Anders MacGregor-Thunell

I don't see any problems with publishing these short stories. Hitler's behaviour towards women has been an interesting story in itself. It involves suicide, suicide attempts, an extreme need to control etc..., maybe to much of a modern soap... (but thats the case with several of our famous (or infamous) historical characters once you go into their personal private life...). I also find the story of Stanislawa (or should we say Stanislaw) Walasiewicz interesting since it touches many issues about sports and competition a bit further back in history. One issue is of course the physical check up that was done at this time as well as the use of drugs. How common was it? Did some countries use it in a more organized way? Many interesting question could be raised from an article like this.

I agree with you! It has been pretty obvious that several teams have been penalized for this kind of defensive behaviour - but what do you think the headlines and the general comments would have been if the referee had the guts to approve the goal that England made in the very last minutes? "Sven-Göran Eriksson's team effort and hard work paid off" or something like it. I (and I think most people interested in football) like the more unconventional ideas - such as a team that challenges in a way not expected - like Greece against France (and they have a German coach). I would be very pleased if our coaches dared to use the great offensive line up we have tonight, but I expect them to do like Sven-Göran Eriksson - play a common traditional defense and give the initiative to the Netherlands. The result of that can only be one - disaster! I don't mean that a team should attack without thinking, but i would like a high offensive with immediate pressure on the ball holder as well as a close and aggressive game. On the field should be several players who are familiar with this kind of play - and we have quite a few just now which is rare. I would move Henrik Larsson a little bit back as an offensive midfield player. On his sides I would put Freddie and Kim (Källström) - and on the top I'll have Zlatan; Pontus Farnerud and Marcus Allbäck. To get a certain stability in the defense I would play Olof Mellberg, Peter Hansson, Tobias Linderoth and Teddy Lucic. This would make an interesting 4-3-3 line up, but I'm sure that this will not happen...

So I start the new prediction... I think that Czech Republic will win the European Mastership. They will defeat the Netherlands in the final (and Portugal + Greece will be defeated in the semi finals). My hope though is that I'm wrong with at least one of the teams - guess which one?

I think it's time to make new predictions about the semifinals and the final...

I found yesterdays game between Portugal and England quite exciting, but not at all as good as the game between the Netherlands and the Czeck Republic (which so far has been the outstanding game of this tournament). Portugal played really well and took a firm grip of the game early. Did they do it because England automatically backed down after the early lead or was it problems at the midfield? I would say probably a combination of both plus an energetic team (Portugal) that finally found "their" game. Portugal did so many things right except they slowed down as soon as they came close to the penalty lines - why? Yesterday they had many opportunities to pass forward for the deep play that would cut right into the English goal - instead they choose to pass sidewards. This pattern was repeated over and over again. They blow several good chances that way. I was a little bit surprised to see the English team become so defensive. It did not work against France (even though I think it was quite skillfully done until over time) and yesterday it did not work against Portugal. When Portugal tied they also backed - which nearly cost them the game! I don't think it was a conspiracy against England, but if the referee had approved the English goal in the end of the game I don't think anyone would have protested. Now he fell for the pressure of the hometeam and decided to not give England the game. I personally (as well as the Swedish comentators) had a hard time accepting his judgement. Many goals have been done with some pressure on the goalie, that's just one part of the game. I didn't see any particular rough play...but it's the referee that decides. I was a bit surprised on how Portugal managed to continue with their pressure in the following 2 * 15 minutes. It was also reassuring to see how England came back and scored after the Portugese lead (why didn't they try to play like that before...). Penalty kicks is a sad thing - I never cared for it. Then suddenly the blame will be put on one or two individuals for missing a specific kick (or not saving it). That's not how a great game should end. Maybe they should have a "golden goal" after the 2 * 15 minutes of "silver goal"... I don't know, but as I said I really don't care for an end like this. Portugal did play well - but at the same time I can't help feeling sad for the English team which I think won with a perfectly OK goal in the very end. The English team never came up to the standard I expected. The accomplishment of the team is therefore quite remarkable - not being on top and still perform well. I also wonder what effect Wayne Roonies early departure had - Darius Vassell was not very good last night... In Sweden we have a bit of hope for the game against the Netherlands, but at the same time I don't hear anyone who belives that we would be the stronger team out of the two. Everybody claims that the Netherlands is the absolute favourite (big time). Swedens problem with the midfield and the defence (reminds me a bit of Englands problem - just that ours is much bigger) will have to come to an end if we should have a chance. On the other hand - the Swedish team is hard to defeat which many countries have experienced over the last years. A major mistake of the Dutch team would be to play a defensive game (after an early lead). Pressure on the Swedish players high up in the Swedish defensive line will give the Netherlands an advantage. My hope is that the Swedish coaches uses one of the two defense players that actually is in Portugal - instead of a midfielder... They don't seem to have enough confidence in these two players (so why did they bring them in the first place???). Tonight it's France and Greece. A Greece victory would sure be an incredible surprise... I don't think that will happen, but notice England, Germany, Italy, Spain are all gone. Who would have predicted that at the beginning of the tournament?

