Wild Grapes and Rattlesnakes

Introduction

Homage to Spain

In November 10, 1996, I traveled to Spain along with 380 fellow veterans of the International Brigades for what was to be our sixtieth anniversary reunion.  All of us were survivors of the Spanish Civil War, the bloody conflict that engulfed the country from 1936 to 1939 and was a prelude to the horrors of World War II.  We had been among the 42,000 foreign volunteers from twenty-nine countries who came to Spain to fight Fascism, and our return after sixty years represented both a long-belated victory and a vindication of the democratic ideals that brought us here in the first place.

Like many of my comrades, I came back without any expectations beyond the anticipated pleasure of our seeing each other again, as we had on various occasions through the years.  But this time we were embraced by the people of Spain with such a passionate outpouring of good will that we were overwhelmed by the reception afforded us.  We were to be granted honorary citizenship by Spain’s parliament, and from the moment that we arrived in Madrid, we found ourselves in the middle of a spirited celebration the likes of which I had never seen.  With the media spotlight trained on us, we were inundated by music and fanfare.  Bands greeted us and exultant crowds showered us with flowers and gifts.

Stepping back onto Spanish soil and into this jubilant atmosphere, I was flooded by memories and had the feeling my life had come full circle.  I knew there was one fellow veteran among my American comrades to whom I owed that life.  We met again that first morning in the lobby of the Hotel Convencion.  Like myself, Nate Thornton had been a merchant seaman and waterfront labor organizer who volunteered to serve with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, the American contingent of the International Brigades.  Both of us had arrived in Spain in 1937 and saw action during the battle of Brunete.   At a certain point in that campaign, I had suffered a breakdown on the battlefield, mentally overcome by what was called back then “battle fatigue” or “shell shock.”  My condition would have made me a dead man that day had it not been for Nate, who hauled me into an ambulance and somehow managed to get me to a hospital.

In our hotel lobby all these years later, I recognized him at once.  This was the man to whom I had owed such an enormous debt of gratitude my entire life.  There were hugs and backslaps that morning, and I introduced Nate to my wife Sonia, who was by my side as she has been for more than six decades now.  Looking at Nate, I could see the passage of years, but the same warmth and spirit still animated his smile, and for a moment his features defied time and age.  He called me, “Whitey,” the nickname my blonde hair and fair complection had won for me in my youth.  Wishing to acknowledge the debt at last and thank him properly, I tried to remind Nate of our battlefield encounter. “You saved my life that day,” I told him.

He was surprised by my words and looked uncertain for a moment, brows furrowed.  Then he said flatly, “I don’t remember what happened, Whitey.  There were so many wounded on that battlefield.”

“I was in shock,” I recalled, “and you transported me to a field hospital.”

“I may have,” he said, “but I have no memory of it.”

In my eyes his memory lapse in no way diminished his act of courage.  If anything, his not remembering those men like me who he saved only magnified the selfless humanity of his actions.  I told him, “You’ve always been a hero to me, Nate.  All these years you and Spain have been a part of my life.”  That was true. My political and ethical compass brought home from that terrible battlefield has guided me through the years as I recount them in this book, and the same has been true for many of my comrades.  None of us who survived those killing fields ever thought of ourselves as heroes – the gratitude we felt just to have come through alive has always demanded our shared humility.