Max Arthur - The Real Band of Brothers - First-hand accounts from the last British survivors of the Spanish Civil War

All three operating tables had to work together, and our supply of instruments was far too limited. The moment one operation was over, I gathered the instruments, hurried to the girl outside—I’d shown her how they should be washed and put in the steriliser and brought in again for the next case. In the meantime, I was back at the operating table and making it ready for the next case. After a while, I could change over so quickly that, less than five minutes after a case was taken off, the operating table was prepared for the next.

In the intervals we had food brought into the operating theatre—chunks of bread and bully beef, and black coffee, and snatched a few bites when we could. Nor did we bother much about the rule of no smoking in operating theatres—we quickly smoked cigarettes in the doorway while waiting for our instruments. Coffee and cigarettes helped, but, after a time, what with the din and the endless flow of wounded, I thought I would go crazy through lack of sleep and overwork.

Once, just as we were thinking of finishing, but still had several cases to deal with, we heard the loud drone of planes, and at once our lights, including the emergency light, went out. Before we could move, there were shattering crashes quite close, and the sound of falling glass. The next minute there were unearthly shrieks from outside and the sound of people running. Our doors were open, and, before we knew what was going on, there was a wild stampede in the darkness. Civilians were rushing into our hospital, which was already full of our own wounded. The air was full of shrieking and moaning.

A man collided with me and, as I put out my hand to push him off, my fingers touched his hair and came off all sticky. I had pushed him into a chair and, when the lights came on again, I saw that he was an old man, and half the flesh of his face was blown off. Other men and women were in a pitiful state, being helped into the hospital by their friends, some gashed by shrapnel, others with legs and arms half blown off, half-naked and bleeding women who’d been blown out of their clothes.

At this time we were attached to the American unit—nothing to do with the British. I never came into contact with the British, who were supposed to be busy on that front. How busy I don’t know, but they couldn’t have been as busy as we were. We were very, very busy, and we never saw any English in my unit.

We got a wonderful van from the Americans. At the back there was complete sterilising equipment for instruments and one for gowns and sheets, then, on the side, all the instruments for head cases and amputations, and on the other side was all the linen required—it was wonderful. The Americans knew how to do things. The British used to give us things, but in dribs and drabs—but never enough, really.

I sometimes walked across the square and looked at the bomb-wrecked buildings. It made me think of London, with its miles of overcrowded, jerry-built slums. What chance would these overcrowded people have in air raids? The rich in the West End and Kensington would no doubt escape in their cars, but the East End would be a death trap. But then I thought, if the Fascists in Spain were beaten, there wouldn’t be any danger of air raids over London. I never ceased to believe this, all the time I was in Spain. Spain was a warning of what would happen to all of us. If we let Spain go, then it would be our fate, too, to go to war.

On one occasion I came in contact with a doctor in the English unit. I’d had a very tiring time following a really hard bombing, and we’d just finished in the early hours of the morning. The sun was shining and I thought I’d go round to the square—there was a little coffee shop and some English ambulance drivers used to gather there. Further up was another shop where people used to sit outside. I passed the main Madrid-Valencia road and turned into a cobbled square where there was the gasoline station where lorries were refuelling.

As I passed the guard, the doctor called out to me, and, because he could speak English, I went over and sat down near him. It was very hot; there were a number of small children playing near the mules and carts. I had been sitting for about two minutes when, without warning—not even the peal of church bells—there were terrific crashes, my hand automatically flew up to my ears, my chair went from under me and I was on the floor. At once there was another terrific explosion, masonry and bricks were falling everywhere, and clouds of dust swirling so that nothing could be seen for a moment except a blaze of flames. Then came the shrieks. For a moment I didn’t know what was happening, and then realised this was an aerial bombardment, and I dashed across the road, across the bloody mess of bricks, to get to the children. By this time the petrol station was a sheet of flames, and I almost fell on top of a small child lying on the ground, covered with debris. It was awful, and I shall never forget it. As I picked the child up, it seemed to regain consciousness and struggled in my arms, and I had to hold it tightly, which was difficult because one leg was only hanging on by a sinew. For one moment I stood with the child in my arms, horrorstruck. My legs were so weak I couldn’t move. One of the medical people saw me struggling with the child and took it from me and carried it to the hospital. It was sickening. But what happened to all the other people, and the mules and the fuel? It was just a big flash. It must have been a terrific bomb—they were trying to hit the line between Madrid and Valencia. It was that day when I first met the doctor from the English unit, Doctor Alex Tudor-Hart, and he took me to his hospital. He said I couldn’t go back to my hospital, that I’d better stay. He tried to keep me there—but I knew I had to go back.

We had a man come round—a relative of one of the people who was killed when the bomb went off. We used to mother him and see that his things were ready for him after a day’s work. He had had a job at one time as a porter, overseeing the prevention of typhoid, and he used to go round and was very suspicious of the water. We never had typhoid antitoxins—we were never inoculated against it. It should have been done in London really before coming out to Spain.

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