung limp and baggy and their rifles looked too big for them to hold. The tanks were now driven by Spanish crews, although 'drive' was hardly the word. They were all dug in as static artillery, there not being enough gasoline for them. They all waited in apprehension for the coming storm of the expected Nationalist attack.

Barcelona was in a curiously festive mood on the morning of the 23rd of September. Perhaps it was the two weeks without daily bombing? Perhaps it was just the chance of having a celebration in the middle of the misery of a civil war?

The International Brigades were to march through the streets to receive thanks from a grateful people for their contribution to the cause. The volunteers were to form up in their batalions, their National colours flying together with that of the Spanish Republic and the 3rd Communist International.

Most numerous were the French, followed by the German members of their outlawed Communist Party, the KPD. Poles formed the next most numerous nationality followed by the Italians, British and the Americans. The 'Dimitrov's' were there, consisting of volunteers from the Balkans and Greece. Somewhere in among the marchers was Iosip Broz Tito, the future leader of Yugoslavia.

John Greenhaugh was invited to march behind the British 'John Bulls, ' in a mixed group of volunteers who had fought with the regular Spanish Military. There were 1000 of them, from all three services, and they were to march under the Republican tricolour wearing their regular Spanish military uniforms.

John was staying. His task of finding Benin seemed impossible until a stroke of luck in the form of his friend/tormentor 'Oz' Calaghan, who turned up a nugget of hope.