The Walking Dead

To Whom it may Concern:

In the event of my death or incapacity, will the finder of this Diary please facilitate its safe delivery to my sister:

Miss Enid Darke, 40 Victoria Street, Bermondsey, London, England.

Many thanks.

Signed: Cecil Darke.

14 September 1936

Well, this is the start. The top of the first blank page. It will not be a literary work because I do not have the intelligence or education for that, but it will be a record — I hope — of my journey. I am going to fight on a foreign field, and I cannot say how many days or weeks or months I will be filling this notebook, or where this journey will lead me.

If the handwriting is poor — and this is a personal testament so, should I survive, it will not be read by any other living soul, except Enid — that is because the train is rocking on the track, and I have little room in which to write as we are all packed tight in our carriage, as tight as sardines in a tin.

I am twenty-one years old, and my clean new passport lists my occupation as 'bank clerk'. I am thinking of the shock and confusion on the face of my supervisor, Mr Rammage, when I handed in my resignation last Friday, with immediate effect. So predictable, his reaction. Said sternly, 'Why are you leaving us, Darke?' To go abroad, Mr Rammage. 'Oh, going off on a holiday, are we? Don't expect that your desk will be waiting for you. Don't think I'll be holding your place vacant for you — plenty of likely lads to take your position. For employment, these are difficult times, and to walk out on work with prospects and security is — frankly — extraordinarily stupid.' I understand, Mr Rammage. And then, with sarcasm: 'And are you prepared, Darke, to enlighten me as to where — abroad — you intend to travel to?' To Spain, Mr Rammage. 'That is not extraordinarily stupid, that is deluded idiocy. To get involved in that war, Communists and Fascists viciously massacring each other — a war that is none of your business and where you have no cause to be a part — is simple lunacy. I don't believe you have any military experience…' There will be people who will teach me what I need to learn. 'I was, Darke, at the Somme and at Passchendaele. It's not like they say, those who sit behind the lines. It is a thousand times worse. To fight modern warfare is beyond imagination. God, please, watch over you…Now, clear your desk and be gone.' I cleared my desk, and I was gone, and I swear there was a tear in Mr Rammage's eyes.

Neither Dad nor Mum came to Victoria to see me off, but Enid did. She gave me this notebook and she had had my name stamped in gold on its cover — that was very sweet and loving of her — and with it was a half of a hob loaf and a quarter of cheese. We kissed, and when the train left I leaned through the window and waved back to her. Then the packet boat to Calais, then to Paris by train.

In two days we were at the Gare d'Austerlitz, and were marshalled on to Train No. 77, which they call the Train of Volunteers. We went south through the afternoon, evening and night, and we left France after Perpignan. Now we are on the line to Barcelona. The mountains of the Pyrenees are behind us. I have spent one pound, three shillings and fourpence in Paris, and have but two pounds ten shillings in my wallet. Yet, because of where I go and why, I feel myself a rich man.

I have started out in my Sunday suit, best shirt, cap, and raincoat, with my boots all shined up, but now I feel overdressed, so I have taken off cap and tie and loosened the stud on my collar. The stubble is thick on my chin — which would horrify Mr Rammage.

I believe that I am the youngest of the volunteers in this carriage, and I am the only Briton. There is a German, Karl, who speaks a little English, but none of the others do. lam grateful to Karl: without his help I would not be able to communicate with my fellow travellers. They are from Germany and Italy. They are all, through Karl, interested to know about me because I am different from them. They are refugees from their own countries because they are members of the CF — sorry, the Communist Party — and at best they would be locked up by the Fascist regimes in Berlin and Rome. At worst they would be executed. From them, there is surprise that 1 am not a member of the CPGB, and they say that I have a home to go back to, but they do not, and they are bewildered that I am coming to Spain to fight alongside them.

They have called me 'the idealist', which is flattering. They tell me that it is time Fascism was fought, and that the battlefield is Spain, where democracy must survive or face annihilation all over Europe. Did I know that? I must have or I would still be at my desk with Mr Rammage peering over my shoulder and criticizing untidiness in my ledgers. I suppose I knew it was important to travel to this war and play my part, but to be told that I am 'the idealist' brings a little glow of pride to my chest. I have told them that Mr Rammage, last Friday, said this conflict was none of my business, and each in turn has shaken my hand and congratulated me for understanding that it was the duty of all principled men to come to Spain and fight for freedom. I feel humble to be with these men, and humble also that I know so little of politics. But I have not told them that beside my 'idealism' as a warrior against Fascism, and the need to drive back the barbarians of militarism, there was another factor in my joining up. I craved adventure…I look to find excitement and be a better man for it.

There is no food on the train, but a man comes round with buckets of water for us to drink from, and the queues to reach the lavatories take an age, but in this company the hardships do not seem to matter.

We are now, Karl says, an hour out from Barcelona. I have never before been abroad, and my father has never been out of London, except for annual excursions to the coast at Ramsgate. In London it was cold and wet: autumn was starting. Here, the sun beats on the train windows, and we are slowly cooking because we are squashed so close.. I have stopped writing for a few minutes to just stare out. There are fields that are yellow and dry, with horses and carts in them, and women are bringing in the last of the harvest. There are only women working. As we go by, they stop their work, stand straight and raise a clenched fist in salute to us — and all the men, in all the carriages, shout back at the top of their voices, in Spanish, 'They shall not pass.' Already, just from sitting in the train, I know that that is the slogan of those I will fight with. It brings a shiver to me—'They shall not pass'—not of fear, but of pride.