The Eldorado Network by Derek Robinson Read Free Book Online Page A

peered through the rain at the broken buildings. A mongrel dog came to a doorway, looked once at the car, and went back inside.
    'You mean the dog?' asked Milton Townsend of the Chicago Daily News. 'I never interview a dog unless he comes from Illinois. Either that or he's a wounded machine-gunner.'
    'Or, ideally, both,' said Nicholas Barker, London News Chronicle.
    'For both, the dog gets his picture taken too.' The American wiped mist from the window. 'My God,' he muttered. 'I've seen some picturesque enchanting fairytale Castilian villages in my time, but this is one hell of a dump. No bar even.'
    'I told you war was hell,' said Barker.
    'Listen, let's go back to Madrid. Luis, drive us back to Madrid.'
    'Big story,' Luis said enthusiastically. 'Heroes of Jarama. In the church.'
    'Heroes of Jarama,' Townsend grumbled. 'How can you have heroes without a victory? What kind of a big story is that?'
    The third journalist was a French-Canadian freelance named Jean-Pierre Dru. 'Let's go look in the goddam church,' he said. 'I need some heroes and there may be booze, too.'
    They ran through the rain and shouldered open the creaking, iron-studded doors. The air inside was warm. The church was half-full of soldiers, sprawling on the floor or sitting against the walls. They seemed relaxed and happy. A fire shimmered on the chancel steps, wavering from soft red to light purple to gold as the draught from a shattered window played on it. There was no smoke: it had been good, hard wood from the broken pulpit which lay nearby. Except for the massive baptismal font, every other sign of religion had been destroyed or defaced long ago. An officer  -- the only man whose cap and trousers matched his tunic  -- stood on the font. He was making a speech.
    '. . . and this valiant attack,' he said as the journalists and Luis came in, 'was also preceded by a long and powerful artillery bombardment.'
    The men cheered, drowning his flat, insistent voice. His face remained expressionless.
    'Latest reports confirm,' he went on, 'that the entire rebel fascist forces are in retreat at all points along the Andalusian front.'
    Cheers again.
    'The situation in Madrid is extremely good. Fresh reinforcements of tanks, planes and artillery are arriving daily.'
    More cheers.
    'Everywhere in Spain the' illegal and anti-democratic forces of repression are bleeding to death on the bayonets of our courageous and freedom-loving fellow-workers . . .'
    Prolonged, excited and deafening cheering. The soldiers lay on their backs and roared approval. They hammered their mess-tins against the flagstones. They hooked their fingers in their mouths and whistled until their eyes bulged.
    The officer stood on the font and waited. Despite the uproar he was still boot-faced. He opened his mouth. The racket immediately redoubled. After a few moments he climbed down. At once the cheering subsided like a collapsing marquee. Within seconds it was just a gentle rumble of conversation. Soldiers began standing and stretching and walking about.
    The visitors came forward and introduced themselves. The officer said he was Harry Summers, political commissar for the 2nd English Battalion of the 15th International Brigade.
    'Battalion?' said Jean-Pierre Dru. 'This is a battalion?' There were fewer than two hundred men in the church.
    'Jarama was a severe test,' Summers said.
    'Is that why they pulled you out of the line?' Townsend asked. 'Because you took such a beating?'
    'On the contrary. The battalion is being re-equipped and brought up to strength. As you must have noticed, morale is excellent.'
    Nicholas Barker said: 'Is it all right if we ask your chaps some questions?'
    Summers hesitated. 'I can tell you everything you wish to know.'
    'Tell us what it feels like to get hit by a bullet,' Dru said, looking at a man whose arm was bandaged.
    'That's not . . .' Summers began; then he changed his mind. 'You must remember they are still feeling the effects of the fighting. Very intensive