Homage to Catalonia by George Orwell
Orwell was a part of the Spanish Civil War fighting at the frontlines.
Context: Orwell is in Barcelona when he joined the local militia men in the Spanish Civil War
I am not writing a book of propaganda and I do not want to idealize P.O.U.M. militia. The whole militia-system had serious faults, and the men themselves were a mixed lot, for by the time voluntary was falling off and many of the best men were already at the front or dead. There was always a certain percentage who were completely useless. Boys of fifteen were being brought up for enlistment by their parents, quite openly for the sake of the ten pesetas a day which was the militiaman’s wage; also for the sake of the bread which the militia received in plenty and could smuggle home to their parents. But I defy anyone to be thrown as I was among the Spanish working class - I ought perhaps say the Catalan working class - for apart from a few Aragonese and Andalusians I mixed only with Catalans and not be struck by their essential decency; above all, their straightforwardness and generosity. A Spaniard’s generosity; in the ordinary sense of the ward, is at times almost embarrassing. If you ask him for a cigarette he will force the whole packet upon you. And beyond this there is generosity in a deeper sense, a real largeness of spirit, which I have met with again and again in the most unpromising circumstances. Some of the journalists and other foreigners who travelled to Spain during the war have declared that in secret the Spaniards were bitterly jealous of foreign aid. All I can say is that I never observed anything of the kind. I remember that a few days before I left the barracks a group of men returned on leave from the front.
They were talking excitedly about their experiences and were full of enthusiasm for some French troops who had been next to them at Huesca. The French were very brave, they said; adding enthusiastically: “Mas valientes que nosotros” - ‘Braver than we are!' of course, I demurred whereupon they explained that the French knew more of the art of war - were more expert with bombs, machine-guns, and so forth. Yet the remark was significant. An Englishman would cut his hand off soon than say a think like that.
Every foreigner who served in the militia spent his first few weeks in learning to love the Spaniards and in being exasperated by certain of their characteristics. In the front line my own exasperation sometimes reached the pitch of fury. The Spaniards are good at many things, but not at making war. All foreigners alike are appalled by their inefficiency, above all their maddening unpunctuality. The one Spanish word that no foreigner can avoid learning is mañana - ‘tomorrow’. Whenever it is concievably possible, the business of today is put off until mañana. This is so notorious that even the Spaniards themselves make jokes about it. In Spain nothing, from a meal to a battle, ever happens at the appointed time.
As a general rule, things happen too late, but just occasionally - just so that you shan’t even be able to depend on their happening late - they happen too early. A train which is due to leave at eight will normally leave at any time between nine and ten, but perhaps once a week, thanks to some private whim of the engine-driver, it leaves at half-past seven. Such things can be a little trying. In theory I rather admire Spaniards for not sharing our Northern time-neurosis, but unfortunately I share it myself.
Context: It is almost a state of travesty for the militiamen since there is a scarcity of ammunition.
We had no tin hats, no bayonets, hardly any revolvers or pistols, and not more than one bomb between five or ten men. The bomb in use at this time was a frightful object known as the 'F.A.I. bomb’, it having been produced by the Anarchists in the early days of the war. It was on the principle of a Mills bomb, but the lever was held down not by a pin but by a piece of tape. You broke the tape and then got rid of the bomb with the utmost possible speed. It was said of bombs that they were ‘impartial’. They killed the man they were thrown at and the man who threw them. There were several other types, even more primitive but probably a little less dangerous - to the thrower I mean. It was not till late March, that I saw a bomb worth throwing.
As time went on, and the desultory rifle-fire rattled among the hills, I began to wonder with increasing scepticism whether anything would ever happen to bring a bit of life, or rather a bit of death, into this cock-eyed war. It was pneumonia that we were fighting against, not against them. When the trenches are more than five hundred yards apart no one gets hit except by accidents. Of course, there were casualties, but the majority of them were self-inflicted. If I remember rightly, the first five men I saw wounded in Spain were all wounded by our own weapons - I don’t even mean intentionally, but owing to accident or carelessness. Our worn-out rifles were a danger in themselves. Some of them had a nasty trick of going off if the butt tapped on the ground; I saw a man shoot himself through the hand owing to this. And in the darkness the raw recruits were always firing at one another. One evening when it was barely dusk, a sentry let fly at me by a yard - goodness knows how many times the Spanish standard of marksmenship has saved my life. Another time I had gone out on patrol in the mist and had carefully warned the guard commander beforehand. But in coming back, I stumbled against a bush, the startled sentry called out that the Fascists were coming, and I had the pleasure of hearing the guard commander order everyone to open rapid fire in my direction. Of course I lay down and the bullets went harmlessly over me. Nothing will convince a Spaniard, at least a young Spaniard, that fire-arms are dangerous.