---
title: "Homage to Catalonia"
author: "George Orwell"
languages: [en]
shelf: "Literature"
section: 6 of 14
url: https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-homage-catalonia-fp20181044/6/
cite: "George Orwell, Homage to Catalonia, section 6. Scriptura (scriptura.si), https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-homage-catalonia-fp20181044/6/"
---

# Homage to Catalonia

*George Orwell*

> * A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *

> This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the eBook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the eBook. If either of these conditions applies, please
contact an FP administrator before proceeding.

> This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under
copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your
country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT
IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

> Title: Homage to Catalonia
Date of first publication: 1938
Author: George Orwell (1903-1950)
Date first posted: Oct. 23, 2018
Date last updated: Oct. 23, 2018
Faded Page eBook #20181044

> This eBook was produced by: Delphine Lettau, Howard Ross
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

> GEORGE ORWELL

> _Homage to Catalonia_

> Answer not a fool according to his folly, lest
             thou be like unto him.
             Answer a fool according to his folly, lest he
             be wise in his own conceit.
                                        PROVERBS, XXVI, 4-5

> Copyright 1938 by Eric Blair

> TRANSCRIBER NOTES

> Hyphenation of words has been made consistent.

> [The end of _Homage to Catalonia_ by George Orwell]

## 6. VI

Source: https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-homage-catalonia-fp20181044/6/ · cite a paragraph as https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-homage-catalonia-fp20181044/6/#p-N

[¶0] One afternoon Benjamin told us that he wanted fifteen volunteers. The
attack on the Fascist redoubt which had been called off on the previous
occasion was to be carried out tonight. I oiled my ten Mexican
cartridges, dirtied my bayonet (the things give your position away if
they flash too much), and packed up a hunk of bread, three inches of red
sausage, and a cigar which my wife had sent from Barcelona and which I
had been hoarding for a long time. Bombs were served out, three to a
man. The Spanish Government had at last succeeded in producing a decent
bomb. It was on the principle of a Mills bomb, but with two pins instead
of one. After you had pulled the pins out there was an interval of seven
seconds before the bomb exploded. Its chief disadvantage was that one
pin was very stiff and the other very loose, so that you had the choice
of leaving both pins in place and being unable to pull the stiff one out
in a moment of emergency, or pulling out the stiff one beforehand and
being in a constant stew lest the thing should explode in your pocket.
But it was a handy little bomb to throw.

[¶1] A little before midnight Benjamin led the fifteen of us down to Torre
Fabián. Ever since evening the rain had been pelting down. The
irrigation ditches were brimming over, and every time you stumbled into
one you were in water up to your waist. In the pitch darkness and
sheeting rain in the farm-yard a dim mass of men was waiting. Kopp
addressed us, first in Spanish, then in English, and explained the plan
of attack. The Fascist line here made an L-bend and the parapet we were
to attack lay on rising ground at the corner of the L. About thirty of
us, half English and half Spanish, under the command of Jorge Roca, our
battalion commander (a battalion in the militia was about four hundred
men), and Benjamin, were to creep up and cut the Fascist wire. Jorge
would fling the first bomb as a signal, then the rest of us were to send
in a rain of bombs, drive the Fascists out of the parapet and seize it
before they could rally. Simultaneously seventy Shock Troopers were to
assault the next Fascist 'position', which lay two hundred yards to the
right of the other, joined to it by a communication-trench. To prevent
us from shooting each other in the darkness white armlets would be worn.
At this moment a messenger arrived to say that there were no white
armlets. Out of the darkness a plaintive voice suggested: 'Couldn't we
arrange for the Fascists to wear white armlets instead?'

[¶2] There was an hour or two to put in. The barn over the mule stable was so
wrecked by shell-fire that you could not move about in it without a
light. Half the floor had been torn away by a plunging shell and there
was a twenty-foot drop onto the stones beneath. Someone found a pick and
levered a burst plank out of the floor, and in a few minutes we had got
a fire alight and our drenched clothes were steaming. Someone else
produced a pack of cards. A rumour—one of those mysterious rumours that
are endemic in war—flew round that hot coffee with brandy in it was
about to be served out. We filed eagerly down the almost-collapsing
staircase and wandered round the dark yard, enquiring where the coffee
was to be found. Alas! there was no coffee. Instead, they called us
together, ranged us into single file, and then Jorge and Benjamin set
off rapidly into the darkness, the rest of us following.

