A New Kind of War

1937. You were staying with friends, first in New York, then in New England.

Then you went out West – you stayed at Jackson Hole, in Wyoming, and climbed up into the Grand Tetons, with a boy named Bill – William T. Schuster. August 1937 –remember?’ Clinton paused momentarily.

‘Agreed?’

‘Yes.’ That August he had been with Uncle Luke’s Wall Street friends. And the following August he had been at his first TA camp, on Salisbury Plain. But the man would surely know that too – and the extent of his knowledge was terrifying! ‘Yes, sir.’

‘ I was in Spain, on the Northern Front – the Basque campaign. Near a place called Barruelo.’

It wasn’t so much surprising that the man had been in Spain, which would certainly have been professionally interesting to any soldier, as that he was swopping his past for nothing in exchange. And, for some reason, this information was also frightening. But he mustn’t betray his fear. ‘On which side?’

‘The Nationalists’ – the full-blown Fascist one.’ The reply came matter-of-fact, without excuse. ‘I was a stretcher-carrier with the Navarrese – the 6th – next to dummy4

Bastico’s Italians. And I used to lie on my back and watch the German planes make mincemeat of the Russian Ratas. The Russians had supplied old stuff, and the Condor boys were trying out their latest Me-109s, so it wasn’t really a fair fight. But I didn’t stay to see the finish of it, after the Italians broke their promise and handed over their prisoners to Franco to be murdered – I got myself conveniently killed in action –

“missing, presumed” – so that I could join the Republican side, in Barcelona. Because the only fellow in the British battalion of the International Brigade –

the XVth, that was . . . the only fellow who might have recognized me had conveniently got himself killed on the Ebro. So ... in answer to your most intelligent question, major ... I am a hero of both sides. Which I can admit to you now because both sides know it now.

But, fortunately, they didn’t know it then, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Fred stopped worrying. After that put-down he really had nothing to lose. ‘Which side did you prefer?’

‘Ah . . . now that is a good question, actually.’ The academic mildness of Clinton’s reaction piled surprise on surprise. ‘In a way, it is perhaps the question . . .

although for most people, now, at this exact moment in history, it may seem not a question at all, but an insult . . . But . . . mmm – I have often thought about that. Although perhaps not in quite the same way . . .’

dummy4

He trailed off, for a moment. ‘ Mmm ... if the worst ever could theoretically come – or have come – to the worst . . .’ The Brigadier trailed off again. The truth is that . . . I really don’t know, Fred.‘ Clinton bestowed the diminutive on him with such transparent sincerity that Fred found himself leapfrogging contempt (which usually came after relief when senior officers betrayed their fallibility) and coming up against that old unjumpable mixture of respect and sympathy and understanding, which always evoked loyalty!

But – damn it! – he mustn’t give way to that! Not so easily, and on such short acquaintance! Not with this man of all men!

‘The truth is that there were decent men on both sides.

There was even an Italian colonel – Farina, I think his name was . . . Armado – ? Giuseppe – ? Gian-Carlo – ?

I can’t remember . . . But he was a decent man – an honourable man, in the old sense: he hated what he was doing in Spain, and resigned in protest in the end.

And there were a lot of good men in the International Brigade, too, who thought they were good Communists . . . although they wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes if their side had won – and some of them didn’t last much longer than that as it was: if it wasn’t a Fascist bullet in the front, it was one in the back for them, and when no one was looking!’ Clinton drew a huge reminiscent sigh, and then looked directly at Fred, dummy4

with the pale-blue clouded. ‘So . . . no, in answer to your question – same in Spain, same in Germany, you’ve got to remember.’ Nod. ‘When it starts . . .

there aren’t just good men on one side, and bad men on the other – there are good men on both edges of the middle. And some of them are stupid, but some of them are quite clever . . . but just not quite clever enough. And, of course, a lot of them are quite ordinary, also. And, then, as one side or the other starts to win, and to show its true colours, they don’t know what to do. But by then it’s too late, and they haven’t anywhere else to go, because they’re inside the thing by then – they can’t run, then: it’s Bergen-Belsen or Siberia, or a firing squad for them – and their families.

So what do they do then, eh?’

Having asked two silly questions of his own in succession and got far more than he’d bargained for in reply, Fred decided that he would treat this one as rhetorical and say nothing.

‘The very brave ones resist, and take the consequences.’ Clinton accepted his silence. ‘And there aren’t many of them around in Germany now, take my word for it. Or in Spain, although Spain’s not quite so bad. But in Soviet Russia . . . there are none.’

He stared through Fred. ‘And the not-so-brave ones and the confused ones . . . some of them try to hide – to lie low, in the hope of better times one day. But you dummy4

need both cleverness and luck for that, as well as hope.’ The stare focused on him suddenly. ‘But your average chap ... as it might be you or me, my lad – you or me ... he gets swallowed up by the thing – The Beast! Because that’s the Nature of the Beast, you see –

you get involved with it, for whatever reason . . .

because of your job, or your family, or at worst your ambition – or even by accident, or by pure bad luck. Or you