BARBASTRO, though a long way from the front line, looked bleak1 and chipped. Swarms2 of militiamen in shabby uniforms wandered up and down the streets, trying to keep warm. On a ruinous wall I came upon a poster dating from the previous year and announcing that ‘six handsome bulls’ would be killed in the arena4 on such and such a date. How forlorn its faded colours looked! Where were the handsome bulls and the handsome bull-fighters now? It appeared that even in Barcelona there were hardly any bullfights nowadays; for some reason all the best matadors5 were Fascists6.
They sent my company by lorry to Sietamo, then westward8 to Alcubierre, which was just behind the line fronting Zaragoza. Sietamo had been fought over three times before the Anarchists9 finally took it in October, and parts of it were smashed to pieces by shell-fire and most of the houses pockmarked by rifle-bullets. We were 1500 feet above sea-level now. It was beastly cold, with dense10 mists that came swirling11 up from nowhere. Between Sietamo and Alcubierre the lorry — driver lost his way (this was one of the regular features of the war) and we were wandering for hours in the mist. It was late at night when we reached Alcubierre. Somebody shepherded us through morasses12 of mud into a mule-stable where we dug ourselves down into the chaff13 and promptly14 fell asleep. Chaff is not bad to sleep in when it is clean, not so good as hay but better than straw. It was only in the morning light that I discovered that the chaff was full of breadcrusts, torn newspapers, bones, dead rats, and jagged milk tins.
We were near the front line now, near enough to smell the characteristic smell of war — in my experience a smell of excrement15 and decaying food. Alcubierre had never been shelled and was in a better state than most of the villages immediately behind the line. Yet I believe that even in peacetime you could not travel in that part of Spain without being struck by the peculiar16 squalid misery17 of the Aragonese villages. They are built like fortresses18, a mass of mean little houses of mud and stone huddling19 round the church, and even in spring you see hardly a flower anywhere; the houses have no gardens, only back-yards where ragged20 fowls21 skate over the beds of mule-dung. It was vile22 weather, with alternate mist and rain. The narrow earth roads had been churned into a sea of mud, in places two feet deep, through which the lorries struggled with racing23 wheels and the peasants led their clumsy carts which were pulled by strings24 of mules25, sometimes as many as six in a string, always pulling tandem26. The constant come-and-go of troops had reduced the village to a state of unspeakable filth27. It did not possess and never had possessed28 such a thing as a lavatory29 or a drain of any kind, and there was not a square yard anywhere where you could tread without watching your step. The church had long been used as a latrine; so had all the fields for a quarter of a mile round. I never think of my first two months at war without thinking of wintry stubble fields whose edges are crusted with dung.
Two days passed and no rifles were issued to us. When you had been to the Comite de Guerra and inspected the row of holes in the wall — holes made by rifle-volleys, various Fascists having been executed there — you had seen all the sights that Alcubierre contained. Up in the front line things were obviously quiet; very few wounded were coming in. The chief excitement was the arrival of Fascist7 deserters, who were brought under guard from the front line. Many of the troops opposite us on this part of the line were not Fascists at all, merely wretched conscripts who had been doing their military service at the time when war broke out and were only too anxious to escape. Occasionally small batches32 of them took the risk of slipping across to our lines. No doubt more would have done so if their relatives had not been in Fascist territory. These deserters were the first ‘real’ Fascists I had ever seen. It struck me that they were indistinguishable from ourselves, except that they wore khaki overalls33. They were always ravenously34 hungry when they arrived — natural enough after a day or two of dodging35 about in no man’s land, but it was always triumphantly36 pointed37 to as a proof that the Fascist troops were starving. I watched one of them being fed in a peasant’s house. It was somehow rather a pitiful sight. A tall boy of twenty, deeply windburnt, with his clothes in rags, crouched38 over the fire shovelling39 a pannikinful of stew40 into himself at desperate speed; and all the while his eyes flitted nervously41 round the ring of militiamen who stood watching him. I think he still half-believed that we were bloodthirsty ‘Reds’ and were going to shoot him as soon as he had finished his meal; the armed man who guarded him kept stroking his shoulder and making reassuring42 noises. On one memorable43 day fifteen deserters arrived in a single batch31. They were led through the village in triumph with a man riding in front of them on a white horse. I managed to take a rather blurry44 photograph which was stolen from me later.
