In the shadow of the shallow grave

 It is 2003.  We are at Leeds Airport, about to board a Jet2 plane for the first time.  We are off to Barcelona to join a party from the International Brigades Memorial Trust.  It is the 65th Anniversary of the Battle of the Ebro.  Amongst the people present are veterans and their families. Two last places were available and we were offered them. I am not sure I can begin to describe the variety of emotions this trip entailed.




The Spanish Civil War had always been a bit special in the memory. I have no family connections but the impression of the ‘Good Cause’ had been whispered out from the 70s  daytime television nostalgic programmes with Dennis Norden and the sort of books we read at school.  I had fought the English Civil War - well, that’s what it was in 1980 - for 16 years before quitting - well, Cromwell did the same and he died at the end of it.  Spanish Civil War living history was new to me. It had a urgency of importance to be remembered that was vital and alive and here we were crossing the same battlefields in the company of the men who had done so so many years ago.





So it is that we are advancing along the road to Corbera d’Ebre. This was an important part of the trip, for reasons which become clear. We have visited the area twice more since then and need to get back.  Since 2003 many more sites connected with the battle have been opened up and museums created. I was following in the steps of Walter Gregory. It is almost a cliche that English speakers first encountered the Spanish War through Orwell.  I’d been put off by having ‘to do’ Animal Farm in Year 9.  Walter Gregory’s ‘The Shallow Grave’ is a gently self deprecating account of his journey to Spain and move from greenhorn company runner to lieutenant at the Ebro and his subsequent capture and eventual release.  I had seen interviews with him but, like so many of the Brigaders who survived, time had finally caught up with him.




We crossed the Ebro at Miravet.  It may be that memory has heightened the sense that the Ebro was being crossed with national characteristics to the fore. The Germans singing forrightly and passionately, the Americans being expansive and the British apologetically asking if this seat was taken.   I remember the heat. I remember the long, long speeches. I remember Bob Doyle being orbited by grandchildren as Planet Bob made his progress through the events.




Bob Doyle and David Marshall


Tomorrow we go to Corbera d’Ebre. Today we remember.
















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