Sunday, April 30, 2006


They had put us into ordinary third-class carriages with wooden seats, and many of the men were badly wounded and had only got out of bed for the first time that morning. Before long, what with the heat and the jolting, half of them were in a state of collapse and several vomited on the floor. The hospital orderly threaded his way among the corpse--like forms that sprawled everywhere, carrying a large goatskin bottle full of water which he squirted into this mouth or that. It was beastly water; I remember the taste of it still. We got into Tarragona as the sun was getting low. The line runs along the shore a stone's throw from the sea. As our train drew into the station a troop-train full of men from the International Column was drawing out, and a knot of people on the bridge were waving to them. It was a very long train, packed to bursting-point with men, with field-guns lashed on the open trucks and more men clustering round the guns. I remember with peculiar vividness the spectacle of that train passing in the yellow evening light; window after window full of dark, smiling faces, the long tilted barrels of the guns, the scarlet scarves fluttering--all this gliding slowly past us against a turquoise-coloured sea. 'Extranjeros--foreigners,' said someone. 'They're Italians. 'Obviously they were Italians. No other people could have grouped themselves so picturesquely or returned the salutes of the crowd with so much grace--a grace that was none the less because about half the men on the train were drinking out of up-ended wine bottles. We heard afterwards that these were some of the troops who won the great victory at Guadalajara in March; they had been on leave and were being transferred to the Aragon front. Most of them, I am afraid, were killed at Huesca only a few weeks later. The men who were well enough to stand had moved across the carriage to cheer the Italians as they went past. A crutch waved out of the window; bandaged forearms made the Red Salute. It was like an allegorical picture of war; the trainload of fresh men gliding proudly up the line, the maimed men sliding slowly down, and all the while the guns on the open trucks making one's heart leap as guns always do, and reviving that pernicious feeling, so difficult to get rid of, that war is glorious after all. The hospital at Tarragona was a very big one and full of wounded from all fronts. What wounds one saw there! They had a way of treating certain wounds which I suppose was in accordance with the latest medical practice, but which was peculiarly horrible to look at. This was to leave the wound completely open and unbandaged, but protected from flies by a net of butter-muslin, stretched over wires. Under the muslin you would see the red jelly of a half-healed wound. There was one man wounded in the face and throat who had his head inside a sort of spherical helmet of butter-muslin; his mouth was closed up and he breathed through a little tube that was fixed between his lips. Poor devil, he looked so lonely, wandering to and fro, looking at you through his muslin cage and unable to speak. I was three or four days at Tarragona. My strength was coming back, and one day, by going slowly, I managed to walk down as far as the beach. It was queer to see the seaside life going on almost as usual; the smart cafes along the promenade and the plump local bourgeoisie bathing and sunning themselves in deck-chairs as though there had not been a war within a thousand miles. Nevertheless, as it happened, I saw a bather drowned, which one would have thought impossible in that shallow and tepid sea. Finally, eight or nine days after leaving the front, I had my wound examined. In the surgery where newly-arrived cases were examined, doctors with huge pairs of shears were hacking away the breast-plates of plaster in which men with smashed ribs, collar-bones, and so forth had been cased at the dressing-stations behind the line; out of the neck-hole of the huge clumsy breast-plate you would see protruding an anxious, dirty face, scrubby with a week's beard. The doctor, a brisk, handsome man of about thirty, sat me down in a chair, grasped my tongue with a piece of rough gauze, pulled it out as far as it would go, thrust a dentist's mirror down my throat, and told me to say 'Eh!' After doing this till my tongue was bleeding and my eyes running with water, he told me that one vocal cord was paralysed. 'When shall I get my voice back?' I said. 'Your voice? Oh, you'll never get your voice back,' he said cheerfully. However, he was wrong, as it turned out. For about two months I could not speak much above a whisper, but after that my voice became normal rather suddenly, the other vocal cord having 'compensated'. The pain in my arm was due to the bullet having pierced a bunch of nerves at the back of the neck. It was a shooting pain like neuralgia, and it went on hurting continuously for about a month, especially at night, so that I did not get much sleep. The fingers of my right hand were also semi-paralysed. Even now, five months afterwards, my forefinger is still numb--a queer effect for a neck wound to have. The wound was a curiosity in a small way and various doctors examined it with much clicking of tongues and 'Que suerte! Qye suerte!' One of them told me with an air of authority that the bullet had missed the artery by 'about a millimetre'. I don't know how he knew. No one I met at this time--doctors, nurses, practicantes, or fellow-patients--failed to assure me that a man who is hit through the neck and survives it is the luckiest creature alive. I could not help thinking that it would be even luckier not to be hit at all.


Anonymous WhattheH said...

Durrati, one more post for the road and thank you. I am really enjoying your postings and I love Orwell! Although I don't have the time I used to have (have to work like a dervish to pay my taxes) I stop by every chance I get, and I'm carried away to another time - another place. For that I thank you.
It's amazing how history does repeat itself - what happened then is happening now in terms of power, greed, brutality, senselessness. Good men and women being killed or wounded to incapacity. Leaders leading for the sake of power, greed and legacy. It's an age old recipe that we, in all of our enlightenment, have not been able to expunge. And it continues - now we hear about nuclear threats, when the long term affects of Chernobyl or even Hiroshima/Nagasaki on both the population and the environment haven't been adequately determined.

Mother Nature is not carrying on as usual, at least not where I live. It's the end of April, a time where we are all usually preparing our gardens for the growing season, cleaning out the detritus of the fall/winter season so the bulbs can be planted and grow. (Normally, the ground is just defrosting, so we can plant bulbs.) Today, I drove home and watched as the petals fell off tulips and daffodils...In normal circumstances, the tulips and daffodils would just be thrusting through the gound. Normally at this time of year, we worry about putting anything in the ground because there is usually a threat of frost through to the end of May, but this year the garden centres are selling annuals for planting!
In my little corner of the world, the May 24th weekend is the normal signal that the threat of frost is ended and we can plant. Today, some of my customers were talking about planting vegetables...It reached 20 degrees celcius, roughly equivalent to 68 - 70 degrees fahrenheit.
It is estimated that Polar bears will become extinct in 30 to 50 years because of the melting of the polar ice cap. Washington State is looking to renegotiate the Columbia River agreement because the snow on the mountains is expected to melt much faster and permanently before long.
What have we done? What are we leaving our children?
Forgive me, I'm having a senior spastic moment. Time for wine!

Kid, I keep trying to leave a message on your site, but it doesn't work. Just want you to know I'm reading and paying attention! Not sure why my comments don't appear. I type the message and click the appropriate button, then my message disappears. No resonding message to explain why. I suspect it's because I don't have a blogger Identity. Anyway, I'm reading and enjoying.

2:14 PM  
Anonymous WhattheH said...

P.S. Libby's back

2:24 PM  
Blogger durrati said...


We had an unusually warm winter here in Southern Mo. and the lakes are 6 to 12 feet down, though we did get some rain over the week-end. Last year our yards burned up in May. Ma Nature's mad as hell and ain't gonna take it no more.... I guess everything's O.K. in la-la land tho, or at least the admin reports. I fear the weather the Eros and Asians got last winter, I don't like the snow and cold :( I don't know where it all will end.....

3:26 PM  
Blogger KidKawartha said...

If that is the problem, why don't you go to and sign up? Maybe it will make the difference- you don't have to start a blog or anything, you're just getting a passport like with hotmail. If that doesn't work, then I will change my comments format. I don't want to lose one of my best commenters. Ok?

6:21 PM  

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