twisting his hair, but instead he tore the sleeve off his shirt and started bandaging me. Later on, when they were loading us into the ambulance he put his mouth up to my ear, grinned and said, ‘So you found a way, right, you figured out how to weasel out of this. I always knew deep down that you were a bed wetter.’
He was teasing. But it’s true that my battle of Ebro ended there. I spent almost two months in the hospital after that, sharing a room with Jimmie and Alfonso. The shrapnel had gone all the way to the bone and had hit some nerves.
‘Amputate. Cut it off,’ said one French doctor, a blow-hard with a goatee. ‘If we don’t, we may risk total nerve damage.’
Lucky for me there was another doctor there, an Englishman who was convinced he could save my leg. He operated on me cold, no anaesthesia – medical supplies were low. Hurt like the devil but may the god of medicine always protect that English doctor because you see my leg? I still have it and it works pretty well, almost.’
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