“‘Salud’,” Robert Jordan said.
“‘Salud’,” they answered in the dark. He could not see their faces.
“This is the ‘Inglés’ who comes with us,” Pablo said. “The dynamiter.”
No one said anything to that. Perhaps they nodded in the dark.
“Let us get going, Pablo,” one man said. “Soon we will have the daylight on us.”
“Did you bring any more grenades?” another asked.
“Plenty,” said Pablo. “Supply yourselves when we leave the animals.”
“Then let us go,” another said. “We’ve been waiting here half the night.”
“‘Hola’, Pilar,” another said as the woman came up.
“‘Que me maten’, if it is not Pepe,” Pilar said huskily. “How are you, shepherd?”
“Good,” said the man. “‘Dentro de la gravedad’.”
“What are you riding?” Pilar asked him.
“The gray of Pablo,” the man said. “It is much horse.”
“Come on,” another man said. “Let us go. There is no good in gossiping here.”
“How art thou, Elicio?” Pilar said to him as he mounted.
“How would I be?” he said rudely. “Come on, woman, we have work to do.”
Pablo mounted the big bay horse.
“Keep thy mouths shut and follow me,” he said. “I will lead you to the place where we will leave the horses.”
40
During the time that Robert Jordan had slept through, the time he had spent planning the destruction of the bridge and the time that he had been with Maria, Andrés had made slow progress. Until he had reached the Republican lines he had travelled across country and through the fascist lines as fast as a countryman in good physical condition who knew the country well could travel in the dark. But once inside the Republican lines it went very slowly.
In theory he should only have had to show the safe-conduct given him by Robert Jordan stamped with the seal of the S. I. M. and the dispatch which bore the same seal and be passed along toward his destination with the greatest speed. But first he had encountered the company commander in the front line who had regarded the whole mission with owlishly grave suspicion.
He had followed this company commander to battalion headquarters where the battalion commander, who had been a barber before the movement, was filled with enthusiasm on hearing the account of his mission. This commander, who was named Gomez, cursed the company commander for his stupidity, patted Andrés on the back, gave him a drink of bad brandy and told him that he himself, the ex-barber, had always wanted to be a ‘guerrillero’. He had then roused his adjutant, turned over the battalion to him, and sent his orderly to wake up and bring his motorcyclist.
Instead of sending Andrés back to brigade headquarters with the motorcyclist, Gomez had decided to take him there himself in order to expedite things and, with Andrés holding tight onto the seat ahead of him, they roared, bumping down the shell-pocked mountain road between the double row of big trees, the headlight of the motorcycle showing their whitewashed bases and the places on the trunks where the whitewash and the bark had been chipped and torn by shell fragments and bullets during the fighting along this road in the first summer of the movement.
They turned into the little smashed-roofed mountain-resort town where brigade headquarters was and Gomez had braked the motorcycle like a dirt-track racer and leaned it against the wall of the house where a sleepy sentry came to attention as Gomez pushed by him into the big room where the walls were covered with maps and a very sleepy officer with a green eyeshade sat at a desk with a reading lamp, two telephones and a copy of ‘Mundo Obrero’.
This officer looked up at Gomez and said, “What doest thou here? Have you never heard of the telephone?”
“I must see the Lieutenant-Colonel,” Gomez said.
“He is asleep,” the officer said. “I could see the lights of that bicycle of thine for a mile coming down the road. Dost wish to bring on a shelling?”
“Call the Lieutenant-Colonel,” Gomez said. “This is a matter of the utmost gravity.”
“He is asleep, I tell thee,” the officer said. “What sort of a bandit is that with thee?” he nodded toward Andrés.
“He is a ‘guerrillero’ from the other side of the lines with a dispatch of the utmost importance for the General Golz who commands the attack that is to be made at dawn beyond Navacerrada,” Gomez said excitedly and earnestly. “Rouse the ‘Teniente-Coronel’ for the love of God.”
The officer looked at him with his droopy eyes shaded by the green celluloid.
“All of you are crazy,” he said. “I know of no General Golz nor of no attack. Take this sportsman and get back to your battalion.”
“Rouse the ‘Teniente-Coronel’, I say,” Gomez said and Andrés saw his mouth tightening.
“Go obscenity yourself,” the officer said to him lazily and turned away.
Gomez took his heavy 9 mm. Star pistol out of its holster and shoved it against the officer’s shoulder.
