Margot

This excerpt of Margot telling her story might be best enjoyed with a glass of Guinness or Writers’ Tears' Irish Whiskey before a crackling fire. If none of those things appeal or aren't readily available, try listening to my WEB OF LEGACIES playlist (click here). Songs 22-45 are for Margot. (Songs 45-53 cover the epilogue and are something of a recapitulation.)

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MARGOT BOURNE ST. JOHN: 1904-1953

 

CHAPTER 48

Fighting Franco

 

March 2 – September 22, 1937, Spain

 

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“What’s a dame doing in my damn ditch?”

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No one can turn a phrase like an American. I lift my head from the dirt and look into the surprised eyes of a filthy-faced man. I have a camera. He has a gun. Bullets whine above.

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“I’m doing my damn job, soldier. Back off.”

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He grunts. Beads of sweat trace through his grimy stubble. We stare at each other through condensing breath. God knows who dove into this ditch first, but I’m staying. I give him a defiant look. He grunts again and turns his attention to the cliffs rising from the hill. They look unassailable. They’re the objective.

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My ditch-mate wears dirty but serviceable clothing. Only a scarlet scarf peeking out from his jacket’s upturned collar and his dark beret distinguish him from the muddy surroundings. I glance behind us at the desolate landscape, once a beautiful valley of olive trees. Now they and the men who fought among them have been ripped to shreds. I don’t know if I’m relieved or sorry I missed the Suicide or Pingarron slaughters. The nurses at the Lincoln Battalion’s field hospital told Godawful stories. Poor boys. Mostly raw recruits.

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I shake my head. Focus. Even though both sides are dug in, and the frontlines are quiet, Commander Law—a tough, highly respected Texas-born Negro—promised, “All hell’s gonna break loose.” Well, I’m counting on it. He was crystal clear after his briefing, back in the woods. “You go up that rise? You’re on your own.” Good. Let all the other correspondents turn back. Here is where I need to be.

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More sniper fire from the cliffs whizzes overhead.

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I pull out my pack of Chesterfields. Probably paid too dearly for these back in Madrid, but it was worth it. Meeting Robert Capa and Gerda Taro in the Florida lobby was a lucky break. Even with the language barrier, we hit it off. And I’ve already put Gerda’s tip to good use—offering a cigarette, especially an American cigarette, gets people to relax and open up. Not that this is a good time to relax, but maybe my companion will be civil until the hell I’ve been promised breaks loose.

 

I clear my throat, already raw. Haven’t smoked much since trying to impress Robby and shock Father. I smile at the memory. If Robby were alive, he’d be in this fight. I pat my shirt pocket for the reassuring bump of Robby’s button and Nana’s brooch knotted together in the old handkerchief. I like imagining Robby and Nana watching over me. But, shit, need to focus. I glance at the soldier, already eying the Chesterfields.

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“Smoke?” I extend the pack toward him, shaking out some cigarettes. His face brightens and he scoots closer to pluck one. I light his and mine. We puff a while. I blow smoke rings, then, watching the smoke drift above our ditch, I’m suddenly rattled.

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“Hey, we’re not giving our position away, are we?”

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He snorts a laugh. “Lady, they already know exactly where we are and they’re laying out the welcome mat.”

 

“Were you at Suicide and Pingarron?”

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“Yeah. Both shitstorms.” He grimaces. “Know why they named us after Abraham Lincoln?”

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“No.” Actually, I’ve heard this one, but play along.

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 “Cause we’re getting assassinated.”

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I smile. “How do you like your Commander?”

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“Alright. Voted for him. Led us through some shit.”

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“But it’s been quiet lately?”

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“Look, I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, but when we get the signal, we’re going up that rise,” he jerks his thumb toward the cliffs, “where another shitstorm waits.”

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“Unless the shitstorm happens right here when the Italians come calling.”

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He grunts yet again and squints up at the low-hanging clouds. Apparently, they’ve alternated between dumping buckets of rain and parting long enough for enemy aircraft to dump buckets of death and destruction. I look up, too. Cloud cover’s breaking up. Not good.

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 “Hell, if the fascists don’t get us one way or another, guess the damn lice will.” He scratches an armpit. “Don’t know which is worse.”

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“Where are you from, soldier?”

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“Chicago. Steel worker and union organizer. You?”

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“Boston, New York, and Paris. Photographer.” I hold up the Leica hanging off a strap crossed around my neck and under my arm. “Mind if I take your picture?” Sometimes I ask. This situation calls for permission.

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He shrugs. “Okay.”

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He looks at me with his cigarette dangling from the corner of a tense smile, then mugs for the camera with crossed eyes. Finally, he gives me a sheepish but genuine smile. He’s got a handsome face under all that grime. In other circumstances, we might’ve found our way into the sack. Who knows? Still might. He looks up at the sound of aircraft overhead.” I keep shooting. These are great, especially the one of him squinting at the sky.

