The Real Band of Brothers: First-hand accounts from the last British survivors of the Spanish Civil War

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Albacete was the base of the International Brigades and was a bewildering military camp. We went from one supposed authority in charge to another. No one seemed to know anything about us—where we were supposed to go or stay. The main language in the International Brigades at this time was German, and then French. Scarcely anyone spoke a word of English, and I could sense at once that the English were not particularly liked.

At last an American doctor telephoned and found a room for us in the Hotel Nacional—a small hotel in a back street—and the front streets weren’t up to much. Our room was small, dark and filthy, with three narrow beds, placed right next to the lavatory, which had ceased to work, and the smell from which was overpowering. We tried to get away from this smell as much as we could, but smells of one kind or another could not be avoided in overcrowded Albacete.

On the third day, at last, we saw two Austrians who were in charge—Dr Neumann and Dr Talger—who spoke fair English. Here we were told we would be separated. Mrs Murphy would go to the Madrid Front and the other girl and I were told to report for duty at the international base hospital just started in Murcia. We were told that some wounded men would be evacuated to Murcia in the afternoon train, and we would be in charge of their evacuation.

When we got to the station we had a shock. Instead of the few wounded I had imagined, there were well over a hundred men: a few quite badly wounded, and some lighter cases—arms, legs and flesh wounds.

It was a terrible journey. It got dark and cold, and the train was so slow I sometimes wanted to get out and push. I tried to give attention to those who needed it, but most of the men were drinking wine and singing, and thought an enfermera [a nurse]—especially an English enfermera—a great joke.

At Murcia I was put in charge of my own general ward, but instead of an ordinary ward I found myself in a huge lecture hall, with endless rows of tightly placed beds. There must have been a good two hundred beds, all occupied and mostly by French patients. Some were badly wounded; others had little the matter with them except mysterious aches and pains. A few of them, I think, were just swinging the lead.

For the first two days, and practically all night, I was on the run, frantically trying to establish order, taking temperatures, bringing water and changing bandages. Those who could walk used to disappear and come back after a while with bottles of wine, and begin to sing, until I lost my temper and hushed them. In the meantime I tried to attend to those patients who really needed care. There was one man who had both arms off—he had to be fed, but he was one of the gentlest and bravest patients I had in Spain.

I had been in Murcia nearly a week when I saw a dark man, who stood for some time at the end of the ward, watching me work. Later a messenger from Albacete arrived and asked how I was getting on. I said I felt rather wasted, because I had good surgical experience, and I had done nothing except introduce a bit of order and discipline—which anybody could have done. He told me that Goryan, the medical chief, was looking for a theatre nurse, and I should go to the Grand Hotel that evening for an interview.

I was shown into a room at the hotel where a middle-aged man with a very high forehead, long, dark hair and a big, dark moustache, wearing a sheepskin coat, was sitting at a table talking to some officers in uniform. This was Goryan, and I recognised him as the man who had watched me in the ward earlier that day—and who had interviewed me in London. He questioned me again about my experience, and at the end he said I would be attached to the 11th Brigade, composed mainly of the Thaelmann Battalion, and I was to get my permit to travel with him at seven sharp the next morning.

Our headquarters were in a big barn, right next to the well, in the shadow of the tall cliff. We had no running water, and large pitchers were passed round from mouth to mouth. All night dispatch riders came with messages for Goryan—then a decisive message came. Goryan looked set, and gave quick orders in French and Spanish. The battle was on. As we moved off towards our station on the front I heard the sound of guns getting louder with the growing light of day.

We travelled till it was bright daylight, but making only slow progress, because every few miles we seemed to have to stop and take shelter to escape the attention of enemy planes. During one of these halts in a small village, my long hair was cut off short, like a boy’s, at the suggestion of one of the doctors, who thought it would get in the way.

Wounded had already been evacuated to Tarancón, and its two hospitals were full. We took charge of an empty school and at once set to, preparing a theatre, unloading our equipment and scrubbing and disinfecting floors and walls.

We had no running water in the building, but we fixed up big chromium containers for boiling water and we fixed up our electricity. Before we were half-ready, the first ambulance drew up outside, unloading its wounded. At the door, a doctor classified and sorted the wounded—only the worst cases were dealt with by us. Already after the first case I realised Doctor Jolly was one of the best surgeons I had ever worked with—and certainly one of the quickest. Long before he had finished with the first case, a second ambulance drew up, and a third, and quite soon they seemed to come in droves, while the faint rumble of guns never left off.

Operating as fast as was possible for a surgeon, Jolly worked the whole afternoon, right through the night, the next day, and most of the following night as well, practically without a break. He never seemed to tire or lose his concentration, and most of the time I worked with him.

It was terrible on the front line—we were right in the midst of it. As they were coming off the ambulance, picking them up and dropping them off, we were taking on laparotomies [abdominal surgery], stomach wounds, amputations and head injuries. All they had to show us what was needed was a cross saying ‘anti-tetanus’ or ‘morphine’—and if they weren’t bad enough to need an immediate operation they were taken down the second line of evacuation. Then they’d go on to the third. But we operated on the most urgent. I could get a tray and table—you could raise or lower them, put a cloth on them, get a box with complete trephines, for head injuries and complete amputations—metal boxes with all the necessary operating instruments. We had three tables going with the other surgeon who helped, and there were Spanish nurses—not that they knew a thing, but they soon learnt how to do things. We showed them how to take things out—‘Don’t touch them with your hands, use this equipment, cover them, give them to the doctor.’ We used morphine and drips, but we were always running out. It was very, very difficult. Most of the cases were too far gone to give them anything to put them out, and there were terrible, terrible losses. People died who should never have died.