We all knew that this conspiracy theory would come up if the score would be a draw 2-2, 3-3 etc... Before the game the Italians had made it very clear that they would not accept this result. They talked about filming every part of the game, following the different players attitude etc... Now it happen anyway - even if both teams knew that the majority of Italy would believe in a Nordic conspiracy. What should we have done to please the Italians - kick the ball in our own goal the last minute so that we couldn't be accused of conspiracy? Then the world would have said "Isn't Sweden the most fair playing team in the world"? I don't think so. Over the years we have played against Denmark many times and it's a game that both teams always enjoy winning - it's a lot of pride in this. I believe in fair play and I think that I saw one yesterday (except the last minute and a half). UEFA had a special observer at the game - he made the comment that he had nothing to complain about. I don't find it hard to see a goalie miss. This happens at every tournament. The Danish Goalkeepr also did some quite remarkable savings (as well as the Swedish goalie). There is another dimension in this - if this game was rigged than how many of the other games in this mastership have been rigged? A lot of the beaty of the game would go away - and I would definitely lose interest if I believed it. It would also take away the joy of cheering for the team if I went around thinking it's all a fix... I choose to believe "innocent until proven guilty". With other words I'm not going to let you and the Italian papers ruin my joy of the Swedish team effort. We did not play very well, but we struggled through the game trying to compensate the lack of good football with hard labour. I believ that it paid off. If there would be good proofs which supports the conspiracy theory I expect the team (or both teams if both are involved) to be disqualified. I also expect UEFA to fine the country (or both countries) and later decide on further punishments (like life-long exclusion of players involved, excluding the team from the next mastership etc...). The punishment should be so serious that no country or player would even consider doing it in the future. I repeat what I said before - Italy did not lose the place into the second round in the last game they lost it against Denmark (by playing bad!) and Sweden (by backing up and letting the Swedes back into the game). The result between Denmark and Sweden was just a confirmation of the inability of the Italian team before this game!

So was the behaviour of the Italian goalkeeper when Zlatan scored in the 85th minute. Was he bought by a players syndicate as well? I don't think so and I think you are wrong John. Except the last minute and a half when the Swedish players just walked around with the ball I think both sides tried to win this game. The referee could have choosen to not give Sweden a penalty kick when Larsson fell and in the 89th minute a Danish player was very close to the goalie obviously disturbing him a bit - was he included in the conspiracy? I don't think there was one! This time I think you are wrong!

The dissapointment as well as accusations from some Italian players, leaders and papers were expected. I understand the frustration - but Italy lost their place in the quarterfinal against Denmark (by playing bad!) and Sweden (by backing up and letting the Swedes back into the game). The result between Denmark and Sweden was just a confirmation of the inability of the Italian team before this game! Denmark had quite a firm grip on yesterdays game - with maybe the exception of 15 minutes before half time and 10 minutes after (until the second Danish goal). They were closer to 3-1 than Sweden was to 2-2. I'm quite worried about the very open (or non-existing) defensive midfield of Sweden as well as the weak left-side (Mikael Nilsson). The players are not aggressive enough. The Danish players as well as the Italian players before that gets all the time they need to deliver good passes undisturbed. We have to move the midfield further up and close that gap and put a lot of pressure on the ball holder so they don't get the time to deliver good passes. In the game yesterday you saw Swedish players back up - running backwards with 2-3 meters distance to a player attacking. Not only does the attacking player have the advantage of being left alone he also has much more speed and it's quite easy to pass the defending player. This was a pattern that was repeated again and again... The only positive things I bring along from yesterdays game (except the fact that we actually qualified for the second round and won the group) is the fact that our goaley is very stable (he is only 22 years old - he's born exactly the same date as Zlatan), the offensive can create chances even if the midfield doesn't work very well (they often back down and get the ball themselves) and the moral - Sweden does not give up - they will play to the very end (the coaches have reinforced the idea of giving everything. Their favourite expression is "into the tiles" - refering to swimming...). At the same time I must admire the Danish play. Denmark knew exactly how to play, they were the better team and they play like a team! Czeck Republic will not get an easy game against the "Danish dynamite" ! I agree with John (or with his quote of "the man who discovered Alan Shearer"). A few years ago we saw the terrible pictures when Henrik Larsson broke his leg (just when he started to play for Celtic). It was sickening to see how the leg hung in a very strange angle... Still - he came back and played even better than he did before his injury. That is some talent mixed with the right attitude!

I really don't know what to say - but for us it was not a very good game (even if the result was good). I don't understand why we start so very slow (even if it was a little improvement in this game). The defensive on the left side (Michael Nilsson) does not get any help (as I said he is a midfielder) and he obviously doesn't feel comfortable at this position. The coaches must do something before the quarterfinal. Once again we see the midfield backing up - weak today. I don't know how many games we will get away with this kind of play, but maybe the team can relax now and know that they will not be favourites in any game that follows... that can make them better! Now I need another drink...

When Beckham invited Croatia into the game in the beginning of the match I thought they would continue to play a more aggressive game with lots of pressure on the boll holders - high up on the English defense and midfield. Instead Croatia committed the mistake of backing up - and once again it did not pay off! I really don't understand how one team after the other one makes the same mistake... Well, once again I was very impressed with Wayne Rooney (it's hard to not be impressed...). What an extra ordinary player you have! Meeting Portugal in the quarterfinal I think actually is a better deal for England than Greece (remember the game you nearly lost in England not to long ago...). The reasons why I think Portugal fits England better is; England plays more like a team (even if several parts of the team can become better). This is something very valuable when you meet teams that have some individually good players but lack the discipline to play like a team Portugal has the "disadvantage" of being at home. It's an enormous pressure on the players... Portugal managed to defeat Spain which means that some players might think that they done what they came for. No matter the results at least one game was won with honour... Sven-Göran Eriksson was the trainer of Benfica several years and he knows Portugese fooball well I think (and hope) that the English team will improve with every game they play. The first game they played was one of the few good defensive games we seen in this tournament and it was so close to succeed - not a beaty for the eye though... The game against Switzerland was the weakest one so far (for the English team) - nervous with an open defense and a fairly poor midfield, still England won. Yesterdays game was an improvement, but several players have quite a bit moore to give. One thing that made me believe in further advancement for the English team was the fact that they did not back up in the second half - in the same way as Croatia (before them the Netherlands, Italy...) did. That was quite reassuring. Will the great play come in the next game (next games)? Tonight is our nervous night - will it be Danish dynamite or will it be Swedish "coolness" ?