[¶3] It was still raining and intensely dark, but the wind had dropped. The
mud was unspeakable. The paths through the beet-fields were simply a
succession of lumps, as slippery as a greasy pole, with huge pools
everywhere. Long before we got to the place where we were to leave our
own parapet everyone had fallen several times and our rifles were coated
with mud. At the parapet a small knot of men, our reserves, were
waiting, and the doctor and a row of stretchers. We filed through the
gap in the parapet and waded through another irrigation ditch.
Splash—gurgle! Once again in water up to your waist, with the filthy,
slimy mud oozing over your boot-tops. On the grass outside Jorge waited
till we were all through. Then, bent almost double, he began creeping
slowly forward. The Fascist parapet was about a hundred and fifty yards
away. Our one chance of getting there was to move without noise.

[¶4] I was in front with Jorge and Benjamin. Bent double, but with faces
raised, we crept into the almost utter darkness at a pace that grew
slower at every step. The rain beat lightly in our faces. When I glanced
back I could see the men who were nearest to me, a bunch of humped
shapes like huge black mushrooms gliding slowly forward. But every time
I raised my head Benjamin, close beside me, whispered fiercely in my
ear: 'To keep ze head down! To keep ze head down!' I could have told him
that he needn't worry. I knew by experiment that on a dark night you can
never see a man at twenty paces. It was far more important to go
quietly. If they once heard us we were done for. They had only to spray
the darkness with their machine-gun and there was nothing for it but to
run or be massacred.

[¶5] But on the sodden ground it was almost impossible to move quietly. Do
what you would your feet stuck to the mud, and every step you took was
slop—slop, slop—slop. And the devil of it was that the wind had
dropped, and in spite of the rain it was a very quiet night. Sounds
would carry a long way. There was a dreadful moment when I kicked
against a tin and thought every Fascist within miles must have heard it.
But no, not a sound, no answering shot, no movement in the Fascist
lines. We crept onwards, always more slowly. I cannot convey to you the
depth of my desire to get there. Just to get within bombing distance
before they heard us! At such a time you have not even any fear, only a
tremendous hopeless longing to get over the intervening ground. I have
felt exactly the same thing when stalking a wild animal; the same
agonised desire to get within range, the same dreamlike certainty that
it is impossible. And how the distance stretched out! I knew the ground
well, it was barely a hundred and fifty yards, and yet it seemed more
like a mile. When you are creeping at that pace you are aware as an ant
might be of the enormous variations in the ground; the splendid patch of
smooth grass here, the evil patch of sticky mud there, the tall rustling
reeds that have got to be avoided, the heap of stones that almost makes
you give up hope because it seems impossible to get over it without
noise.

[¶6] We had been creeping forward for such an age that I began to think we
had gone the wrong way. Then in the darkness thin parallel lines of
something blacker were faintly visible. It was the outer wire (the
Fascists had two lines of wire). Jorge knelt down, fumbled in his
pocket. He had our only pair of wire-cutters. Snip, snip. The trailing
stuff was lifted delicately aside. We waited for the men at the back to
close up. They seemed to be making a frightful noise. It might be fifty
yards to the Fascist parapet now. Still onwards, bent double. A stealthy
step, lowering your foot as gently as a cat approaching a mousehole;
then a pause to listen; then another step. Once I raised my head; in
silence Benjamin put his hand behind my neck and pulled it violently
down. I knew that the inner wire was barely twenty yards from the
parapet. It seemed to me inconceivable that thirty men could get there
unheard. Our breathing was enough to give us away. Yet somehow we did
get there. The Fascist parapet was visible now, a dim black mound,
looming high above us. Once again Jorge knelt and fumbled. Snip, snip.
There was no way of cutting the stuff silently.