On our third morning in Alcubierre the rifles arrived. A sergeant45 with a coarse dark-yellow face was handing them out in the mule-stable. I got a shock of dismay when I saw the thing they gave me. It was a German Mauser dated 1896 — more than forty years old! It was rusty46, the bolt was stiff, the wooden barrel-guard was split; one glance down the muzzle47 showed that it was corroded48 and past praying for. Most of the rifles were equally bad, some of them even worse, and no attempt was made to give the best weapons to the men who knew how to use them. The best rifle of the lot, only ten years old, was given to a half — witted little beast of fifteen, known to everyone as the maricoon (Nancy-boy). The sergeant gave us five minutes’ ‘instruction’, which consisted in explaining how you loaded a rifle and how you took the bolt to pieces. Many of the militiamen had never had a gun in their hands before, and very few, I imagine, knew what the sights were for. Cartridges49 were handed out, fifty to a man, and then the ranks were formed and we strapped51 our kits52 on our backs and set out for the front line, about three miles away.
The centuria, eighty men and several dogs, wound raggedly53 up the road. Every militia3 column had at least one dog attached to it as a mascot54. One wretched brute55 that marched with us had had P.O.U.M. branded on it in huge letters and slunk along as though conscious that there was something wrong with its appearance. At the head of the column, beside the red flag, Georges Kopp, the stout56 Belgian commandante, was riding a black horse; a little way ahead a youth from the brigand-like militia cavalry57 pranced58 to and fro, galloping59 up every piece of rising ground and posing himself in picturesque60 attitudes at the summit. The splendid horses of the Spanish cavalry had been captured in large numbers during the revolution and handed over to the militia, who, of course, were busy riding them to death.
The road wound between yellow infertile61 fields, untouched since last year’s harvest. Ahead of us was the low sierra that lies between Alcubierre and Zaragoza. We were getting near the front line now, near the bombs, the machine-guns, and the mud. In secret I was frightened. I knew the line was quiet at present, but unlike most of the men about me I was old enough to remember the Great War, though not old enough to have fought in it. War, to me, meant roaring projectiles62 and skipping shards63 of steel; above all it meant mud, lice, hunger, and cold. It is curious, but I dreaded64 the cold much more than I dreaded the enemy. The thought of it had been haunting me all the time I was in Barcelona; I had even lain awake at nights thinking of the cold in the trenches66, the stand-to’s in the grisly dawns, the long hours on sentry67-go with a frosted rifle, the icy mud that would slop over my boot-tops. I admit, too, that I felt a kind of horror as I looked at the people I was marching among. You cannot possibly conceive what a rabble68 we looked. We straggled along with far less cohesion69 than a flock of sheep; before we had gone two miles the rear of the column was out of sight. And quite half of the so-called men were children — but I mean literally70 children, of sixteen years old at the very most. Yet they were all happy and excited at the prospect71 of getting to the front at last. As we neared the line the boys round the red flag in front began to utter shouts of ‘Visca P.O.U.M.!’ ‘Fascistas — maricones!’ and so forth72 — shouts which were meant to be war-like and menacing, but which, from those childish throats, sounded as pathetic as the cries of kittens. It seemed dreadful that the defenders73 of the Republic should be this mob of ragged children carrying worn-out rifles which they did not know how to use. I remember wondering what would happen if a Fascist aeroplane passed our way whether the airman would even bother to dive down and give us a burst from his machine — gun. Surely even from the air he could see that we were not real soldiers?
As the road struck into the sierra we branched off to the right and climbed a narrow mule-track that wound round the mountain-side. The hills in that part of Spain are of a queer formation, horseshoe-shaped with flattish tops and very steep sides running down into immense ravines. On the higher slopes nothing grows except stunted74 shrubs75 and heath, with the white bones of the limestone76 sticking out everywhere. The front line here was not a continuous line of trenches, which would have been impossible in such mountainous country; it was simply a chain of fortified77 posts, always known as ‘positions’, perched on each hill-top. In the distance you could see our ‘position’ at the crown of the horseshoe; a ragged barricade78 of sand-bags, a red flag fluttering, the smoke of dug-out fires. A little nearer, and you could smell a sickening sweetish stink79 that lived in my nostrils80 for weeks afterwards. Into the cleft81 immediately behind the position all the refuse of months had been tipped — a deep festering bed of breadcrusts, excrement, and rusty tins.
The company we were relieving were getting their kits together. They had been three months in the line; their uniforms were caked with mud, their boots falling to pieces, their faces mostly bearded. The captain commanding the position, Levinski by name, but known to everyone as Benjamin, and by birth a Polish Jew, but speaking French as his native language, crawled out of his dug-out and greeted us. He was a short youth of about twenty-five, with stiff black hair and a pale eager face which at this period of the war was always very dirty. A few stray bullets were cracking high overhead. The position was a semi — circular enclosure about fifty yards across, with a parapet that was partly sand-bags and partly lumps of limestone. There were thirty or forty dug-outs running into the ground like rat-holes. Williams, myself, and Williams’s Spanish brother-in-law made a swift dive for the nearest unoccupied dug-out that looked habitable. Somewhere in front an occasional rifle banged, making queer rolling echoes among the stony82 hills. We had just dumped our kits and were crawling out of the dug-out when there was another bang and one of the children of our company rushed back from the parapet with his face pouring blood. He had fired his rifle and had somehow managed to blow out the bolt; his scalp was torn to ribbons by the splinters of the burst cartridge50 — case. It was our first casualty, and, characteristically, self — inflicted83.
