Agony of Human Progress

SO MANY of our best buddies have been killed. You get to 
really know people here. We can talk to each other, ad-
mit our weaknesses, our fears, and know that we understand 
each other. The word comrade here seems to have a fuller, 
deeper meaning. I don't know, but that awful aching pain you 
have after seeing one of your buddies go is something that seems to 
change you. Perhaps I am not explaining it very clearly. But 
when we could say then that "It's worth it, no matter what 
the cost, this offensive is worth it," you knew that the fascists 
could never win. Never, because there was more than rifles, 
planes and bullets fighting them. There was something there, 
that nothing, no power on earth could defeat or destroy.

The fascists began to drop incendiary bombs. The whole 
countryside was black. They were bringing civilization to 
Spain. We looked over the fields and we knew that the bones 
of our comrades, the bodies of the Spanish people were fertil-
izing those fields and somehow it became symbolic. They were 
fertilizing the fields of the future.

We spoke quietly about our comrades. I remember one 
lad, I forget his name, saying, "This is the agony of human 
progress, I guess. This is the agony of our generation. It is 
the price we must pay in the transition to a higher social order; 
to a better world." He expressed what we felt, and sometimes 
what we were ashamed to say because we felt that we could 
not express it.

I remember counting the number of duds. To us the pro-
portion of duds that fell and did not explode was another mes-
sage, a message from the German and Italian munition work-
ers. We appreciated that message.

The offensive was over. Our boys were moved into a 
reserve position further behind the front. We were reviving. 
Our old humor was coming back. We were given a pack-

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