[¶7] So that was the inner wire. We crawled through it on all fours and
rather more rapidly. If we had time to deploy now all was well. Jorge
and Benjamin crawled across to the right. But the men behind, who were
spread out, had to form into single file to get through the narrow gap
in the wire, and just at this moment there was a flash and a bang from
the Fascist parapet. The sentry had heard us at last. Jorge poised
himself on one knee and swung his arm like a bowler. Crash! His bomb
burst somewhere over the parapet. At once, far more promptly than one
would have thought possible, a roar of fire, ten or twenty rifles, burst
out from the Fascist parapet. They had been waiting for us after all.
Momentarily you could see every sandbag in the lurid light. Men too far
back were flinging their bombs and some of them were falling short of
the parapet. Every loophole seemed to be spouting jets of flame. It is
always hateful to be shot at in the dark—every rifle-flash seems to be
pointed straight at yourself—but it was the bombs that were the worst.
You cannot conceive the horror of these things till you have seen one
burst close to you and in darkness; in the daytime there is only the
crash of the explosion, in the darkness there is the blinding red glare
as well. I had flung myself down at the first volley. All this while I
was lying on my side in the greasy mud, wrestling savagely with the pin
of a bomb. The damned thing _would_ not come out. Finally I realised
that I was twisting it in the wrong direction. I got the pin out, rose
to my knees, hurled the bomb, and threw myself down again. The bomb
burst over to the right, outside the parapet; fright had spoiled my aim.
Just at this moment another bomb burst right in front of me, so close
that I could feel the heat of the explosion. I flattened myself out and
dug my face into the mud so hard that I hurt my neck and thought that I
was wounded. Through the din I heard an English voice behind me say
quietly: 'I'm hit.' The bomb had, in fact, wounded several people round
about me without touching myself. I rose to my knees and flung my second
bomb. I forget where that one went.

[¶8] The Fascists were firing, our people behind were firing, and I was very
conscious of being in the middle. I felt the blast of a shot and
realised that a man was firing from immediately behind me. I stood up
and shouted at him: 'Don't shoot at me, you bloody fool!' At this moment
I saw that Benjamin, ten or fifteen yards to my right, was motioning to
me with his arm. I ran across to him. It meant crossing the line of
spouting loopholes, and as I went I clapped my left hand over my cheek;
an idiotic gesture—as though one's hand could stop a bullet!—but I had
a horror of being hit in the face. Benjamin was kneeling on one knee
with a pleased, devilish sort of expression on his face and firing
carefully at the rifle-flashes with his automatic pistol. Jorge had
dropped wounded at the first volley and was somewhere out of sight. I
knelt beside Benjamin, pulled the pin out of my third bomb and flung it.
Ah! No doubt about it that time. The bomb crashed inside the parapet, at
the corner, just by the machine-gun nest.

[¶9] The Fascist fire seemed to have slackened very suddenly. Benjamin leapt
to his feet and shouted: 'Forward! Charge!' We dashed up the short steep
slope on which the parapet stood. I say 'dashed'; 'lumbered' would be a
better word; the fact is that you can't move fast when you are sodden
and mudded from head to foot and weighted down with a heavy rifle and
bayonet and a hundred and fifty cartridges. I took it for granted that
there would be a Fascist waiting for me at the top. If he fired at that
range he could not miss me, and yet somehow I never expected him to
fire, only to try for me with his bayonet. I seemed to feel in advance
the sensation of our bayonets crossing, and I wondered whether his arm
would be stronger than mine. However, there was no Fascist waiting. With
a vague feeling of relief I found that it was a low parapet and the
sandbags gave a good foothold. As a rule they are difficult to get over.
Everything inside was smashed to pieces, beams flung all over the place,
and great shards of uralite littered everywhere. Our bombs had wrecked
all the huts and dug-outs. And still there was not a soul visible. I
thought they would be lurking somewhere underground, and shouted in
English (I could not think of any Spanish at the moment): 'Come on out
of it! Surrender!' No answer. Then a man, a shadowy figure in the
half-light, skipped over the roof of one of the ruined huts and dashed
away to the left. I started after him, prodding my bayonet ineffectually
into the darkness. As I rounded the corner of the hut I saw a man—I
don't know whether or not it was the same man as I had seen
before—fleeing up the communication-trench that led to the other
Fascist position. I must have been very close to him, for I could see
him clearly. He was bareheaded and seemed to have nothing on except a
blanket which he was clutching round his shoulders. If I had fired I
could have blown him to pieces. But for fear of shooting one another we
had been ordered to use only bayonets once we were inside the parapet,
and in any case I never even thought of firing. Instead, my mind leapt
backwards twenty years, to our boxing instructor at school, showing me
in vivid pantomime how he had bayoneted a Turk at the Dardanelles. I
gripped my rifle by the small of the butt and lunged at the man's back.
He was just out of my reach. Another lunge: still out of reach. And for
a little distance we proceeded like this, he rushing up the trench and I
after him on the ground above, prodding at his shoulder-blades and never
quite getting there—a comic memory for me to look back upon, though I
suppose it seemed less comic to him.

