MILITARY HISTORY
F E B R U A R Y / M A R C H 2 0 0 9
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n 1937 James Neugass, a promising 32-year-old poet and novelistwhohadbeenpraisedin
TheNewYorkTimes
and
TheNation
, joined thousands of other young Americans whotraveled to Spain to help that nation’s duly electedRepublican government put down a fascist rebellion.NeugassservedasanambulancedriverduringthecrucialbattlesforthecityofTeruel,andhisnuancedanddeeplylyrical memoir,
War Is Beautiful
, offers a rare frontline glimpseintooneofhistory’smosttragicmilitaryconflicts.
Jan.6,1938.Cuevas Labradas
Between the writing of thelast line and this one Ihaveseen many dead men.… We passed the rock pileonce called the village of Perales and crept over the ice of the Teruel road.Don’t know when it was that I had begun to hearThe Sounds, but when my engine died out in frontof the surgical hospital which the division had setup in a town called
Cuevas Labradas
(“Cavetown”),very distinct ripplets of impolite machine-gunconversations came to us from somewhere up inthe mountains that shadow the road.“See,” said Queen Annie, so called becauseshe knows she is our most important nurse, “See,now we’re at the front,” with a contented, nervouslittle giggle.…Behind the blanketed windows of the villa inwhich we were simultaneously setting up surgicalequipment and operating were the smell of theether, the rush of many feet, soft groans coming from stretch-ers and blood on the floor, the stretchers, the stair, the apronsof the surgeons, and the blankets.The need for sleep had dulled the edge of my memory.I know: I ought to be able to recall what I have seen and done.Phrasessmoothasoilshouldrollofftheendofmypencil.Some-thingbigandsomethingterriblyhuman.Pityandterror,mercyand pain, all between drawn lips. I am very tired, and there ismuch to do. Sleep has become more important than food.I think I remember that Wild Bill Cody, stepping carefullybetween stretchers, one eye closed by a shrapnel fragment,said, “This is worse than Brunete.” Brunete wasworse than anything else. I asked him where thelines were. “Listen,” he answered, waving towardthe overhanging mounts, “don’t ask me where thefront is, just listen to it!”…Two operating tables were going full blast. A door would open, with a vision of silent figuresdressedinwhite,andnakedbareskinandthebandagedstumps of arms and legs,rags floating in slop jars of reddish liquid. Stretcherswent up and down thestairs, even while pickaxeswerechippingattheplasterwallstomaketurningeasier. Whywasitthatnothingwasbeingdonetoeasetheoccasionallowwhimpersthatcamefromthefiguresunder the blankets?…Outsidethedoorwaywasamanonastretcher,covered only with a sheet. I could see that he wasnaked. I ran back into the hospital and in a veryagitated voice demanded blankets.“Thatguyoutthereisdead,”someoneimpatientlyanswered me. “There isn’t enough room in here, sowe lay them in the courtyard. Pull the sheet off of him and bring it to me. We’re running out of linens. And while you’re at it, take him into the woodshed.That’s what we’re using until we can dig a trench.”I stripped the sheet from the body. The face wasdirtier than the skin. American?…French?...orEnglish?Theclaycomplexionofdeathisinternational.Itookhimto the shed where men lay like cordwood. What can you do?Gooutandmakemoredead.Ihavereachedtheendoftheroad.Perhaps I am a pacifist.
Nights
ThemenIcarry,mostlyAmericans,areveryquiet.Theytalkwiththe gravity of people sitting in the waiting room of a railway
ForWhom theAmbulanceRolls
FOLLOWINGTEXTEXCERPTEDFROM
WARISBEAUTIFUL:ANAMERICANAMBULANCEDRIVERINTHESPANISHCIVILWAR
,BYJAMESNEUGASS,THENEWPRESS,NEWYORK,2008,$26.95.COPY-RIGHT©2008BYABRAHAMLINCOLNBRIGADEARCHIVESINC.ALLRIGHTSRESERVED.
Remembrances of an American volunteerambulance driver 70 years after the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939)drew to a bloody close
By James Neugass
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