The Real Band of Brothers: First-hand accounts from the last British survivors of the Spanish Civil War

Miss Ashby took a special interest in me. She always called me ‘Penelope’, which wasn’t my name—it was Ada Louise—but it stuck. Elsie Smith also took an interest in me. Hillcroft was a traumatic experience, a place apart where I never knew what was going on in the outside world. In a way I just didn’t know how I was going to adapt myself, but I became great pals with Miss Ashby and her brother, Sir Arthur Ashby. He used to supply me with reading matter that I would never have got elsewhere.

That was 1934. I studied at Hillcroft College for one year, taking courses in English, economics, psychology and history. It was hard work for me but, in between spells of feeling very disheartened, I learnt a lot. At last I was also growing up, shaking off my exaggerated religious views and realising how much I had missed. I made a lot of new friends there, and two of my best friends were Jewish girls. This was one of the things that opened my eyes. As kids in Tottenham we jeered and laughed at Jews, even though we hardly saw any. People were always grumbling about the Jews—they had all the money, they were awful people. I couldn’t imagine having a Jew as a friend. Now I saw how wicked these prejudices were. I was beginning to think for myself, and this made me unsure, because there was so much to know. So much wrong with the world and so much confusion—I didn’t know where to start. At holiday time, I never knew where to go—if I went home it was to a house full of boys so I wasn’t sure what to do at the end of term-time. Miss Ashby said, ‘I have a friend I was at university with—Heron. I’m very fond of her and her husband and children. You’d love it if you went and helped her a bit, because she’s rather overwhelmed in her work, as well as her housework.’ So I went and helped her with the children. I got very attached to Hannah, Patrick [the future painter Patrick Heron], and there was another one who was a Jesuit, very monastic. Then there was Giles, who ran a wonderful farm. I was accepted into the family and they had a great influence on me. Mr Heron had these beautiful shops in London—dressmaking shops—and the family and I became great friends. I even went to Italy with them many years later. They educated me, really. Patrick Heron—I knew all his paintings. Meeting them was a wonderful experience.

Late in 1936, after I left the Herons, I found temporary work in Hertfordshire as a nurse—but I had no security or commitment there. I was friendly with a night nurse and one evening she asked me, ‘Phelps, are you off duty tomorrow?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Would you like to come and help us with the hunger marchers?’

‘Who are the hunger marchers?’

‘Don’t you know? You’re a bit green, aren’t you? The hunger marchers from Wales.’ I think her father was a Labour MP or in politics anyway—and she was very ‘red’.

I asked her what she wanted me to do, and she said, ‘Just some of your skills looking after their feet, and helping to collect food to feed them because they’re walking all the way from Wales.’

I said, ‘OK, I’ll come when I get off duty tonight.’

So I started trying to beg, borrow or steal for the hunger marchers—and it worked very well. Three of us ran round this little town and we got the men a hall, and the local Co-op helped us, particularly with food—and so did a number of local shopkeepers. They were surprisingly sympathetic and generous. We obtained free medical supplies; the Women’s Guild, a local doctor and clergyman all agreed to help in any way they could.

The marchers, when they turned up, were the Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire contingents—about two hundred strong. I never saw such feet in all my life. Shocking. One man’s feet were raw, so I took him through the back door to the most fashionable chiropodist in the town, who at once agreed to treat him for nothing. Another man—you just couldn’t imagine it, his feet were so bad. I knew it was a hospital job, so I rang our ambulance and got the man taken to the hospital. I got hauled over the coals! Who called the ambulance? The porters who drove the ambulance knew me. I had to tell them my name, for them to take this man to casualty, where he was admitted. The matron called me in the morning. She said, ‘Nurse Phelps, we don’t employ nurses who are “red”.’

I said, ‘I’m not “red”, Matron. I have no politics. I just thought it was the humanitarian thing to do. He needed help and he was a sick man.’