[¶10] Of course, he knew the ground better than I and had soon slipped away
from me. When I came back the position was full of shouting men. The
noise of firing had lessened somewhat. The Fascists were still pouring a
heavy fire at us from three sides, but it was coming from a greater
distance. We had driven them back for the time being. I remember saying
in an oracular manner: 'We can hold this place for half an hour, not
more.' I don't know why I picked on half an hour. Looking over the
right-hand parapet you could see innumerable greenish rifle-flashes
stabbing the darkness; but they were a long way back, a hundred or two
hundred yards. Our job now was to search the position and loot anything
that was worth looting. Benjamin and some others were already scrabbling
among the ruins of a big hut or dug-out in the middle of the position.
Benjamin staggered excitedly through the ruined roof, tugging at the
rope handle of an ammunition box.

[¶11] 'Comrades! Ammunition! Plenty ammunition here!'

[¶12] 'We don't want ammunition,' said a voice, 'we want rifles.'

[¶13] This was true. Half our rifles were jammed with mud and unusable. They
could be cleaned, but it is dangerous to take the bolt out of a rifle in
the darkness; you put it down somewhere and then you lose it. I had a
tiny electric torch which my wife had managed to buy in Barcelona,
otherwise we had no light of any description between us. A few men with
good rifles began a desultory fire at the flashes in the distance. No
one dared fire too rapidly; even the best of the rifles were liable to
jam if they got too hot. There were about sixteen of us inside the
parapet, including one or two who were wounded. A number of wounded,
English and Spanish, were lying outside. Patrick O'Hara, a Belfast
Irishman who had had some training in first-aid, went to and fro with
packets of bandages, binding up the wounded men and, of course, being
shot at every time he returned to the parapet, in spite of his indignant
shouts of 'POUM!'

[¶14] We began searching the position. There were several dead men lying
about, but I did not stop to examine them. The thing I was after was the
machine-gun. All the while when we were lying outside I had been
wondering vaguely why the gun did not fire. I flashed my torch inside
the machine-gun nest. A bitter disappointment! The gun was not there.
Its tripod was there, and various boxes of ammunition and spare parts,
but the gun was gone. They must have unscrewed it and carried it off at
the first alarm. No doubt they were acting under orders, but it was a
stupid and cowardly thing to do, for if they had kept the gun in place
they could have slaughtered the whole lot of us. We were furious. We had
set our hearts on capturing a machine-gun.