“Rouse him, you fascist bastard,” he said. “Rouse him or I’ll kill you.”
“Calm yourself,” the officer said. “All you barbers are emotional.”
Andrés saw Gomez’s face draw with hate in the light of the reading lamp. But all he said was, “Rouse him.”
“Orderly,” the officer called in a contemptuous voice.
A soldier came to the door and saluted and went out.
“His fiancée is with him,” the officer said and went back to reading the paper. “It is certain he will be delighted to see you.”
“It is those like thee who obstruct all effort to win this war,” Gomez said to the staff officer.
The officer paid no attention to him. Then, as he read on, he remarked, as though to himself, “What a curious periodical this is!”
“Why don’t you read ‘El Debate’ then? That is your paper,” Gomez said to him naming the leading Catholic-Conservative organ published in Madrid before the movement.
“Don’t forget I am thy superior officer and that a report by me on thee carries weight,” the officer said without looking up. “I never read ‘El Debate’. Do not make false accusations.”
“No. You read A. B. C.,” Gomez said. “The army is still rotten with such as thee. With professionals such as thee. But it will not always be. We are caught between the ignorant and the cynical. But we will educate the one and eliminate the other.”
“‘Purge’ is the word you want,” the officer said, still not looking up. “Here it reports the purging of more of thy famous Russians. They are purging more than the epsom salts in this epoch.”
“By any name,” Gomez said passionately. “By any name so that such as thee are liquidated.”
“Liquidated,” the officer said insolently as though speaking to himself. “Another new word that has little of Castilian in it.”
“Shot, then,” Gomez said. “That is Castilian. Canst understand it?”
“Yes, man, but do not talk so loudly. There are others beside the ‘Teniente-Coronel’ asleep in this Brigade Staff and thy emotion bores me. It was for that reason that I always shaved myself. I never liked the conversation.”
Gomez looked at Andrés and shook his head. His eyes were shining with the moistness that rage and hatred can bring. But he shook his head and said nothing as he stored it all away for some time in the future. He had stored much in the year and a half in which he had risen to the command of a battalion in the Sierra and now, as the Lieutenant-Colonel came into the room in his pajamas he drew himself stiff and saluted.
The Lieutenant-Colonel Miranda, who was a short, gray-faced man, who had been in the army all his life, who had lost the love of his wife in Madrid while he was losing his digestion in Morocco, and become a Republican when he found he could not divorce his wife (there was never any question of recovering his digestion), had entered the civil war as a Lieutenant-Colonel.
He had only one ambition, to finish the war with the same rank. He had defended the Sierra well and he wanted to be left alone there to defend it whenever it was attacked. He felt much healthier in the war, probably due to the forced curtailment of the number of meat courses, he had an enormous stock of sodium-bicarbonate, he had his whiskey in the evening, his twenty-three-year-old mistress was having a baby, as were nearly all the other girls who had started out as ‘milicianas’ in the July of the year before, and now he came into the room, nodded in answer to Gomez’s salute and put out his hand.
“What brings thee, Gomez?” he asked and then, to the officer at the desk who was his chief of operation, “Give me a cigarette, please, Pepe.”
Gomez showed him Andrés’s papers and the dispatch. The Lieutenant-Colonel looked at the ‘Salvoconducto’ quickly, looked at Andrés, nodded and smiled, and then looked at the dispatch hungrily. He felt of the seal, tested it with his forefinger, then handed both the safe-conduct and dispatch back to Andrés.
“Is the life very hard there in the hills?” he asked.
“No, my Lieutenant-Colonel,” Andrés said.
“Did they tell thee where would be the closest point to find General Golz’s headquarters?”
“Navacerrada, my Lieutenant-Colonel,” Andrés said. “The ‘Inglés’ said it would be somewhere close to Navacerrada behind the lines to the right of there.”
“What ‘Inglés?'” the Lieutenant-Colonel asked quietly.
“The ‘Inglés’ who is with us as a dynamiter.”
The Lieutenant-Colonel nodded. It was just another sudden unexplained rarity of this war. “The ‘Inglés’ who is with us as a dynamiter.”
“You had better take him, Gomez, on the motor,” the Lieutenant-Colonel said. “Write them a very strong ‘Salvoconducto’ to the ‘Estado Mayor’ of General Golz for me to sign,” he said to the officer in
