suits, sleeping bags and blankets…in fact all the things we would later miss bitterly. He promised to send them after us, but of course we never saw any of it again.
In Valencia we had to change trains, and the train to Albacete was even fuller than the coastal train. As we drew away from the coast, it got colder. We stopped at all kinds of little stations, where crowds of villagers brought offerings of fruit for the soldiers—mostly oranges. I’ve never seen so much fruit in my life.
We pushed on to Albacete, where, after a long, cold wait, a guard came and took us halfway across the town to a place where an official in a badly lit office said a few words in English to us. From there we were taken to a hospital and put into an empty and freezing-cold ward, where we tried to wrap ourselves into blankets and get a little sleep. The smell of the latrines was terrific, everything was filthy and dirty and we were next door to the lavatories. I never slept that night. There was not just one in a bed—there were two or three—and sometimes you found yourself moving around; well, it was so full of people, and you’d say ‘move over—make room, I’m tired’, and you’d find yourself sleeping among a whole load of men. It was amazing to me. Gosh, what a terrible place that was! I think everyone knew Albacete. Shocking. We seemed to be stuck there—we couldn’t move until our papers arrived and it wasn’t just a couple of hours; you could hang around for days. You used to get vouchers for this and vouchers for that.
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
