How “Kit” Conway Died

By James Prendergast

February 12. Noon. We had just swung through the bottle-neck of a valley and were beginning to deploy. I had been told to look out for a bridge, our «objective. Just then we came under direct fire. Men were hurriedly seeking good cover among the scrub, but once we lay down we saw that we had no view ahead. For a while, we fired from standing positions. Suddenly Peter Daly shouted that they were advanc- ing on our left. I looked across, We concentrated fire on them at 500 yards range.

But the Fascist fire, front and flank was now pretty heavy. Men were being hit all around. Somebody was hit beside me. A yell for stretcher bearers. Goff tumbled over, his hand to his head, his face white. It was a narrow shave; his helmet was dinge-d. “Kit” was every- where at once, directing fire, encouraging us all.

The fire on us had grown so heavy now that nobody could tell what would happen, and fear was not felt any more, because it was no use feeling afraid. A Spaniard who had got mixed up with us somehow move-d over to my side. The bush he left had been denuded by a stream of bullets. He looked at me, laughed. We moved to the right, to higher ground to get a better field of fire.

We took up new positions. I saw Paddy Duff moving back, hit in the leg. Shells were exploding on the left. Holly God! If they fall on this bare ground we are finished! Low-flying planes scream towards us. Now we are for it in earnest. They ‘pass over and soon they are back again with our chasers at their tails. A faint cheer fro-m us.

Now if we quit these ipositiions, the Fascists will break in on the road. ;So here we must stay, even though the Fascist fire is literally eating the top of the hill away. Men from three Companies are now here on the hill. Things are a bit mixed up. “Kit” takes command of all.

As I move up the hill, Jack Taylor, a big Cockney with whom I had one unforgettable night at Figueras, is dressing a wounded comrade. "‘Hit bad?” “Unconscious, thumbs up, I guess.” There is blood on the :seat of Jack’s pants. Only a flesh wound he says, and he won’t go back.

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