An account by Edwin Bee of the Topographic Unit of the XV Brigade of the Retreat between Hijar and Caspe and final retreat to Batea, 12th to 17th March 1938. The photo above shows the Topographical Unit at Batea between March 17th and 26th, 1938, soon after this report was written by Bee. Standing left is Burt Jackson, mentioned in the text, and second right, in the officers cap, Edwin Bee). Edwin Bee report Edwin Bee writes of his experiences of the Retreats between Hijar and Caspe: Spent most of the night hanging round a casa on the Alcaniz to Hijar road. The battalion are about 7 kilometres outside Hijar. About 6 o’clock instructions come through to see Major Merriman. The Brigade HQ is a splendid dugout carved into the side of the cutting which road runs through. “Croques” (maps) are wanted of our position for the Division and the Artillery. The British battalion and the Mac Paps are merged into one Battalion under the command of ……. And the Lincolns and the 24th into one battalion, even so, they are nothing like full strength. There is a small town on our right flank, nobody knows whether it is ours or not. Avion came over several times and machine gunned the road. Somebody potted at one of the strafers with a rifle, and hit it with the second bullet. The pilot hurried for home, smoke pouring from the engine. We got one in the evening with a machine gun. Jackson (Burt Jackson) and I spent the whole night sketching out rough fire plans of the line. The cols are so steep a fly couldn’t crawl up, and the cross fire well arranged, so that I think our position impregnable, but there is no news of who is on the right flank- if anybody! Spent most of the night going over the left flank with Dunbar and the Captain of the Genie (engineers), a splendid person, whose name I can never remember (Egan Schmidt). Our extreme left to the rear flattens out to a sort of undulating table land, where we have no forces, apparently. Enemy cavalry had come across during the afternoon, but was put to flight with our tank guns and artillery. Dunbar does the best he can with what remains of the Dimitrovs in a wide semi circle to our rear. 4.am. The order has come through for us to retreat. Burnt the sketches I had spent the whole night doing! We are to march to …… and the retreat to be covered with tanks and aircraft. Everybody is dog tired. The road is one long line of marching men as far as the eye can see. Three kilometres outside the Fascists had just cut the road as I arrived with machine gun fire and shells. Everybody is making east across the fields, and a blue two seater in front of me makes a rough going of it, but keeps going. The 13th Brigade are having difficulty with their heavy machine guns, we run all out until we make the hills to the left of ….. I chuck away my overcoat, but keep my blanket. After a couple of kilometres, I luckily strike the British battalion resting. They have been pretty badly strafed by Avion. Major Merriman and Captain Dunbar and Johnny Gates turned up. Warbrick (kia Hijar, 15th March 1938) and Hughes were also there, and we couldn’t help shaking hands, the others were still in the land of the living. (Warbrick however, was very lame, and was last seen sitting at the side of the road, ten or so kilometres further on).. The decision was made after consultation with the 13th Brigade to march over the mountains to Caspe. If Caspe was in the hands of the enemy, we were to try to cut the road. Four tanks preceded the British Battalion, and then the Lincoln Washingtons and the Mac Paps. Four tanks brought up the rear. Innumerable halts were inevitable on the way ,while the Scouts laboriously climbed one observation post after another. An amusing incident happened in entering Caspe, when one of our tanks suddenly rattled round the corner of the road, swung its gun at point blank range, and stopped. For a few moments the situation was ticklish, however, Major Merriman, who was leading, had the presence of mind to march straight ahead without hesitation. During the retreat Captain Dunbar gave us a botanical lecture on the tiny flower that apart from its size, identically resembles a daffodil, which grows on these mountain slopes. When ten kilometres outside Caspe, Commissar Gallo who had raced ahead, in his car, brought back the news that Caspe was still in our hands. The news spread from lip to lip, and about 9.30 we marched into Caspe, singing “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”, “Armentieres” and the Hunger Marchers Song. Peasants told us, however, that Fascist spies had boasted Caspe would be theirs by tomorrow. The town was deserted, with broken masonry and window panes, twisted balconies and bedsteads. Tangled telephone wires made progress in the dark streets difficult. Houses were allotted to the Battalions, search parties sent out for food, and scouts detailed for “another night up.” Very soon the square looked in the moonlight, like a gigantic Barcelona café. In the middle anis and other expensive liquers were served from a bar rigged up on packing cases. Everybody smoked quite decent cigars, cracking nuts and eating oranges. The Topographical Dept. made itself comfortable in a very nice flat with all the modern conveniences, including feather beds! At 4 o’clock marched 1 kilometre out of Caspe and finished our sleep in an olive grove. This morning about 9.30 the Brigade moved up to the line, everyone had the worst foreboding. I was ordered with two Spaniards to stay with the HQ dump. A tree near the road in the corner of the olive grove we camped last night. No sooner had the battalion moved up then the strafing started. All day long we had hardly a moment’s peace. Every inch of the grove was strafed for about a kilometre. After a time we got so tired of running for ditches we sat in a small caseta nearby. A women and her daughter were packing ready to move. She said she wasn’t afraid of the Avion. I thought it was just as well! He daughter, about eighteen, slept through most of it. At 4 o’clock news came through