All three operating tables had to work together, and our supply of instruments was far too limited. The moment one operation was over, I gathered the instruments, hurried to the girl outside—I’d shown her how they should be washed and put in the steriliser and brought in again for the next case. In the meantime, I was back at the operating table and making it ready for the next case. After a while, I could change over so quickly that, less than five minutes after a case was taken off, the operating table was prepared for the next.

In the intervals we had food brought into the operating theatre—chunks of bread and bully beef, and black coffee, and snatched a few bites when we could. Nor did we bother much about the rule of no smoking in operating theatres—we quickly smoked cigarettes in the doorway while waiting for our instruments. Coffee and cigarettes helped, but, after a time, what with the din and the endless flow of wounded, I thought I would go crazy through lack of sleep and overwork.

Once, just as we were thinking of finishing, but still had several cases to deal with, we heard the loud drone of planes, and at once our lights, including the emergency light, went out. Before we could move, there were shattering crashes quite close, and the sound of falling glass. The next minute there were unearthly shrieks from outside and the sound of people running. Our doors were open, and, before we knew what was going on, there was a wild stampede in the darkness. Civilians were rushing into our hospital, which was already full of our own wounded. The air was full of shrieking and moaning.

A man collided with me and, as I put out my hand to push him off, my fingers touched his hair and came off all sticky. I had pushed him into a chair and, when the lights came on again, I saw that he was an old man, and half the flesh of his face was blown off. Other men and women were in a pitiful state, being helped into the hospital by their friends, some gashed by shrapnel, others with legs and arms half blown off, half-naked and bleeding women who’d been blown out of their clothes.

At this time we were attached to the American unit—nothing to do with the British. I never came into contact with the British, who were supposed to be busy on that front. How busy I don’t know, but they couldn’t have been as busy as we were. We were very, very busy, and we never saw any English in my unit.

We got a wonderful van from the Americans. At the back there was complete sterilising equipment for instruments and one for gowns and sheets, then, on the side, all the instruments for head cases and amputations, and on the other side was all the linen required—it was wonderful. The Americans knew how to do things. The British used to give us things, but in dribs and drabs—but never enough, really.

I sometimes walked across the square and looked at the bomb-wrecked buildings. It made me think of London, with its miles of overcrowded, jerry-built slums. What chance would these overcrowded people have in air raids? The rich in the West End and Kensington would no doubt escape in their cars, but the East End would be a death trap. But then I thought, if the Fascists in Spain were beaten, there wouldn’t be any danger of air raids over London. I never ceased to believe this, all the time I was in Spain. Spain was a warning of what would happen to all of us. If we let Spain go, then it would be our fate, too, to go to war.

On one occasion I came in contact with a doctor in the English unit. I’d had a very tiring time following a really hard bombing, and we’d just finished in the early hours of the morning. The sun was shining and I thought I’d go round to the square—there was a little coffee shop and some English ambulance drivers used to gather there. Further up was another shop where people used to sit outside. I passed the main Madrid-Valencia road and turned into a cobbled square where there was the gasoline station where lorries were refuelling.

As I passed the guard, the doctor called out to me, and, because he could speak English, I went over and sat down near him. It was very hot; there were a number of small children playing near the mules and carts. I had been sitting for about two minutes when, without warning—not even the peal of church bells—there were terrific crashes, my hand automatically flew up to my ears, my chair went from under me and I was on the floor. At once there was another terrific explosion, masonry and bricks were falling everywhere, and clouds of dust swirling so that nothing could be seen for a moment except a blaze of flames. Then came the shrieks. For a moment I didn’t know what was happening, and then realised this was an aerial bombardment, and I dashed across the road, across the bloody mess of bricks, to get to the children. By this time the petrol station was a sheet of flames, and I almost fell on top of a small child lying on the ground, covered with debris. It was awful, and I shall never forget it. As I picked the child up, it seemed to regain consciousness and struggled in my arms, and I had to hold it tightly, which was difficult because one leg was only hanging on by a sinew. For one moment I stood with the child in my arms, horrorstruck. My legs were so weak I couldn’t move. One of the medical people saw me struggling with the child and took it from me and carried it to the hospital. It was sickening. But what happened to all the other people, and the mules and the fuel? It was just a big flash. It must have been a terrific bomb—they were trying to hit the line between Madrid and Valencia. It was that day when I first met the doctor from the English unit, Doctor Alex Tudor-Hart, and he took me to his hospital. He said I couldn’t go back to my hospital, that I’d better stay. He tried to keep me there—but I knew I had to go back.

We had a man come round—a relative of one of the people who was killed when the bomb went off. We used to mother him and see that his things were ready for him after a day’s work. He had had a job at one time as a porter, overseeing the prevention of typhoid, and he used to go round and was very suspicious of the water. We never had typhoid antitoxins—we were never inoculated against it. It should have been done in London really before coming out to Spain.