to measure a hundred metres.’ Just as I got there and turned, a

bullet kicked up earth in" front of me——someone was getting the

feel of his rifle all right.

When we reached Morata a squadron o-f enemy bombers appeared overhead. It gave you a funny feeling. Hearing that stuttering drone, waiting for -the bombs to drop. Suddenly we saw three planes come out of the sky. They w-ere ours. They dived. We heard the rattle of machinergun fire. The forma« tion of the fascist squadlron broke. Suddenly like nothing we had «ever seen in the movies, two of the ‘bombers burst into flames and they came down to" earth. Here were two planes that weren’t going to strafe and bomb women and children in the cities any more.

Air Bombardment

On February 26th, the second group arrived. That group got a taste of war before they got to the front. In Albacete while waiting for transport to the front one of the boys -described that night of bom-_bin‘g and terror. Canadian and‘ American boys formed themselves into rescue squads and went into the streets to dig bodies out of the debris that were once homes. I re» member lifting my pick with a sensation that I might hit some’ thing soft, something human. It was unreal. A week ago all of us had been in another world. Now we were working o-n the ’ruins left by the bombs of Krupp and Thyssen. I did strike something so-ft. I wanted to vomit. Feverishly I began to dig with my hands. I couldn’t stand‘ it. A litt'le boy——a little boy without his head.

John Lenthier, the actor from Boston, had dug out an entire family. He raised his fist and I saw him standing in the light of the moon, the sweat was pouring down his face, “Why do you bomb the homes of innocent people?” It was our first taste of war, of fascist‘ war. It had a bitter taste. ’ I

Somehow the boys were older after that bombardment-

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