I really enjoyed the Portugese attitude last night, but I had very little understanding for the Spanish one. If they were a team that couldn't master the offensive play and had less skills than the other team I would understand the tactic, but a team with such great potential should not play a defensive game. It has been pretty obvious in this tournament that defensive tactics rarely pays off... If they do I think the game will end well, but I'm not convinced that Sven-Göran Eriksson thinks the same way. He has seen an aggressive, offensive Croation play which often involves man-to-man situations with a lot of pressure on the ball holder. It's a tactic that does not fit his way of playing so it will be a very nervous game. A strong English offensive with a lot of pressure on the Croation mid and defense section would surprise them and maybe give England the early goal(s) they need. A defensive play would give the Croatian team the intiative and they would not give it back to England... In 1994 Sweden went into the semifinal and tried to play a clever defensive game against Brazil. It was a disaster - we never got over the midfield - and Brazil won easy. Sweden learned their lesson and went out and played a great offensive game against Bulgaria in the match of 3rd prize. Within the first half an hour Sweden made three goals and the Bulgarians had no clue on what to do. They had counted on the "good old defensive" game. The offensive was a winning ticket that time - I don't see any reason why it shouldn't be the same this time. So I hope that both England tonight and Sweden tomorrow goes out and chock their opponents with a game which I think they both are able to play - Offensive!

I couldn't agree more. What did the coach think when he changed a good functional 4-3-3 to a conservative defense 4-4-2. I wonder if Coach Advocaat will last if the Netherlands does not quilify for the second round? (By the way Marco - is that coach Advocaat that receive the tomato treatment after the game?) I agree that this looks strange - but (as you pointed out) when Robben received the ball on the side was, according to the rules, van Nistleroy not part of the active game and therefore he was not offside. He was obviously not "formally" active until he started to participate in the game again by moving towards the goal. I feel sorry for the Netherlands but at the same time I'm a bit satisfied that extreme defensive does not pay off! I must also admire Czech Republic - they never gave up and performed an impressive game which did pay off. I agree with the previous writers - this was the best game so far!

In the late 60's and the first half of the 70's we experienced a wave of "progressive music" in Sweden. It started as a protest against all the American and English music that dominated the music market. This music movement had several different ingridients - some bands experimented with the music, some bands focused on the "happening" - the experience of being there together with the audience, some bands electrified (or just did some new arrangements) Swedish Folk Music and a fourth part (which would become the more dominant one) were bands that focused on poltical messages. Of course - some bands tried to do most or all of these things at the same time... The probably unique part of the movement was it's very clear anti-commercialism and the fact that it was so dominating. ABBA (and groups like that) was the enemy! They were surprised about all the demonstrations and hostility they experienced in Sweden. When they won the European Song Contest many people boycotted or protested against it. The year after, when Sweden was the host of this event, many "Alternative Festivals" (free of course) was put up all over Sweden. The established commercial music industry had hundred of policemen guarding the European Song Contest in Stockholm. It looked more like a "World Bank" meeting... (which is not to far fetched). The protests against the European Song Contest was so strong that Sweden did not participate the year after... This political bands dominated the Swedish music life from 1970 up to 1977/1978. I have a stack of records from bands like Gudibrallan (God in the pants), Nationalteatern (the National Theatre), Grisen skriker (the Pig shouts), Gunder Hägg/Blå Tåget (Gunder Hägg/Blue Train), Skäggmanslaget (the Bearded Man's Team), Archimedes badkar (Archimedes bathtub), Risken Finns (the risk exists)... In 1978 several of these bands/groups put up a play - the "Tent Project" (Tältprojektet) which was an attempt to describe the history and development of the Swedish Working Class. Many established actors participated in this project which toured all over Sweden. Then suddenly everything died and the commercial music industry more or less took over. My question is - was there anything like this in any other European country?

A few observations so far; More young players seem to be fearless (showing no respect what so ever). They show an incredible focus and add to their teams strength a lot - while we see other established players fall back - due to nerves? or the fact that they are to established (not hungry enough)? I still believe that a healthy mix of young hungry players and older established dominant players is the best mix... With other words you probably wouldn't do to well with a team with just young hungry players... Ball possession means very little today. It use to be equaled with victory - not so anymore. We often see a lot of good defence and the other team pushing and pushing trying to score just to see a very swift counter attack which makes the team with less ball possession victorious... Rough ugly play and intimidation is more or less part of every national teams strategy today. It's sometimes amazing that the players can stand up after being victims of the more serious attempts to play "rough" I sure hope that we will advance and it would be great to meet England in the final. This would be one of the few times I wouldn't cheer for your team... The games next week will be extremely exciting - just the way it should be. I'm looking forward to it. As I said before - football is "popular culture" and probably the greatest entertainment invented!!!