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“Soviet boys,” he says, still looking up. “Heard they’ve been tangling with the Italians in dogfights over Arganda. Say, if I give you my mother’s address, will you send her one of those pictures?”

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“Sure. What’s her address?”

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Suddenly, there’s shouting and an entire battalion of soldiers rises from nowhere and rushes headlong up the hill. In a flash, my companion tosses his butt and joins them. Enemy artillery opens fire and shells burst everywhere. I scramble from the ditch and get swept along in the wave of men charging up the hillside—hundreds of us, crouched and running in weaving patterns. The soldiers point rifles and light machine guns at the cliffs, firing as they go. I point my camera in every direction, shooting as I go. My mouth is dry as dirt. I swear I hear my heart pounding, even over the shouting men, staccato gunfire, and booming artillery. A man goes down on my left. Another on my right. Now one just ahead. I leap to the side and land hard on my knees to avoid stepping on him.

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My ditch-mate.

 

He sprawls forward, head turned toward me, rifle a few paces beyond an outstretched arm, red scarf half in the dirt. He looks at me again with surprised eyes. Except now they’re dead. A rivulet of blood seeps from under his body, soaking the earth. Focus. I snap his picture. No permission needed. I should feel something, I know. But I only feel pulled inexorably onward by the tide of men surging toward the cliffs. I scramble to rejoin them. Running. Snapping pictures. Drunk on adrenaline. The thrill. I’m careening down The Big Hill in the moonlight in the runabout with Robby. The wave of men—shooting, screaming, dying—carries me onward.

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A bullet zings by my ear. Shit! I dive for the ground. What am I doing?

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Now a different kind of adrenaline rocks me. Terror. I swing my camera onto my back and begin slithering back down toward the ditch—cringing, hugging the ground, choking on dirt—as shells and gunfire pummel the earth. It’s a long crawl. Where the hell is that ditch? Panting and sweating, I finally slide into someone else’s vacated ditch, try to catch my breath and slow my hammering heart. A shell explodes nearby and rains dirt. Can’t stay. I sprint, screaming, down to the trees where Commander Law briefed us earlier. Nobody here? Focus. A shell rips through treetops. No focus. Only terror. I’m off again, fighting branches that snag my hair, clothes, and camera, tripping over roots, tumbling down a steep bank, and, finally, pounding across a wooden footbridge spanning the marshy area I’d crossed with the other correspondents early this morning. A lifetime ago.

 

I try again to catch my breath, but demon fear drives me on, stumbling and limping along a muddy track back to the impromptu field hospital, where, at last, I collapse on a crate, trembling and breathless. Lungs on fire. Covered in mud and scratches.

 

A pretty woman with blond wavy hair passes by, then turns and studies me. “You okay?”

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I nod. With shaking hands, I take the canteen she offers and gulp down half. Much of it dribbles down my chin and soaks my shirt. Water never tasted so sweet. I hand it back. Lesson learned. Never go to the front lines without a canteen.

 

She joins me on the crate for a smoke. “First time?”

 

I nod again.

 

“You’re a mess.” She removes the bandana from her neck, pours water over it, and gives it to me. “Might want to stop by our tent and get some of those scratches looked at.”

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“Thanks.” I wipe my face and hands, transforming her clean bandana into a sopping mess, which she retrieves, wrings out, and drapes over the back of the crate to dry.

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"Gosh, sorry."

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"Don't give it a thought." She gestures toward the correspondents talking to an officer, all gathered safely around a map."Here with them?"

 

“Yeah. Taking pictures for Alliance Photo in Paris. Name’s Margot Bourne.” I offer my hand.

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She takes it in a strong grip. “Evelyn Crawford.”

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I hand back her bandana. “What’s your story?”

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“Here with my husband and brother. They’re up there.” She glances at the distant cliffs, where gunfire pops and percussions boom. Worry flickers across her face, then her expression hardens. “Had to fight to get this job as a driver almost as hard as we’re fighting the damn fascists. Bunch of chauvinists didn’t think a woman could be a driver. But finally gave in. I’m persistent.”

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We chat. She’s an artist and a nightclub dancer and convinced her brother and husband to join the fight. I take her picture leaning against her truck, one hand in her pocket, smiling in the sunshine. Standing there, in her baggy trousers and slouchy jacket with a confident smile, she’s more beautiful than any fashion photo. It’s a great shot, tells a compelling story of a brave and determined women. But I already know the picture Alliance Photo will want.

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On the drive back to Madrid, the other correspondents ask where I’d gone. I dodge their questions. They talk of Hemingway’s visit. He called the Pingarron Hill charge “an act of monumental stupidity.” Damn. Missed him again. Someone hands me a flask of whiskey. I take a big swig.

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When I develop the film of the soldier mugging for my camera, I’m stung with regret that I never got his name or his mother’s address. Later, when I learn her dead son’s picture was splashed across newspapers back home, I wonder if she recognized him. Hope not. His surprised eyes haunt me for weeks.

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