She said, ‘You can’t do that here—not in this hospital. There are people here, nurses, whose parents wouldn’t approve of what you were doing—because I assume you are very communistic.’

I said, ‘Not at all, I don’t belong to any communist party. But if that’s the way you feel, Matron, if you think I’m going to infiltrate the nurses, I’ve got no contract with you, so I’ll go. Thank you, Matron.’ And I walked out.

I think she was a bit flabbergasted. I told one of the girls about it and she said, ‘Good. If you leave, would you volunteer for Spain?’

I said I knew nothing about Spain—I didn’t know anything.

She said I wanted educating, so she told me all about Spain—how the nuns were taking Franco’s side, and, of course, it grabbed my heart—I was young and very emotional. She told me, ‘You go to London, go to Tottenham Court Road, and you’ll see the people—the Spanish Medical Aid. Talk to them.’

So that was that, and that was when I first met my boss, I always remember him—Goryan. I think he must have been Yugoslav or similar—I never knew, but you never worried what nationality or political party people belonged to. Goryan was very good. He asked me all about my nursing—did I know anything about theatre work? We used to get amputations in ‘surgical’ from accidents, being in central London—so we had lots of accidents. I’d had wonderful theatre experience at Charing Cross, so I said, ‘Yes, I know a lot about theatre work, I worked at…’ But that was enough.

‘Well, you’re going somewhere where you’ll be very, very busy.’

Despite my theatre experience, the Spanish Medical Aid people still wanted me to do a radiology training course. ‘No, surgery is my calling, that’s what I’m good at because I worked in theatre.’ That seemed to suit them, so they handed me my ticket, and I was off.

On 6 January 1937 I left England as one of a party of four English nurses to report for duty with the Spanish Medical Aid Committee in Barcelona. Setting out was exciting enough for me because I had never been abroad before—not even set foot on board ship.

We went to France, were put up overnight and mooched around the next day—we wasted practically two days in France—but we had to get paperwork filled in. Then we boarded a train for Spain. It was a terrible, terrible journey into Spain to Port-Bou—which was a horrible place.

We arrived at the frontier at one o’clock, and we had our first experience of the war. The carriage next to ours in the train that was to take us to Barcelona was badly smashed and battered, and, while we waited, we saw our first aerial bombardment. It was far out to sea—the ships and planes were almost out of sight, the sound of the guns was faint—but the Spaniards were very excited, running about and pointing, with shouts of ‘Aviones! Aviones!’—all for very little, it seemed to me. While waiting, we sat in the sun outside a little open-air restaurant, where we had a meal of meat, rice, olives, fruit and coffee.

When the train at last arrived it had funny open carriages with wooden benches, and we didn’t have much room for ourselves and our luggage. It was mostly full of soldiers, and at each station on the line the train stopped and more Spanish soldiers got in, with much shouting and waving of handkerchiefs, while peasants and girls along the platform handed out armfuls of oranges to anyone who wanted them.

We were altogether three days in Barcelona. In the shops, food didn’t seem very plentiful, but I thought clothes were cheap, and our taxi was certainly the cheapest we had ever been in. There were hardly any signs of war, but still, as compared to other towns I had known, there was an air of tension about.

We made our way to the station with all our luggage—probably no one had ever gone to Spain as well equipped as we were. We had sleeping bags, leather leggings, boiler suits, blankets, nurses’ overalls, gas masks and various utensils. But, oh dear, when we got to the station! Inexperienced as we were, we didn’t yet know that this was wartime, and that people might already have been waiting the whole day to make sure of getting a place. The train was crammed full, with soldiers occupying every inch of the corridors, and one glance showed there wasn’t an earthly hope of getting all our luggage in. Our temporary organiser, who didn’t strike me as likely to organise anything, was in despair. He said it would be absurd to think we needed so much luggage, and he made us leave behind—of all things—our leggings, boiler suits, sleeping bags and blankets…in fact all the things we would later miss bitterly. He promised to send them after us, but of course we never saw any of it again.