Another nervous game. Sweden was extremely lucky to get one point against Italy. Italy came to play football this time (compared with the uninterest they showed against Denmark) and they do have a lot of great players. It was far to obvious that we have a big problem with our defence, especially on the right side (since our ordinary right defense player is injured we played with two midfielder on the right side; Mikael Nilsson - he always plays in the offensive midfield and another offensive midfielder Christian Wilhelmsson). Italy obviously knew about their inexperience in this role so they attacked on that side over and over again. These problems together with a team that backed up far to much and lacked the aggressitivity that's necessary we were in deep .... It was our goalkeeper that saved us in the first half!!! The second half started a bit the same way but then Italy did the ordinary mistake - they backed home playing on the result. I can't understand that a team that has such a good grip on the game allows the other team to get back into the game. As I said before - you can not make that mistake against players like Zlatan, Henrik Larsson and Freddie. Sweden moved the team up and the coaches put more offensive players in. Kim Källström finally came in (most people don't understand why both our coaches let Anders Svensson continue to play when it's so obvious that he is not in shape...) and soon after Mattias Jonsson. Both these players have great offensive abilities. The Italian goalkeeper is excellent and it took a typical unorthodox Zlatan kick to score. That player must be a nightmare to meet since you never what he will do next... Once again a young hungry player (like Rooney and Panucci) without any fear scores. It seems like we witness a lot of tomorrows dominants in the mastership (or should I say todays since they obviously already dominate). Now we have to get prepared for the most important game - if we tie or win against Denmark we will qualify for further games. These are two teames that know each other very well. I think Denmark has an advantage since they play more like a team and they have a fairly good defense. They have also showed that they can play aggressively - man to man - which will confuse and frustrate the Swedish players. On the other hand - we have one of the best offensive lines right now so it will definitely be an interesting game...

I think that David Beckham was quite poor in his performance against Switzerland. Several of the more dangerous attempts against the English goal started on his side of the field and I think that maybe he should have been replaced in the second half... Is it possible to critisize his performance?

When I was watching the game between England and Switzerland yesterday I saw the recemblance of the Sweden-Bulgaria game a few days before. England played nervous and the defence left lots of chanses to the Swiss that they fortunately didn't use in a more effectice way. I don't think this kind of play will be efficient against Croatia. I hope that the defence will recover, that the midfield will be better connected and more aggressive so they can feed the English forwards with the kind of game they deserve. I was impressed by young Wayne Rooney, but I was also impressed by Darius Vassell - how come he wasn't in from the beginning. He seems to have the ability to induce energy... You probably realize that you are playing quite "Swedish" now... I don't know if that's a good thing or bad...

In Sweden it has become such a great concern to see to it that all children of 5th grade and up can swim that the government has financed extra lessons (at PE time) for all that can't. The goal is that all 5th graders should be able to at least swim 200 meters. I'm not a PE teacher but I think that this question is essential since, as you point out, it's a survival skill. So I'm pleased with the governments action!

Who will win the 2004 tournament? I think that one of the "bigger nations" will be successful as usual; Spain, Italy, England, Germany and France, but I hope that one of the smaller nations (like for example Sweden...) will surprise me... Spain plays well at times, but they seem to have a hard time finishing what they started - nerves? They barely beat Russia and tied with Greece. They look like a better team than Portrugal but I don't know if they will be able to defeat them... Italy seems to be "lucky" in several championchips, still they are nearly always among the top teams when the tournament is over. Italy's performance against Denmark was not very good, but they have a very efficient defence which we will face tomorrow. Our forwards will have a much harder time than they did against Bulgaria... Another concern of mine is the ability of Italian players to play the "dying duck" in the penalty zone... I would not get very surprised if we got at least one penalty kick against us for one of those performances. So in the end I'm quite sure that Italy will be among one of the top four... If England stays calm and play as a team I'm sure we will find them among the top once. I would like to see some of those forwards step up and do what they are supposed to do - score. It will be very interesting to follow this afternoons game. Germany is usually a very efficient team in tournaments. I'm not sure about this years team but they have a tradition of doing well and that means a lot in this kind of competition. France has the best individual players but I'm not convinced about the team. If a team play as disciplined as the English - more than 90 minutes I'm sure France will get problems. So a strong defence, lots of patience (and physical strength) and France will not be the Champions. One team that I think deserved a better result was Russia. Several injured players and other problems... still they manage to play very well. I was especially impressed with how fast they turned the play around - very quickly from defence up to the top forwards. To bad that the offensive was so weak - amazing that they didn't score on all those great plays they got from the defence and lower midfield. Well it's another day in "football land" - the seat is booked for this afternoon. I keep my fingers crossed for the English team and I'm looking forward to another evening full of "popular culture" and probably the greatest entertainment invented - football! (no time for upper class hockey - golf...)

Göran Persson is guite involved in the effort of our national team. He plead to Henrik Larsson to please reconsider his decission to not play in the national team - and obviously this had some result (together with all the other Swedes - famous and not famous that also begged Henrik Larsson to reconsider). It's to bad that Göran Persson can't show these qualities in politics... Is this ever true! For me personally it has never been any other team - I was "born" into the one I support. The latest time we won the Swedish Championship was in 1954 (notice that I didn't say the last...). We have gone up - and down - and up - and down..., and still a few thousand supporters has always been there. You don't change team just because of the results - you stick to your team no matter what!!! As I wrote before, my team has also taken me to very many places in Sweden which I never would have seen otherwise (it added to my geographical knowledge -I know where hundreds of different football fields in our country are located). Computer technology has meant an improvement for the supporters. Before and after the game it's possible to post our impressions and chat with other supporters about the game on our teams homesite. We still meet (of course) at local restaurants and discuss one of the true uniting important things of life. The chat board makes it possible to continue this discussion and to read about games we missed. A few years ago I was in Texas during two weeks at the same time as my team played to qualify for the highest league - I could follow the game over the net and later chat with fellow supporters at 4 am... (and we made it - just to fall out the year after). In Sweden we have a saying that set-backs creates a good personality - Our supporters and our team must have the best personality in Sweden... During this years first ten games we manage to lose points in three at over time (after the ordinary 90 minutes). When England lost against France at over time one of our supporters wrote on the chat board "I didn't know that GAIS played France..."

