"Bashert" by Conrad Singer            Chapter 8 An Involuntary Accident

eight

AN INVOLUNTARY ACCIDENT  

“Life is a lottery”
                                         Latin American saying

   It is a fact that seemingly chance events play a significant part in our life’s journey. The next day, my squad was instructed to take up position, just outside the village, on a foothill facing the fascists (the “Phalange”).

   Before sunset, we realized that the water bottles were empty. I collected them & went to fill them, returning in darkness with the bottles all clanging together.  From above, I heard a muffled voice calling out, “Singer. Is that you?”  I shouted back, “Yes, it’s me”, plus some colourful swearing in typical Spanish idiom that translates too crudely to English to be written in my story.  My comrade gave me a hand. On rejoining the group, I was told that an enemy patrol was roaming the area and it had only been their need to wait for my return that had stopped them from moving to another position. So, immediately, we then moved camp just a few hundred yards where we waited and watched. A couple of hours later exploding grenades devastated our old position. My innocent clanging of water bottles had scared off the enemy patrol who must have thought “I” was reinforcements. This, inadvertently, had saved my comrades from a surprise attack

   We were now preparing for the advance on Saragossa. Among those taken prisoners at Belchiti were five leading members of the Phalange. They were accused by the local people of atrocities during the Revolution. The fury among the militia culminated in immediate revenge. After a quick interrogation, the men were summarily shot with pistols at point blank range. The sight of those men twisting and writhing on the ground in their final death throes was something that was never to leave me. It brought home to me the cruelty of war.

   Our regiment was then moved out to new positions to clear the surrounding hills of the enemy, who had flanked our positions. Half way up the hillside, mortar banks were heard exploding far above us. The hail of rifle bullets hitting the ground around us was found to be “dum dums”. These were supposedly banned under the Geneva Convention. They were designed to create horrible wounds. I witnessed a great avalanche of my own troops, running towards me down the hill, in great panic. Their panic proved to be contagious and there seemed to be little alternative to joining in the flight, taking us all back to where we had begun that morning’s assault. We had never enjoyed the time and resources to properly train our enthusiastic volunteers. Enthusiasm does not always make a good soldier.

    We managed to regroup and protect our positions from enemy counter attacks. However, the night was unforgettable for its biting cold, our sheer exhaustion and not having eaten for forty-eight hours.

    A decision was taken for the battalion to attack the same hillside from another direction and we were taken to the vicinity of a village called Casita de la Princesa, near to Fuentetodos, where Goya was born. At 1100 hours, we paused for a bite. I pierced my tin of condensed milk with my bayonet, shook some out over a chunk of bread and started to eat.  At that very moment, the Phalange began to lay down a heavy barrage of mortar fire. The sound of explosions breaking around me was terrifying.  At that stage, I began to wonder what I was doing in that position, since I could not see anybody in support.  The possibility of involuntary accident crossed my mind. I reloaded my rifle, removed the safety catch and placed my finger on the trigger. At the crump of an exploding mortar, I squeezed it and shot through the wrist of my left hand.  It made me feel better when I discovered that I was not alone in doing this. Even our own Captain D’Acosta was also receiving attention for a similar wound. I was eventually handed my discharge papers; I had been invalidated out of the army and was free to return home.

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