In Valencia we had to change trains, and the train to Albacete was even fuller than the coastal train. As we drew away from the coast, it got colder. We stopped at all kinds of little stations, where crowds of villagers brought offerings of fruit for the soldiers—mostly oranges. I’ve never seen so much fruit in my life.

We pushed on to Albacete, where, after a long, cold wait, a guard came and took us halfway across the town to a place where an official in a badly lit office said a few words in English to us. From there we were taken to a hospital and put into an empty and freezing-cold ward, where we tried to wrap ourselves into blankets and get a little sleep. The smell of the latrines was terrific, everything was filthy and dirty and we were next door to the lavatories. I never slept that night. There was not just one in a bed—there were two or three—and sometimes you found yourself moving around; well, it was so full of people, and you’d say ‘move over—make room, I’m tired’, and you’d find yourself sleeping among a whole load of men. It was amazing to me. Gosh, what a terrible place that was! I think everyone knew Albacete. Shocking. We seemed to be stuck there—we couldn’t move until our papers arrived and it wasn’t just a couple of hours; you could hang around for days. You used to get vouchers for this and vouchers for that.

Albacete was the base of the International Brigades and was a bewildering military camp. We went from one supposed authority in charge to another. No one seemed to know anything about us—where we were supposed to go or stay. The main language in the International Brigades at this time was German, and then French. Scarcely anyone spoke a word of English, and I could sense at once that the English were not particularly liked.

At last an American doctor telephoned and found a room for us in the Hotel Nacional—a small hotel in a back street—and the front streets weren’t up to much. Our room was small, dark and filthy, with three narrow beds, placed right next to the lavatory, which had ceased to work, and the smell from which was overpowering. We tried to get away from this smell as much as we could, but smells of one kind or another could not be avoided in overcrowded Albacete.

On the third day, at last, we saw two Austrians who were in charge—Dr Neumann and Dr Talger—who spoke fair English. Here we were told we would be separated. Mrs Murphy would go to the Madrid Front and the other girl and I were told to report for duty at the international base hospital just started in Murcia. We were told that some wounded men would be evacuated to Murcia in the afternoon train, and we would be in charge of their evacuation.

When we got to the station we had a shock. Instead of the few wounded I had imagined, there were well over a hundred men: a few quite badly wounded, and some lighter cases—arms, legs and flesh wounds.

It was a terrible journey. It got dark and cold, and the train was so slow I sometimes wanted to get out and push. I tried to give attention to those who needed it, but most of the men were drinking wine and singing, and thought an enfermera [a nurse]—especially an English enfermera—a great joke.

At Murcia I was put in charge of my own general ward, but instead of an ordinary ward I found myself in a huge lecture hall, with endless rows of tightly placed beds. There must have been a good two hundred beds, all occupied and mostly by French patients. Some were badly wounded; others had little the matter with them except mysterious aches and pains. A few of them, I think, were just swinging the lead.

For the first two days, and practically all night, I was on the run, frantically trying to establish order, taking temperatures, bringing water and changing bandages. Those who could walk used to disappear and come back after a while with bottles of wine, and begin to sing, until I lost my temper and hushed them. In the meantime I tried to attend to those patients who really needed care. There was one man who had both arms off—he had to be fed, but he was one of the gentlest and bravest patients I had in Spain.

I had been in Murcia nearly a week when I saw a dark man, who stood for some time at the end of the ward, watching me work. Later a messenger from Albacete arrived and asked how I was getting on. I said I felt rather wasted, because I had good surgical experience, and I had done nothing except introduce a bit of order and discipline—which anybody could have done. He told me that Goryan, the medical chief, was looking for a theatre nurse, and I should go to the Grand Hotel that evening for an interview.