This is a very common comment. For the many years I spent on different (sometimes very remote) places in Sweden and the many experiences I had on our homefield it has been more than just a game for me. My team GAIS (of Gothenburg) has since I was a very young boy taken up an important part of my life. My father was a supporter as well as my grandfather and my children often goes along with me to the games. Some of my earliest childhood memories is deeply connected with the green field, cheering people and the team... After every season a feeling of emptiness and after a relatively short period longing to the next season would (and will) occur - so it's definitely more than just a game. When the big mastership comes - European Mastership as well as World Cup I truly enjoy all the fantastic games I get to see and I know transfer a bit of the feelings I have for my own team to the national one. With keen interest, hopes as well as frustration I follow the Swedish team through every tournament. In 1974 I worked on Iceland and they turned the National TV off (Iceland had this interesting idea of not sending any TV on Thursdays and turn it off over summer...) at the end of June which was quite upsetting since Sweden just had qualified for the second round... I had to rely on the Radio which was in Icelandic - a language that I only partly understood (and they did not broadcast the games - they only briefly mentioned the results...). That was also a frustrating experience... I have always truly enjoyd the games but I can still see and appreciate when other teams do well. For me these tournaments is one highlight of the year - not just a game...

After the 5-0 win Sweden looks upon the European Mastership with new interest, but many of the comments have been cautious (except from some of the Newspapers...). I think that most of us realize that Sweden was fairly close of loosing the game when Henrik Larsson scored the 2-0 goal. Bulgaria played a smart game, but they forgot their defensive positions in the second half - and you can't do that against players like Zlatan, Henrik Larsson and Freddie... But as I said until the second goal Bulgaria had quite a firm grip of the game... I hope that the Swedish mistakes in the first part of the game was just some premier nerves... and that they will feel more confident now. It would be sweet to defeat Italy... I also find the French victory over England a bit lucky... I thought the English team played a very typical efficient Sven-Göran Eriksson Game - up to the misfortunes of the extra time. It's not a lot of fun to watch, but it is very efficient. I was also impressed by the team effort of England and it was quite upsetting to see the end... As for the continuation of the European Mastership I can sense two hard games for Sweden - but if we manage to qualify for the second round I know from previous experience that the team can get quite good... (We still remember the nice days of the World Championship of 1994 not so bad for a country with a population less than 9 million people...)