[¶15] We poked here and there but did not find anything of much value. There
were quantities of Fascist bombs lying about—a rather inferior type of
bomb, which you touched off by pulling a string—and I put a couple of
them in my pocket as souvenirs. It was impossible not to be struck by
the bare misery of the Fascist dug-outs. The litter of spare clothes,
books, food, petty personal belongings that you saw in our own dug-outs
was completely absent; these poor unpaid conscripts seemed to own
nothing except blankets and a few soggy hunks of bread. Up at the far
end there was a small dug-out which was partly above ground and had a
tiny window. We flashed the torch through the window and instantly
raised a cheer. A cylindrical object in a leather case, four feet high
and six inches in diameter, was leaning against the wall. Obviously the
machine-gun barrel. We dashed round and got in at the doorway, to find
that the thing in the leather case was not a machine-gun but something
which, in our weapon-starved army, was even more precious. It was an
enormous telescope, probably of at least sixty or seventy
magnifications, with a folding tripod. Such telescopes simply did not
exist on our side of the line and they were desperately needed. We
brought it out in triumph and leaned it against the parapet, to be
carried off later.

[¶16] At this moment someone shouted that the Fascists were closing in.
Certainly the din of firing had grown very much louder. But it was
obvious that the Fascists would not counter-attack from the right, which
meant crossing no-man's-land and assaulting their own parapet. If they
had any sense at all they would come at us from inside the line. I went
round to the other side of the dug-outs. The position was roughly
horseshoe-shaped, with the dug-outs in the middle, so that we had
another parapet covering us on the left. A heavy fire was coming from
that direction, but it did not matter greatly. The danger-spot was
straight in front, where there was no protection at all. A stream of
bullets was passing just overhead. They must be coming from the other
Fascist position further up the line; evidently the Shock Troopers had
not captured it after all. But this time the noise was deafening. It was
the unbroken, drum-like roar of massed rifles which I was used to
hearing from a little distance; this was the first time I had been in
the middle of it. And by now, of course, the firing had spread along the
line for miles around. Douglas Thompson, with a wounded arm dangling
useless at his side, was leaning against the parapet and firing
one-handed at the flashes. Someone whose rifle had jammed was loading
for him.

[¶17] There were four or five of us round this side. It was obvious what we
must do. We must drag the sandbags from the front parapet and make a
barricade across the unprotected side. And we had got to be quick. The
fire was high at present, but they might lower it at any moment; by the
flashes all round I could see that we had a hundred or two hundred men
against us. We began wrenching the sandbags loose, carrying them twenty
yards forward and dumping them into a rough heap. It was a vile job.
They were big sandbags, weighing a hundredweight each, and it took every
ounce of your strength to prise them loose; and then the rotten sacking
split and the damp earth cascaded all over you, down your neck and up
your sleeves. I remember feeling a deep horror at everything: the chaos,
the darkness, the frightful din, the slithering to and fro in the mud,
the struggles with the bursting sandbags—all the time encumbered with
my rifle, which I dared not put down for fear of losing it. I even
shouted to someone as we staggered along with a bag between us: 'This is
war! Isn't it bloody?' Suddenly a succession of tall figures came
leaping over the front parapet. As they came nearer we saw that they
wore the uniform of the Shock Troopers, and we cheered, thinking they
were reinforcements. However, there were only four of them, three
Germans and a Spaniard. We heard afterwards what had happened to the
Shock Troopers. They did not know the ground and in the darkness had
been led to the wrong place, where they were caught on the Fascist wire
and numbers of them were shot down. These were four who had got lost,
luckily for themselves. The Germans did not speak a word of English,
French, or Spanish. With difficulty and much gesticulation we explained
what we were doing and got them to help us in building the barricade.

