Red Love by David Evanier Read Free Book Online

fell onto the ground exhausted at daybreak.
    In the daylight, the nationalists immediately spotted the Americans’ trenches, since they had been dug against the skyline. The bullets cracked overhead. Grabbing their bayonets and helmets, they desperately tried to dig deeper. As the bullets kept coming, two men were so curious about what was happening that they peered up. One of them, a tool-and-die maker in his forties, was the oldest man in j the battalion. Both men were shot in the head. Sammy stared at the broken skulls.
    The men stayed in the trenches for four days.
    Lieutenant Colonel Milovan Pohoric was the new commander of the International Brigades. A thick Yugoslav of forty-six, he appeared in an outfit of many straps and belts holding his pistols, binoculars, and map case. A former opera singer, he had been a competent commissar. He was at his best in relaxed moods when he might perform an aria. But he knew nothing about military matters and followed orders from his superiors unquestioningly. Vacillating elements among the Americans said of Pohoric, “When a Moscow button gets pushed, he lights up.”
    Pohoric was not half bad. Above him was a Hungarian, General Lotz, a Red Army veteran, who liked to receive the men while lying on a couch. His staff was not allowed to speak except when, he addressed them. His boots were the glossiest in the brigade.
    That week, seven new Americans arrived in street clothes. More Y.C.L.ers from the Pinky Rodman branch in Brownsville, holding copies of the Daily Worker and Y.C.L. pamphlets like Make Your Dreams Come True by Gil Green and Life with a Purpose by Joe C. Clark. Sammy gave them their only training: one hour of rifle instruction.
    One of the new boys, Abe Gold, spent his time writing home:
Now, on the Jewish question, the real international language here is Yiddish. Jews from Germany, Roumania, Poland, England, Hungary, all the front ranks of their movements have come to fight the common enemy of the proletariat, and of the Jews as a special oppressed minority.
    We’ve been marching all day long. Guys kept dropping all along the line. Full pack, ammunition, heat took their toll and trucks picking them up. 1 felt like dropping too but thought, if the other guys can do it, so can I.
    Any hour now we’ll be off. You know what I mean. It will be a long action and if things go well we’ll crack into enemy territory. While our forces are incredibly powerful compared to the enemy and we absolutely anticipate victory—accidents can and do happen to individuals. Ill sign off for now.
    Don’t show this letter to my folks. Take care of them.
    Salud and love,
    Your comrade
    Abe
    The officers had no maps.
Four machine guns worked, sporadically.
    The Lincoln Battalion had been moved south of the San Martin Road. On February 26th, Pohoric told the commander of the battalion, Woodhouse (ex-college football player, recent graduate of the Lenin School in Moscow) that the Lincolns were to be part of the offensive against Hill 693, the highest point on the plateau between the Jarama and Tajuna rivers and protected by nationalist machine gun nests. Lotz and Pohoric believed that if Hill 693 were retaken, they could drive the fascists back across the Jarama. The Lincolns were to create a diversion by attacking enemy lines along the San Martin Road.
    Pohoric said that at 6:45, a battery of Republican artillery would bombard the fascist trenches four hundred yards away. At 6:55 the Republican Air Force would attack. After that, a tank company would grind down the enemy barbed wire and prepare the way for the Americans.
    It was gray, damp, and cold on the morning of February 27th. The four hundred and fifty men peered out at the fog and ate breakfast.
    Woodhouse, constantly smiling, briefed the officers. He said to Sammy, “You stay behind and if anybody remains in the trenches, shoot ‘em. Then come over.”
    At 6:45 a battery of Republican artillery briefly opened fire, but at the