16 THE VOLUNTEER, December 2001
meal; the crowning of the town beauty
(selected by popular vote), who pre-
sented a battalion banner embroidered
by the local artistes; and the mayor's
ceremonial opening of a keg of brandy
that had been laid in the Napoleonic
era. Of course that also fueled his
rousing farewell speech.
Within a day after the successful
recrossing of the Ebro, the Batallón
Especial, on a company basis, began to
perform special missions that persist-
ed until the Internationals were
withdrawn for repatriation in October.
We were deposited at the eastern end
of the pontoon bridge that spanned
the river at the town of Flix. Our task
was to control the truck and ambu-
lance traffic and to support the work
of the ponteneros assigned to repair
the bridge, bombed hourly by the fas-
cist airforce. Our 7-foot-deep trenches
miraculously kept casualties low, but
the vagaries of bombing, while spar-
ing a mule unscathed by an explosive
under his nose, literally minced a
dozen or so ponteneros who sought
shelter in a nearby culvert.
After two weeks of bridge-head
duty, our captain was assigned as mil-
itary governor for a week's stint at
Mora del Ebro and later at Asco.
During this period we ate very well
from the captured fascist intendencias,
which provided rare treats of cheese
and Portuguese canned sardines.
When the Pandols battle began to
intensify its roaring momentum, our
company was ordered to a reserve
position in the Cabals, behind the hell-
fire ahead. We hunkered down, paired
in chabolas built of sod, stone and
branches and awaited orders while
the fierceness of the battle on the
ground and in the air raged on.
After a week or so, the company
was ordered to the front. We were led
in a circuitous route by a guide from
the Army command and marched all
day to a reserve bivouac that was,
most likely, quite near our starting
point. As we penetrated deeper into
the battle zone there was an ever
increasing incoming air bombard-
ment, artillery cannonade and
constant machine gun fire.
I was at the rear of our column
with my enlace when I heard a com-
motion. I hurried to its source.
There were the company commander
and the commissar, pistols drawn,
attempting to halt a routed front-line
unit. They were not succeeding. I lost
my cool and started loudly berating
the retreating men with all the cuss
words in my Spanish vocabulary. That
didn't help either. We bedded down
for the night.
The next morning a runner from
the Corps command showed up with
a request for a squad to plug a gap in
the front. The hellfire of the day before
was undiminished. The captain and
the commissar ordered me to take one
of my machine gun squads and follow
the guide. I did so and we moved
toward the incoming fire. Reaching a
ravine, the guide pointed to the
reverse slope of a peak ahead and
indicated a blacked-out entrance to a
cave. He made it clear this was as far
as he would go and that we should
report to whatever command was in
the cave.
I told the squad to follow me
down the slope and up to the cave
entrance ahead. We made a dash
under fire and entered the cave. There
were a dozen or more huddled,
punch-drunk men, mostly officers.
One of them, I assumed the comman-
der, indicated with a directional nod
that I should head for the trench out-
side under the relentless incoming
fire. I asked Bob Taylor, the first
sergeant of the platoon, to reconnoiter
the trench with me. We dashed into it
and found nothing but dead men and
discarded arms. Meanwhile the inten-
sity of the incoming fire (machine
guns, mortars, artillery and aerial
bombs) was undiminished. We
returned to the cave and I tried to get
a word from any of the huddled
group as to what they wanted us to
do. They remained dumb.
I decided that the dozen or so men
in my contingent, armed with a single
Maxim and a couple of Tukorevs,
could do nothing to dent the massive
fascist offensive. I ordered them to fol-
low me back across the ravine. We
managed this without a casualty.
When I reported to the Company
Command post, I described in detail
what we had encountered and why I
had ordered the retreat. It was uncriti-
cally accepted then, but later reshaped
for the estimate embedded in my
Moscow file.
Dear ALBA:
On Sunday November 11 the
grave site of John Cookson (from
USA) was restored and properly
arranged. The tomb is in the district of
Marca (Tarragona). Bad weather did
not impede the five new volunteers,
who worked all morning in order to
leave the place in the best possible
condition. We cleaned out the weeds
that were about to reach the perimeter
of the tombstone. We opened a way
for reaching the place. We also
cleaned the tombstone and applied a
transparent protective liquid, and
now the inscription with the black
paint which marks the name of John
Cookson can be seen once again. At
the right of the tomb, we discovered
another tomb which we didn't know
previously to be there. The stone's
disposition leaves no doubts and we
also found remains of a broken iron
piece vertically stuck in the earth that
seems to have been placed there as a
means of memorial stone.
I have photos of the restoration
process and I will be glad to send
them to any person interested. This
is the third time that we have carried
out an activity in order to rescue a
monument of the International
Brigades, and the three monuments
pertained to the XVth Brigade. We
think that the institutions established
with this purpose are slow and limit-
ed and don't reach a good number of
L
Leetttteerrss
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Levinson/Archives
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