In the afternoon we did our first guard and Benjamin showed us round the position. In front of the parapet there ran a system of narrow trenches hewn out of the rock, with extremely primitive84 loopholes made of piles of limestone. There were twelve sentries85, placed at various points in the trench65 and behind the inner parapet. In front of the trench was the barbed wire, and then the hillside slid down into a seemingly bottomless ravine; opposite were naked hills, in places mere30 cliffs of rock, all grey and wintry, with no life anywhere, not even a bird. I peered cautiously through a loophole, trying to find the Fascist trench.
‘Where are the enemy?’
Benjamin waved his hand expansively. ‘Over zere.’ (Benjamin spoke86 English — terrible English.)
‘But where?’
According to my ideas of trench warfare87 the Fascists would be fifty or a hundred yards away. I could see nothing — seemingly their trenches were very well concealed88. Then with a shock of dismay I saw where Benjamin was pointing; on the opposite hill-top, beyond the ravine, seven hundred metres away at the very least, the tiny outline of a parapet and a red-and-yellow flag — the Fascist position. I was indescribably disappointed. We were nowhere near them! At that range our rifles were completely useless. But at this moment there was a shout of excitement. Two Fascists, greyish figurines in the distance, were scrambling90 up the naked hill-side opposite. Benjamin grabbed the nearest man’s rifle, took aim, and pulled the trigger. Click! A dud cartridge; I thought it a bad omen89.
The new sentries were no sooner in the trench than they began firing a terrific fusillade at nothing in particular. I could see the Fascists, tiny as ants, dodging to and fro behind their parapet, and sometimes a black dot which was a head would pause for a moment, impudently91 exposed. It was obviously no use firing. But presently the sentry on my left, leaving his post in the typical Spanish fashion, sidled up to me and began urging me to fire. I tried to explain that at that range and with these rifles you could not hit a man except by accident. But he was only a child, and he kept motioning with his rifle towards one of the dots, grinning as eagerly as a dog that expects a pebble92 to be thrown. Finally I put my sights up to seven hundred and let fly. The dot disappeared. I hope it went near enough to make him jump. It was the first time in my life that I had fired a gun at a human being.
Now that I had seen the front I was profoundly disgusted. They called this war! And we were hardly even in touch with the enemy! I made no attempt to keep my head below the level of the trench. A little while later, however, a bullet shot past my ear with a vicious crack and banged into the parados behind. Alas93! I ducked. All my life I had sworn that I would not duck the first time a bullet passed over me; but the movement appears to be instinctive94, and almost everybody does it at least once.
收听单词发音 |
1
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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matadors
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| n.斗牛士( matador的名词复数 ) | |
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fascists
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| n.法西斯主义的支持者( fascist的名词复数 ) | |
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fascist
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| adj.法西斯主义的；法西斯党的；n.法西斯主义者，法西斯分子 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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morasses
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| n.缠作一团( morass的名词复数 )；困境；沼泽；陷阱 | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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excrement
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| n.排泄物，粪便 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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tandem
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| n.同时发生；配合；adv.一个跟着一个地；纵排地；adj.（两匹马）前后纵列的 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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batches
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| 一批( batch的名词复数 )； 一炉； （食物、药物等的）一批生产的量； 成批作业 | |
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overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shovelling
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| v.铲子( shovel的现在分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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blurry
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| adj.模糊的；污脏的，污斑的 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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51
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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kits
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| 衣物和装备( kit的名词复数 )； 成套用品； 配套元件 | |
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raggedly
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| 破烂地，粗糙地 | |
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mascot
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| n.福神，吉祥的东西 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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58
pranced
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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infertile
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| adj.不孕的；不肥沃的，贫瘠的 | |
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projectiles
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| n.抛射体( projectile的名词复数 )；（炮弹、子弹等）射弹，（火箭等）自动推进的武器 | |
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shards
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| n.（玻璃、金属或其他硬物的）尖利的碎片( shard的名词复数 ) | |
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64
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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cohesion
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| n.团结，凝结力 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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74
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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75
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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80
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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81
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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82
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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86
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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impudently
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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