Sixten Rogeby (Olsson) Sixten Rogeby (Olsson) was born in Vollsjö, southern Sweden in 1910. He grew up in Värmland (a province in the middle of Sweden). When the Spanish Civil War broke out he worked as a sailor. He went to Spain at New Year 1936/1937. After the battles of Jarama, Guadalajara and Brunete, where Sixten was wounded, he was sent to Sweden on leave. After some time he returned to Spain - as a journalist. He wrote many articles and several books about his experiences during the Civil War. In 1938 he left Spain with the International Brigades; Gösta ”the Cuckoo” Andersson writes a few lines about Sixten Rogeby in his manuscript: “Often he has a very thoughtful expression on his face, his words come slowly and quietly – well thought through.” Sixten was also given a nickname during his journey down to Spain . He was called “the Philosopher”. It could be because of his way of speaking, but also because of what he actually said, like, for example: “More than two thousand years ago the Slaves, led by Spartacus, fought for their freedom down on the Mediterranean . They almost beat the Romans. And they were also international. All different races were represented there.” On the other hand, his friends most definitely didn’t call him “the Philosopher” because they saw him as an impractical dreamer. He would speak of cannon as well – practically and with great knowledge. A few years earlier he had been stationed with the Swedish Navy, where he had worked as a weapon smith and completed Corporal’s School. In the Spanish People’s Army he quickly advanced to Lieutenant. He also proved, soon afterwards, that he was truly a master of words. The same year as the Interbrigades were disbanded his first book was published by the Publishers of Laborer’s Culture. It is called “Memories from the Spanish Front”, a series of intensively captured moments from Jarama, Guadalajara, Brunete… His next book, the novel “This Is Just the Beginning”, came in 1946. It was quite unusual for its time – a socialistic, optimistic look at the future, right in the middle of the very pessimistic Forties. Besides all this, Sixten Rogeby has also worked quite a bit as a journalist. Sixten was born in Vollsjö in 1910, in the province of Malmöhus, where his father worked as a carpenter – as long as there were any jobs available. But Sixten wasn’t more than a few years old when his family moved to Karlstad. So he came to grow up in Värmland. “From when I was nine until I was fifteen, I lived with a farmer’s family in the north-west of Värmland. I had a very good relationship to my foster-mother, a warm, pious woman. She gave me everything a kid needs. But then her husband died and she moved to Gräsmark, in Hedås. That was 1925, the same year I was confirmed in the Church. Once you had been confirmed, you were expected to take care of yourself. That’s the way it was. But I got to stay anyway, live with her over winter. I started working as a band holder in a timber crew for two fifty a day. The work was thirty to forty kilometers from home. There were two of us band holder boys. The other one was named Bror. Every Sunday, we’d travel up to the desolate grounds in the area around Bogen, to work. We’d live with a shopkeeper. As part of the deal, we’d get a cup of coffee and some hard biscuits. For this we would pay seventy five öre per night. So we’d have about two crowns a day left over. And we had to buy our own food. Then, once you started smoking, most of those two crowns was all used up. One package of Tigerbrand would last for fourteen days, but cost eighty öre. It was expensive. One day when I was helping to mark the timber, trying to hold some branches out of the way, I chopped myself in the foot. I found out later, that this was a lucky thing. I was shipped to the sick house in Sunne. There they sewed up the wound, and I came into full benefit of the insurance. It was no less than three fifty a day, if I remember correctly. So I managed to save as much as sixty bucks by the time I left the work. I bought a pair of shoes for fifteen and a Cheviot suit for forty five. So I came out even. Then I traveled from there to Gävle, where my father was working as a supervisor within the prison. I tried to find some sort of income. But there wasn’t a chance of finding anything. Since I didn’t know anything. I only had one option left. I had read in books that it was possible to just step aboard a ship and ask for a job. Which I did – until I noticed that I had got company. Some guys were following me everywhere. Finally they grabbed me in some small sideways alley. They said: - Oh, it’s you, you little bastard, trying to sign up behind our backs. I had no idea what they were talking about. And I told them that. - But I follow the rules, I said. - Well, then you have to go via the Union, and sign up at the labor exchange, they said. So I went to the labor exchange to sign up. But there was a guy in the door. He said: - Are you in the Union ? - No, I said. - Well, you’ve got to be in the Union before you can get any job, before we’ll sign you up. - So where’s the Union, I asked. He gave me the address. I walked over and said I wanted to join the Sailor’s Union . - Alright, they said. What ship are you on? - I’m not on any ship, I said, because to be able to get a job on a ship, I have to be part of the Union . - Well, we’re not taking on any new members, they said, not others than those already on ships. So: I wasn’t allowed onto the ships until I was in the Union , and I couldn’t get into the Union until I was listed on a ship. That’s when I understood that everything was wrong. Who’s fault? That was something I’d have to sort out. Socialists, syndicalists, communists and all the other “ists” were a bunch of hooligans, my foster-father had taught me. He was a right-wing farmer, who gladly would tell how he had worked as a strike-breaker during the big strike of 1905, somewhere in the area around Sundsvall . I thought: - Well. I guess I’ll have to enlist behind their backs then. Late in the afternoon I approached a little ship, loading Falu Red Paint, at the end of the dock. I asked if they needed a man. The skipper came. He asked me: - What papers do you have? - I have my grades from Elementary School. - We need a doctor’s certificate. Get it, said the skipper, and meet me at seven tonight outside the Seamen’s House. I managed to get the certificate in all haste, along with my guardian’s permission, as that was also required. So I went to meet the skipper, and enlisted on Klara, from Hille, a three-rigged schooner. My monthly rent was twenty one crowns. I sailed on that ship all summer, and was terribly sea-sick most of the time. Then, for some reason, I had decided to join the Navy Youth. My father said no. But I managed to get in anyway, and was there from 1926 to 1929. During the summer of 1928 I had suppuration in my one ear. It was operated at the hospital of Mölndal , in Göteborg. Then I got suppuration in my other ear. They operated that as well, but when they tied up the blood vessels, a piece of silken string came down into my throat, which caused a third suppuration. My throat was operated on. It went well. But the piece of string continued into one of my lungs and caused pleurisy, which also had to be operated. Then I had been lying down for such a long time that I got Bright’s disease. So I had to stay in bed to get well from that, too. The whole was pretty silly. But I was in the hospital for nine whole months and missed the Chapman trip, which I sorely