The Fundamental Things
by
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PROLOGUE
The crunching reverberations of marching boots came and went, drowned out by the cheers of the Madrilenos as the men of the Lincoln Brigade passed by. Rick’s mood was excitement and tension as he ran his eyes over the crowd and the rubble of war-torn Madrid. Flags, banners and posters were everywhere. The crowds cheered and clapped as the non-descript marchers zigzagged around the piles of rubble while doing their best to keep in step. A banner overhead caught in the wind and swayed as it announced, “Viva Espana.” Groups of cheering Madrilenos began singing, “Bandera Rosa.” As the marchers turned onto The Gran Via Rick saw a huge cloth banner at least six stories high that appeared to have written on it a story or a poem. “ I’ve been in Madrid one week and now I’m going to war, “ Rick mused. “Not only that, I’m leading a battalion of men I hardly know marching down a boulevard I’ve never been on before.” He shook his head. These men are mine now, the Lincoln Battalion. They were such an amalgam, a brew of political zealots, some adventurers, while others were simply starry-eyed idealists still unaware of what awaited them in the hills around Madrid. This was not a union head knocking; they were no longer just demonstrators protesting a lockout or a wage cut. This was different, for too many of these men would never see sunrise in their native land, some would not see sunset here. Why Spain? They believed, to a man, that the heart of world liberalism beat here in Madrid, and should it's beat be stilled here, it would die everywhere. Did he believe this? Not anymore. He was a leader here, a military man. He sniffed in self-derision. What did he really know of combat leadership? Ethiopia and the Italians. He sniffed again. The Italians. Their buffoon leader, the square-jawed Duce, his antagonist the Emperor Hailie Selasse, The Lion of Judah. Were all the leaders of the world like these two, done over and over again with mirrors? Was he any different, espousing meaningless victories? Caba’s Leica flashed in the sunlight as he recorded this moment for history. He nudged Rick and pointed at a poster. “That your foot, Rick?” The poster depicted a sandaled foot stomping on a swastika. The sight of this stirred Rick’s emotions and a feeling of true kinship passed through him. He wondered what his father would think about him now. Goddamn commie? But he would admire the leadership position. Yeah, that he would do. Perhaps it could even close some of the distance between them, On the other hand no, it wouldn’t. But now he was here and so were the fascists. His own passions were simpler, the men of the Lincoln Brigade, the people, and his own unuttered idealism. Yet he felt kinship with no more than half of his men, the rest were too radical in their politics, too consumed with an ideology he knew too well. Frankly, in his mind they were just rabble-rousers. The sudden roar of massed aircraft engines ended his reverie; apparently the rebels were about to rain on the parade. Down they thundered, the pilots of the German Condor Legion, with their Junkers, Stukas, and Heinkels. Rick blew his whistle and yelled for his unit to disperse, but they were already scattering in all directions. The street became an impenetrable cloud of dust and debris, a devil’s cauldron, as the first bomb hit. The explosions tore at the ears; people appeared from the cloud, screaming as they ran. He saw a decapitated body, the head rolling like a cantaloupe around the rubble. Dazed people staggered and stumbled into the rubble of pulverized buildings, some with absent arms. He ducked into a storefront just before more bombs struck the area, and he prayed that none of his men were hurt. He reflexively jerked back as an object hurtled towards him and tore at the doorframe then fell harmlessly to the ground. He threw himself deeper into the store and stumbled into a glass case, his knee shattering the glass. Toys, jack-in-the-boxes, spewed across the room. As he slid, he fell onto a large teddy bear that saved his head from smacking on the tiled floor. He stood up almost absentminded and brushed the dirt and cement dust from his uniform then staggered out onto the street. He saw injured civilians wandering around in stunned disbelief, staring first at their wounds, then the sky, then back to their wounds. The crowd screamed louder as the planes, having turned about, came back to strafe the rutted avenues. Rick’s chest constricted and his belly ached from fear as he resought shelter, His only haven was to duck around a corner as the roof mounted machine guns, stuttered their cacophony at the diving aircraft. Despite the wall of fire from the defender guns, the planes came in low firing their bursts, exploding the shop windows, the piles of people amongst the debris and the street lamps. Rick‘s apprehension peaked higher as machine gun bullets ricocheted off the cobblestones and filled the air like angry bees. Rick whirled around to run further down the side street when one of the Lincolns with half of his face gone crashed into him and died. Then the planes buzzed away as quickly as they had arrived but the parade was over. Rick began looking for other Lincolns when he stepped on what he thought was a rag doll. He stooped to retrieve it and saw that it was a child’s hand. His heart dropped as he swallowed hard to stop the reflux. Such relentless depravity! He clenched his fists and looked up at the sky. Rick began to rally his new battle mates by collaring a militia sergeant who in turn calmly saluted him and asked, “Orders, Captain Blaine?” “Have the men reassemble at our temporary bivouac at University City tomorrow, 0900 hours. His heart still pounded as he turned and ducked into a smoky bar where a few scruffy looking men stared at him. “Si senor?” The bartender offered, calmly. “God, how can these guys be so calm. Must be really drugged or drunk,” thought Rick. He grunted to the bartender, ”Una brandy,” then sat down, lit up a camel and waited for his heart rate to settle down. As he did so his mind floated back to his past and the beginning of it all
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About the Book
1930S America was in the depths of the great worldwide depression. A rich young man, educated in the radical mix of the University of Chicago, joins with a group of young communists who want to abet the struggle for union rights in the emerging labor union movement. They are in the thick of the physcial and economic struggle when Rick shoots several strikebreakers who are beating some unarmed strikers. His group aids him in his escape to South America and then to Berlin. There he becomes involved in the political intrigues that led to World War II. He accompanies a strange little man to Zurich where he meets "The Fat Man," a worldly wise amoral adventurer who has developed a scheme for running guns for Emperor Haile Selaisse of Ethiopia in his struggle againts Mussolini's fascist dreams of a new Rome. On arrival Rick sees quickly the futility of the scheme which rapidly unravels. The group escape from Ethiopia, scatters, and he goes to Spain. There he joins the International Brigades who are fighting General Franco's fascists. Soviet intrigues, espionage, and betrayals cause him to flee to Paris. There he meets a mysterious young woman and falls in love. His happiness is interrupted by the approaching Nazi Wehrmacht.
About the Author
I am a Physician writer traveler with a long time interest in the history of the 1930s , both US and European. I have lived in Europe, traveled in Spain and have visited all of the sites and countries that I describe in the book. I have made multiple trips to Germany, Italy, and Spain even after returning to the US. My interests are quite eclectic. I have written a memoir entitled, "The Buckwheat Chronicles" and am presently preparing a novel exploring the influence of Soviet Russia on the Spanish Republic and its Civil War. Presently I live in Kansas City with my wife Priscilla and my dog, Howie.