By D. P. Stephens
A Memoir of the Spanish Civil battle is one man's bittersweet account of scuffling with with the foreign Brigades opposed to the forces of common Francisco Franco in Spain from 1936 to 1939. Douglas Patrick (Pat) Stephens used to be born in Armenia in 1910 and emigrated along with his kin to Canada in 1926. Like numerous others, his dream of discovering a brand new and extra wealthy lifestyles was once critically shaken through the onset of the good melancholy, and he became to the Communist social gathering of Canada in an try to wrestle the political and fiscal deterioration which had gripped a lot of the area. Franco's try and overthrow through army strength the republican executive of Spain appeared to Pat Stephens the proper chance to place his political convictions into motion. via his connections within the Communist social gathering, he grew to become certainly one of a few 1400 Canadians, and 40,000 overseas Volunteers in all, who went to Spain. a number of the volunteers, together with the Canadians, went to Spain opposed to the legislation and the needs in their governments. lots of them by no means got here again. Stephens' memoir, dictated to his spouse Phyllis Stephens almost immediately sooner than his demise in 1987, places a really human face in this unusual and complicated battle. it's a portrait of political and ethical conviction tinged through creeping disillusionment. it's also a compelling depiction of the power, frailty, doubt, and braveness which could outcome from the occasionally incongruous intersection of the private and the political. A Memoir of the Spanish Civil warfare is a precious contribution to our figuring out of the clash which right away preceded international conflict II, and of Canada's position in that clash.
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Additional resources for A Memoir of the Spanish Civil War: An Armenian-Canadian in the Lincoln Battalion
We stopped at a quaint little inn where they were still serving wine and sandwiches. We were soon mobbed by village urchins asking for cigarettes and chocolate. We gave them what we had. I noticed one shy little fellow lurking in the corner. I went and gave him some chocolate, and noticed that he had only one leg. The poor kid had lost the other one during an artillery shelling. Soon after our return from Madrid, there was a rumor that the enemy was preparing for an offensive in our sector. We were placed on alert and our night patrols increased.
After lunch we marched up to Brigade Headquarters located just outside the town. After roll call we were put into trucks. By this time it was getting to be late afternoon. We were now in first reserve position behind the lines, just past the field kitchen, which was set up in a white hacienda on the road to Perales. This was to be our position for the night. We arranged our ground sheets and blankets under olive trees on the slope of a hill. Below us in the valley, we could see our artillery guns firing away at the enemy.
We discovered that this was one of the hotels that served decent meals, as it was the only one catering to high army officers. We stayed for supper with our friends in the elegant dining room. The food was served on beautiful china, and the waiters all wore formal dress. This struck us as an idiosyncratic, but the manager said he wanted to keep the place up its old standards. While there we saw General Miaja, the defender of Madrid, come in to have his supper with his entire entourage. Even in these times of distress, the old goat liked the atmosphere here, and liked to be seen and admired by friend and foe alike.