regretted. When I came back to the corps, they said I was to be rejected, since they had got the idea that I couldn’t hear anything. But I heard perfectly. And I wanted to stay. I already knew of the hardships of the labor-market. To go out, trying to find a job again… I knew how hard it’d be. I could count on a bit of money from my insurance, but the amount was insignificant, according to what I’d heard. Besides that, I enjoyed the corps. I had finished my Rookie year, as well as my second. All I had left was my third year, the nicest time, as a Senior. So they decided that I could stay, to be Supply Man. Not much future in that, for one who had an interest in working with the big cannon. But I had to take it until something better came along. As soon as I was feeling tip-top again, I requested a transfer to the Artillery, to become a “wood-cutter”. That’s what they were called, since the Artillery emblem showed two crossed cannons, which looked like a saw-horse in profile. I was transferred. Everything seemed to be going fine. I managed to catch up on my studies. But when we were going to be “man-drafted”, they established that my sight was bad, only 0.8 on both eyes. So I was rejected again, and had to become a craftsman. So I chose weapon smith, so as to still be around the big pieces. During spring 1929 I came to Skeppsholmen in Stockholm and was “man-drafted”. This meant that you would pass over from the Navy Youth to the Navy. You were a man – not a boy anymore. I stayed there for two years, completing Corporal’s School. It was a good time. At the same time, I had become more interested in politics. But in 1931 I got appendicitis, and had to be written in to the hospital again, to be operated on. Meanwhile, they discovered that I had a bunch of flyers in my locker in Skeppsholmen. Communist flyers. It was a big scandal. I was called upon to leave the military service – FORCED OUT. Otherwise, I would have been there for nine years, and I was happy there. But I wasn’t keeping my political ideals a secret. It was a time of many violent oppositions. Just when I left Skeppsholmen, the incidents in Ådalen occurred, which also led to clashes in the city. And I took part in them whole-heartedly. I had a construction job for some weeks. Then I became a sailor again, and was on the sea until 1936, mostly with Göteborg ships, Lloyd ships. I made one trip with Kungsholm (a passenger ship between Sweden and the US) as well – and a few ships from Helsingborg . When the Spain-thing got started I went ashore. We had our Sailor’s Club in Göteborg. It meant a lot. From there we started pressuring them to let us go to Spain , and help out. It was very unsatisfactory, just watching while all this was going on. The least you could do was try to help. Eventually we got our chance.” Sixten has written about his train trip to the Spanish border. You find the text on the first page of his book: “Most of the Scandinavians are sleeping, worn out from the long journey. “The Lever” (Slejsen) is telling us monotonously about a ship-wreck during one of his countless sails around the world, and “Frasse” Dahlström is listening, half asleep. His pleasant, reddened face is shining a little in the gloom, right above the indistinct outline of ”the Levers” giant hands. “The Cuckoo” laughs a little in his sleep, while Christer’s finely chiseled face carries a strange pained expression. Kastrup, the Dane, walks back and forth in the corridor, thoughtfully. I like him the best, for his calm, reassuring smile, for his unspoken, shining enthusiasm, steady on the ground, but with enough strength to charge you with crackling activeness whenever he wishes. Perpignan , the end-station. Just a few hours until we’re on Spanish territory. Someone already thinks he can hear the low rumbling of the cannon, but the harsh taunting of Hasse quickly dismisses all such fantasies.” “So there we came”, says Sixten Rogeby. “We probably expected to get into the Navy in one way or another, since that’s what we knew best. But we soon realized that it would be impossible to have a bunch of different nationalities together under those circumstances. So it was off to the infantry. And my God, we had no conditions whatsoever. We engaged in whatever we could help with. But it felt a little strange, starting out with infantry drills when you’d… well, when you’d been five years with the Navy already… In the Navy we’d deal with easily accessible guns, with huge fire-power, mounted on the ship decks. You would fetch the missiles from the stores. And they were easy to transport to the guns. Here we had to run around in a bunch of damn terrain, pulling a ridiculous little wagon behind you. On it stood a machine-gun that was, to say the least, erratic. But afterwards we were said to have done well at Jarama. I wondered how come the war was so unorganized. You would have the portrayals from the books about the First World War in your head, and think: We ought to dig real trenches, and take the blows there, whether it went well or not. But instead, they had us flapping around like blankets with our piece – digging at night, working and shooting at day. There was no order to the war whatsoever, you’d think. But afterwards you understand it better. There were no options. To stop the assailants there, what with all their material – planes, tanks… then you had to use a more mobile strategy. If you have insufficiencies in material, you’re bound to lose manpower instead. We were four Swedes on the machine-guns in the Edgar Andre Battalion. Besides me, there was John Fransson, Krister Reuterswärd, Helmer Hansson. To get into the heavier company, you had to have previous weapons education – preferably on machine-guns. Helmer Hansson, a lumberjack from Sveg, had been regular army for a few years in Svea Livgarde (the Svea Life Guards), and he knew the job. He knew how to dig, and be careful whilst firing, so as to not expose himself unnecessarily. He was the biggest asset in the group. I got the idea, that perhaps Swedish Infantry Education was something quite qualified, after all. I still think so, I believe. The two others also had good qualifications to be placed on the machine-guns. And me… maybe they thought a weapon smith from the Navy could handle an infantry position such as this. Reuterswärd was the Commander of our group. By the way, he was the son of the boss of TT (the biggest News Bureau in Sweden) in Stockholm, at that time. He had been to Moscow, as a secretary for Theodor Plievier. First, we would organize it so that we were three men on the gun – one to aim, one to shoot, and one to hold the ammo. But then we realized that the direct hits on those guns were just plain too many. So we should decrease the manpower on each gun, to just the absolutely essential. It was enough with two men. So Helmer lay shooting, while I held the ammo. It was kind of funny, since I had been band holder in the woods as well. The gun wasn’t working well, it was old and worn out. But Helmer figured out that if you stuck a little stick underneath the loading frame, where the ammo went in, the gun would work. When the stick had been all worn down, the gun would stop. So you’d have to stick in another little stick. So we had to make sure that we always had those little sticks around. We were eleven nationalities on twelve machine-guns in the company. By the evening on the fourth day, every group except for ours had lost one or more men, dead and wounded. The Swiss boys had the worst luck. Before they’d had time to dig more