that the Brigade was retreating to our right. One of our scouting parties had just come in from the left flank, having seen nothing of the enemy. Reports from camion drivers became very confused. No traffic came down the road for an hour, so we decided to do a circular movement north eastwards, as a safety precaution. After an hour, our observers reported traffic on the road, so we returned. False news once again! We attacked last night. The Lincoln Washingtons captured a small hill and saw Fascist Genie. Spent the whole night observing on the left flank with Jackson, and the Brigade photographer. Sleeping in ten minute spells. We got a machine gun working, and drew their fire for a bit. Caspe is built on the edge of a large basin, about five to ten kilometres in diameter. The Fascists hold the hills opposite, across the bowl of the basin. I think if they get artillery up tomorrow it will be impossible to live or move in front of the town. Wonderful to say that hot food came up, with coffee and cognac! We have at last bid adieu to Caspe! A perfectly shocking day and night. About 7 o’clock in the morning the Brigade HQ and the English Battalion moved into reserve positions about a kilometre outside of Caspe. Brigade HQ was a very fine dugout under the second hill by the roadside. For some unknown reason they plastered this particular hill and strip of road with shell fire all morning and afternoon. At about 9 o’clock the battalion who had relieved the English gave way, and for a quarter of an hour the situation was very ugly. Technicians were ordered to the rear, the rest of the staff, officers and men were told to get rifles and as much ammunition as we could and to “stand to.” However the shells were now coming over seven or eight a minute, so there was no immediate danger of an attack. My job was to question all traffic on the road, and send down all soldiers from Caspe up the line again, and short circuit ammunition carriers to a new dump we had. Our tanks were constantly coming back for ammunition. I suppose I was standing in rather too soldierly a stance (our sentries usually lean on their rifles or even sit down). Anyhow a tank suddenly stopped about twenty yards from me, the gun turrets revolved the gun and pointed at me. Had the gunner mistaken me for a Fascist? A cold shiver ran down my spine, and I glanced casually at the gun. God! And then equally casually at a shell bursting nearby. After an eternal ten seconds the gun turret again turned towards Caspe, and the tanks passed. I had the grace to salute! 11 o’clock. For a quarter of an hour a battle has been going on two kilometres or so behind us on our left flank. Observers are instructed to report every five minutes, and Lieut. XYZ goes into the olive groves on the left to watch events. Half an hour later the road is cut behind us, and we retreat up the hillside. The top of the hill is a small table land, about a kilometre across to the valley the other side. We are, of course, observed and shelled, but there is no alternative way, and we have to run for it. Vicky Shammah is sent with then order for the battalions to retire. I am set out on scouting ahead. The Ebro winds its broad strip of silver through the olives below. Caspe straggles down the hillside on the left. Part of the railway bridge across the Ebro (Guadalope) is destroyed, the great girders bent in fantastic shapes. I choose a hill which commands the valley, and with a good view of the Caspe-Fraga road. A shell drops quite near me! They’ve chased us with their artillery for two kilometres. Whizz over my head. Where did that one go? Two kilometres on the other side of the river. Whatever can they be shelling over there? Must be our territory still, which is north. Hullo, who are these four chaps in single file? Might be an enemy scouting party. Better keep low. No glasses, too far away to be sure who they are. All by myself, too risky to challenge them. God, it’s hot, the white glare makes you sleepy too. Hullo, that’s somebody coming my way, I’ll get my rifle on him. Think its one of our chaps, I’ll scare the wits out of him! Walking in the wrong direction, must be lost. “Alto”… He nearly jumped out of his skin. I direct him to Brigade HQ. Hour after hour, 5 o’clock I should think. I’ll go and report. Climbing the hillside, I hear a voice. “We must make one more attempt to hold the line. The Government calls upon us to give the Fascist every possible resistance under our circumstances.” I recognise the voice, Johnny Gates, Political Commissar of the Lincolns. How strange the echo of his voice on the mountain. So we are going back, I think to myself, and to try and stifle the conviction that its madness. I am told to bring up the rear with the stragglers. There is some diffidence about crossing the plateau again, although it is nearly dusk now, so I agree to find the way round. Some want to keep off the road and go through the olive trees; however, I stick to the ditch, and a shell drops in the trees; I can’t resist turning round and smiling grimly at the others. Somebody wants water ao we cross the road to the stream. Shells drop here every minute, so we have to be quick. I have to take the chaps up to Lieut. H. on the first Plaza and then return. Halfway there we find a dozen of our fellows with Lieut. H. defending the left side of the road… another break on our flank! This morning we moved off at 7 o’clock in two camions! Dunbar remarked it solved our transport problems as we usually needed forty! However, ten kilometres along the road we struck what was left of the English, Lincoln and Mac Pap battalions, about 300 chaps altogether. After coffee (all the kitchens were captured except the Brigade kitchen) we moved off to the olive groves about seven kilometres outside Batea on the Gandesa road. We had to commandeer various camions that were passing. (Transcribed from the Edwin Bee Memoir. Marx Memorial Library, Box 50, File Be/Be1).
Posted on: Wed, 12 Mar 2014 06:27:32 +0000
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