I was shown into a room at the hotel where a middle-aged man with a very high forehead, long, dark hair and a big, dark moustache, wearing a sheepskin coat, was sitting at a table talking to some officers in uniform. This was Goryan, and I recognised him as the man who had watched me in the ward earlier that day—and who had interviewed me in London. He questioned me again about my experience, and at the end he said I would be attached to the 11th Brigade, composed mainly of the Thaelmann Battalion, and I was to get my permit to travel with him at seven sharp the next morning.

Our headquarters were in a big barn, right next to the well, in the shadow of the tall cliff. We had no running water, and large pitchers were passed round from mouth to mouth. All night dispatch riders came with messages for Goryan—then a decisive message came. Goryan looked set, and gave quick orders in French and Spanish. The battle was on. As we moved off towards our station on the front I heard the sound of guns getting louder with the growing light of day.

We travelled till it was bright daylight, but making only slow progress, because every few miles we seemed to have to stop and take shelter to escape the attention of enemy planes. During one of these halts in a small village, my long hair was cut off short, like a boy’s, at the suggestion of one of the doctors, who thought it would get in the way.

Wounded had already been evacuated to Tarancón, and its two hospitals were full. We took charge of an empty school and at once set to, preparing a theatre, unloading our equipment and scrubbing and disinfecting floors and walls.

We had no running water in the building, but we fixed up big chromium containers for boiling water and we fixed up our electricity. Before we were half-ready, the first ambulance drew up outside, unloading its wounded. At the door, a doctor classified and sorted the wounded—only the worst cases were dealt with by us. Already after the first case I realised Doctor Jolly was one of the best surgeons I had ever worked with—and certainly one of the quickest. Long before he had finished with the first case, a second ambulance drew up, and a third, and quite soon they seemed to come in droves, while the faint rumble of guns never left off.

Operating as fast as was possible for a surgeon, Jolly worked the whole afternoon, right through the night, the next day, and most of the following night as well, practically without a break. He never seemed to tire or lose his concentration, and most of the time I worked with him.

It was terrible on the front line—we were right in the midst of it. As they were coming off the ambulance, picking them up and dropping them off, we were taking on laparotomies [abdominal surgery], stomach wounds, amputations and head injuries. All they had to show us what was needed was a cross saying ‘anti-tetanus’ or ‘morphine’—and if they weren’t bad enough to need an immediate operation they were taken down the second line of evacuation. Then they’d go on to the third. But we operated on the most urgent. I could get a tray and table—you could raise or lower them, put a cloth on them, get a box with complete trephines, for head injuries and complete amputations—metal boxes with all the necessary operating instruments. We had three tables going with the other surgeon who helped, and there were Spanish nurses—not that they knew a thing, but they soon learnt how to do things. We showed them how to take things out—‘Don’t touch them with your hands, use this equipment, cover them, give them to the doctor.’ We used morphine and drips, but we were always running out. It was very, very difficult. Most of the cases were too far gone to give them anything to put them out, and there were terrible, terrible losses. People died who should never have died.

All three operating tables had to work together, and our supply of instruments was far too limited. The moment one operation was over, I gathered the instruments, hurried to the girl outside—I’d shown her how they should be washed and put in the steriliser and brought in again for the next case. In the meantime, I was back at the operating table and making it ready for the next case. After a while, I could change over so quickly that, less than five minutes after a case was taken off, the operating table was prepared for the next.

In the intervals we had food brought into the operating theatre—chunks of bread and bully beef, and black coffee, and snatched a few bites when we could. Nor did we bother much about the rule of no smoking in operating theatres—we quickly smoked cigarettes in the doorway while waiting for our instruments. Coffee and cigarettes helped, but, after a time, what with the din and the endless flow of wounded, I thought I would go crazy through lack of sleep and overwork.

Once, just as we were thinking of finishing, but still had several cases to deal with, we heard the loud drone of planes, and at once our lights, including the emergency light, went out. Before we could move, there were shattering crashes quite close, and the sound of falling glass. The next minute there were unearthly shrieks from outside and the sound of people running. Our doors were open, and, before we knew what was going on, there was a wild stampede in the darkness. Civilians were rushing into our hospital, which was already full of our own wounded. The air was full of shrieking and moaning.