[¶18] The Fascists had brought up a machine-gun now. You could see it spitting
like a squib a hundred or two hundred yards away; the bullets came over
us with a steady, frosty crackle. Before long we had flung enough
sandbags into place to make a low breastwork behind which the few men
who were on this side of the position could lie down and fire. I was
kneeling behind them. A mortar-shell whizzed over and crashed somewhere
in no-man's-land. That was another danger, but it would take them some
minutes to find our range. Now that we had finished wrestling with those
beastly sandbags it was not bad fun in a way; the noise, the darkness,
the flashes approaching, our own men blazing back at the flashes. One
even had time to think a little. I remember wondering whether I was
frightened, and deciding that I was not. Outside, where I was probably
in less danger, I had been half sick with fright. Suddenly there was
another shout that the Fascists were closing in. There was no doubt
about it this time, the rifle-flashes were much nearer. I saw a flash
hardly twenty yards away. Obviously they were working their way up the
communication-trench. At twenty yards they were within easy bombing
range; there were eight or nine of us bunched together and a single
well-placed bomb would blow us all to fragments. Bob Smillie, the blood
running down his face from a small wound, sprang to his knee and flung a
bomb. We cowered, waiting for the crash. The fuse fizzled red as it
sailed through the air, but the bomb failed to explode. (At least a
quarter of these bombs were duds.) I had no bombs left except the
Fascist ones and I was not certain how these worked. I shouted to the
others to know if anyone had a bomb to spare. Douglas Moyle felt in his
pocket and passed one across. I flung it and threw myself on my face. By
one of those strokes of luck that happen about once in a year I had
managed to drop the bomb almost exactly where the rifle had flashed.
There was the roar of the explosion and then, instantly, a diabolical
outcry of screams and groans. We had got one of them, anyway; I don't
know whether he was killed, but certainly he was badly hurt. Poor
wretch, poor wretch! I felt a vague sorrow as I heard him screaming. But
at the same instant, in the dim light of the rifle-flashes, I saw or
thought I saw a figure standing near the place where the rifle had
flashed. I threw up my rifle and let fly. Another scream, but I think it
was still the effect of the bomb. Several more bombs were thrown. The
next rifle-flashes we saw were a long way off, a hundred yards or more.
So we had driven them back, temporarily at least.

[¶19] Everyone began cursing and saying why the hell didn't they send us some
supports. With a sub-machine-gun or twenty men with clean rifles we
could hold this place against a battalion. At this moment Paddy Donovan,
who was second-in-command to Benjamin and had been sent back for orders,
climbed over the front parapet.

[¶20] 'Hi! Come on out of it! All men to retire at once!'

[¶21] 'What?'

[¶22] 'Retire! Get out of it!'

[¶23] 'Why?'

[¶24] 'Orders. Back to our own lines double-quick.'

[¶25] People were already climbing over the front parapet. Several of them
were struggling with a heavy ammunition box. My mind flew to the
telescope which I had left leaning against the parapet on the other side
of the position. But at this moment I saw that the four Shock Troopers,
acting I suppose on some mysterious orders they had received beforehand,
had begun running up the communication-trench. It led to the other
Fascist position and—if they got there—to certain death. They were
disappearing into the darkness. I ran after them, trying to think of the
Spanish for 'retire'; finally I shouted, '_Atrás! Atrás!_', which
perhaps conveyed the right meaning. The Spaniard understood it and
brought the others back. Paddy was waiting at the parapet.

[¶26] 'Come on, hurry up.'

[¶27] 'But the telescope!'

[¶28] 'Bugger the telescope! Benjamin's waiting outside.'

[¶29] We climbed out. Paddy held the wire aside for me. As soon as we got away
from the shelter of the Fascist parapet we were under a devilish fire
that seemed to be coming at us from every direction. Part of it, I do
not doubt, came from our own side, for everyone was firing all along the
line. Whichever way we turned a fresh stream of bullets swept past; we
were driven this way and that in the darkness like a flock of sheep. It
did not make it any easier that we were dragging a captured box of
ammunition—one of those boxes that hold 1750 rounds and weigh about a
hundredweight—besides a box of bombs and several Fascist rifles. In a
few minutes, although the distance from parapet to parapet was not two
hundred yards and most of us knew the ground, we were completely lost.
We found ourselves slithering about in a muddy field, knowing nothing
except that bullets were coming from both sides. There was no moon to go
by, but the sky was growing a little lighter. Our lines lay east of
Huesca; I wanted to stay where we were till the first crack of dawn
showed us which was east and which was west; but the others were against
it. We slithered onwards, changing our direction several times and
taking it in turns to haul at the ammunition-box. At last we saw the low
flat line of a parapet looming in front of us. It might be ours or it
might be the Fascists'; nobody had the dimmest idea which way we were
going. Benjamin crawled on his belly through some tall whitish weeds
till he was about twenty yards from the parapet and tried a challenge. A
shout of 'POUM!' answered him. We jumped to our feet, found our way
along the parapet, slopped once more through the irrigation
ditch—splash—gurgle!—and were in safety.

[¶30] Kopp was waiting inside the parapet with a few Spaniards. The doctor and
the stretchers were gone. It appeared that all the wounded had been got
in except Jorge and one of our own men, Hiddlestone by name, who were
missing. Kopp was pacing up and down, very pale. Even the fat folds at
the back of his neck were pale; he was paying no attention to the
bullets that streamed over the low parapet and cracked close to his
head. Most of us were squatting behind the parapet for cover. Kopp was
muttering. '_Jorge! Coño! Jorge!_' And then in English. 'If Jorge is
gone it is terreeble, terreeble!' Jorge was his personal friend and one
of his best officers. Suddenly he turned to us and asked for five
volunteers, two English and three Spanish, to go and look for the
missing men. Moyle and I volunteered with three Spaniards.

[¶31] As we got outside the Spaniards murmured that it was getting dangerously
light. This was true enough; the sky was dimly blue. There was a
tremendous noise of excited voices coming from the Fascist redoubt.
Evidently they had reoccupied the place in much greater force than
before. We were sixty or seventy yards from the parapet when they must
have seen or heard us, for they sent over a heavy burst of fire which
made us drop on our faces. One of them flung a bomb over the parapet—a
sure sign of panic. We were lying in the grass, waiting for an
opportunity to move on, when we either heard or thought we heard—I have
no doubt it was pure imagination, but it seemed real enough at the
time—that the Fascist voices were much closer. They had left the
parapet and were coming after us. 'Run!' I yelled to Moyle, and jumped
to my feet. And heavens, how I ran! I had thought earlier in the night
that you can't run when you are sodden from head to foot and weighted
down with a rifle and cartridges; I learned now you can _always_ run
when you think you have fifty or a hundred armed men after you. But if I
could run fast, others could run faster. In my flight something that
might have been a shower of meteors sped past me. It was the three
Spaniards, who had been in front. They were back to our own parapet
before they stopped and I could catch up with them. The truth was that
our nerves were all to pieces. I knew, however, that in a half-light one
man is invisible where five are clearly visible, so I went back alone. I
managed to get to the outer wire and searched the ground as well as I
could, which was not very well, for I had to lie on my belly. There was
no sign of Jorge or Hiddlestone, so I crept back. We learned afterwards
that both Jorge and Hiddlestone had been taken to the dressing-station
earlier. Jorge was lightly wounded through the shoulder. Hiddlestone had
received a dreadful wound—a bullet which travelled right up his left
arm, breaking the bone in several places; as he lay helpless on the
ground a bomb had burst near him and torn various other parts of his
body. He recovered, I am glad to say. Later he told me that he had
worked his way some distance lying on his back, then had clutched hold
of a wounded Spaniard and they had helped one another in.

[¶32] It was getting light now. Along the line for miles around a ragged
meaningless fire was thundering, like the rain that goes on raining
after a storm. I remember the desolate look of everything, the morasses
of mud, the weeping poplar trees, the yellow water in the
trench-bottoms; and men's exhausted faces, unshaven, streaked with mud
and blackened to the eyes with smoke. When I got back to my dug-out the
three men I shared it with were already fast asleep. They had flung
themselves down with all their equipment on and their muddy rifles
clutched against them. Everything was sodden, inside the dug-out as well
as outside. By long searching I managed to collect enough chips of dry
wood to make a tiny fire. Then I smoked the cigar which I had been
hoarding and which, surprisingly enough, had not got broken during the
night.

[¶33] Afterwards we learned that the action had been a success, as such things
go. It was merely a raid to make the Fascists divert troops from the
other side of Huesca, where the Anarchists were attacking again. I had
judged that the Fascists had thrown a hundred or two hundred men into
the counter-attack, but a deserter told us later on that it was six
hundred. I dare say he was lying—deserters, for obvious reasons, often
try to curry favour. It was a great pity about the telescope. The
thought of losing that beautiful bit of loot worries me even now.