A man collided with me and, as I put out my hand to push him off, my fingers touched his hair and came off all sticky. I had pushed him into a chair and, when the lights came on again, I saw that he was an old man, and half the flesh of his face was blown off. Other men and women were in a pitiful state, being helped into the hospital by their friends, some gashed by shrapnel, others with legs and arms half blown off, half-naked and bleeding women who’d been blown out of their clothes.

At this time we were attached to the American unit—nothing to do with the British. I never came into contact with the British, who were supposed to be busy on that front. How busy I don’t know, but they couldn’t have been as busy as we were. We were very, very busy, and we never saw any English in my unit.

We got a wonderful van from the Americans. At the back there was complete sterilising equipment for instruments and one for gowns and sheets, then, on the side, all the instruments for head cases and amputations, and on the other side was all the linen required—it was wonderful. The Americans knew how to do things. The British used to give us things, but in dribs and drabs—but never enough, really.

I sometimes walked across the square and looked at the bomb-wrecked buildings. It made me think of London, with its miles of overcrowded, jerry-built slums. What chance would these overcrowded people have in air raids? The rich in the West End and Kensington would no doubt escape in their cars, but the East End would be a death trap. But then I thought, if the Fascists in Spain were beaten, there wouldn’t be any danger of air raids over London. I never ceased to believe this, all the time I was in Spain. Spain was a warning of what would happen to all of us. If we let Spain go, then it would be our fate, too, to go to war.

On one occasion I came in contact with a doctor in the English unit. I’d had a very tiring time following a really hard bombing, and we’d just finished in the early hours of the morning. The sun was shining and I thought I’d go round to the square—there was a little coffee shop and some English ambulance drivers used to gather there. Further up was another shop where people used to sit outside. I passed the main Madrid-Valencia road and turned into a cobbled square where there was the gasoline station where lorries were refuelling.

As I passed the guard, the doctor called out to me, and, because he could speak English, I went over and sat down near him. It was very hot; there were a number of small children playing near the mules and carts. I had been sitting for about two minutes when, without warning—not even the peal of church bells—there were terrific crashes, my hand automatically flew up to my ears, my chair went from under me and I was on the floor. At once there was another terrific explosion, masonry and bricks were falling everywhere, and clouds of dust swirling so that nothing could be seen for a moment except a blaze of flames. Then came the shrieks. For a moment I didn’t know what was happening, and then realised this was an aerial bombardment, and I dashed across the road, across the bloody mess of bricks, to get to the children. By this time the petrol station was a sheet of flames, and I almost fell on top of a small child lying on the ground, covered with debris. It was awful, and I shall never forget it. As I picked the child up, it seemed to regain consciousness and struggled in my arms, and I had to hold it tightly, which was difficult because one leg was only hanging on by a sinew. For one moment I stood with the child in my arms, horrorstruck. My legs were so weak I couldn’t move. One of the medical people saw me struggling with the child and took it from me and carried it to the hospital. It was sickening. But what happened to all the other people, and the mules and the fuel? It was just a big flash. It must have been a terrific bomb—they were trying to hit the line between Madrid and Valencia. It was that day when I first met the doctor from the English unit, Doctor Alex Tudor-Hart, and he took me to his hospital. He said I couldn’t go back to my hospital, that I’d better stay. He tried to keep me there—but I knew I had to go back.

We had a man come round—a relative of one of the people who was killed when the bomb went off. We used to mother him and see that his things were ready for him after a day’s work. He had had a job at one time as a porter, overseeing the prevention of typhoid, and he used to go round and was very suspicious of the water. We never had typhoid antitoxins—we were never inoculated against it. It should have been done in London really before coming out to Spain.

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