than a foot into the ground, a grenade came, and turned them into a pile of bloody flesh and torn clothes. Five young boys. That day we hadn’t been given any instructions as to where to go. So, basically, we spent the day running around in the terrain, setting up at new positions every time an officer in need of a machine-gun came along. Finally an aide de camp found us. We were sent to the position of the fallen Swiss boys. We dug almost all night long, just to regroup the next morning. We were sent to the Third Company. The guys there told us, that during the night they had chased away an entire Moroccan company with only their rifles. The Moroccans were good on horseback, but they didn’t like meeting the rifles, once off their horses. A little group of boys had advanced on a line, forcing them away. No-one even got hit. That’s where we were supposed to dig into the ground. We were deadly tired. I remember thinking: - Jesus Christ, we’re going to dig until the morning, just to be moved again! So what the hell is the purpose of working all night? But Helmer said: We’re going to dig. Remember what happened to the Swiss boys! The ground was rock hard. We dug until we fell asleep. But by then we had decent protection. We were supposed to lie quietly. It was smartly done, because next morning, we had a big attack from a Moroccan troop, and surprised them. They had no idea we were there. Many of the assailants were left, dead, on the ground in front of us that day. Then, of course, we were supposed to move. That’s the basic rules. When a machine-gun has been working all day, the enemy will know exactly where it’s situated. So they’ll send out a tank to shut it down. But we didn’t have any alternative positions. So we had to stay there, which was a bad idea. The tank came. The grenade hit the base of the little earthwork in front of the machine-gun. That threw it far up into the air. At the same time a fragment of twisted metal soar passed us, right above our heads. If the pit had been just a little less deep, it would have been an extremely effective decapitation. But the gun was destroyed – spring box was knocked off, the handles blown to bits, and the barrel knocked off at the middle… Unfortunately, most of the company’s machine-guns had faced more or less the same destiny. While we remained unharmed in our pit, we had sustained heavy losses. By the evening, the breakthrough seemed inevitable. We had to gather our people. We had to fight with the equipment we had. But we had a shortage of ammo and a shortage of grenades. We advanced, sixty men, in a desperate attempt to try to drive back the wave coming towards us; mostly Germans and Moroccans, from what we could make out. You would recognize the shape of the helmets. That’s when Krister Reuterswärd got hit in the chest. It might have been a dumdum. The entry hole was small. But the bullet passed out through his spine, which was totally blown to pieces. He died instantly. That was the first loss in our little group, and it reduced the group by 25 percent. We were relieved the next morning. We rested for a few days on the second line. There were so many new Scandinavians that we got to form our own platoon, with one Danish and one Swedish machine-gun crew. You became a veteran quickly there. Since I spoke some German, and could communicate with the Staff, I was suddenly made Platoon Commander. We returned to the first line. In March we traveled to the failing frontline at Guadalajara . But we didn’t get there until after it had been broken through. We had stopped to rest. But suddenly we had to form a line where we were. Most of the terrain was entirely open with some woods to one side, and at night they sent out a working patrol, to dig trenches. To not have to do the digging ourselves was like luxury. We had an ammo-wagon with us, but the Italians managed to hit it bulls-eye, so it rattled away all night long. We didn’t have much use for it. We had some hand grenades and, to a certain extent, some anti-tank ammo, but my group didn’t get any of that. Helmer Hansson, our greatest asset, wasn’t with us. He had been wounded in some way. And since we had practically no infantry training, we hardly knew what to do there. So all you could do was lay there, hold them off with whatever you could. Heavy fire from some big grenade launchers totally destroyed the terrain around us. But we held out for… I think it was three whole days. Then the Italians noticed that we had big holes on the flanks. They could move in and get us from behind. And we had no artillery of our own. We had two tanks hidden in the woods, but they were just there as a final reserve. Another drawback, was that we were on lower ground than the Italians.” During these March days in 1937, the Edgar Andre Battalion suffered heavy losses. The Scandinavian Company in Thälmann, that had been so badly bruised at Jarama, made it fairly well on the other hand. Sixten Rogeby writes about the sights he saw in his “Memories from the Spanish Front”. There you find a depiction of when Bruno Franzen was wounded. It took place the second day at Guadalajara: “I have just finished a fruitless begging raid to the other groups, in a last attempt to find some anti-tank ammo, when I see the first grenades hit just on the edge of the forest, and rush over. The Fascists have realized our dilemma, lined up a row of tanks on the road and shot easily straight into our pits. As through a daze, I hear Thunström’s lament: “My God, the whole machine-gun is shot to hell”, and reach him in only three giant leaps. The pit is a terrible sight. The grenade hit the machine-gun straight on, ripping off the mechanism and most of Bruno’s hands, as he was holding the handles. The second gunner, Karl Dahlström, has been turned into an indefinable mass, of which you recognize no more than his thin face and part of a hand, still holding on to what used to be the ammunition belt. Something starts moving and groaning in the pile – it’s Bruno, waking up. He pokes, confused, in what’s left of his mate, trying to wake him. With a little trouble, I manage to get him on his feet, and the two Swedish sanitarians trip towards us over tree-stumps and grenade-holes to help him. He looks terrible… the blood is running down his face and pumping out of the remains of his hands – big, strong and calloused just a few moments earlier. But he walks on his own, with almost no help at all, over to the sanitary pit, lays down calmly, and lets them bandage him as well as they can, considering the circumstances.” The blood transfusions are what saved Bruno Franzen’s life. But one of his hands had been ripped off, and the other mutilated. One of his eyes was gone and his ear-drums were blown out. After Bruno received first aid and had been sent back, his comrades retreated to a reserve position with the only remaining machine-gun in the entire platoon. Sixten Rogeby tells the story: ”I tried to get the men out of the dangerous pits that had been dug there. They would dig them under trees, to hide from the planes. But some of them didn’t want to move. Some Spanish brothers, I think their names were Caravaca – thought they had found a good pit, the empty sanity pit. The projectile from a grenade launcher exploded in the tree above the pit, sending every splinter from it straight down. One of them survived. We gathered him up in a blanket and carried him to the bandaging place of the First Company. His right arm had been torn off, one splinter had punctured a lung, one had ripped open his belly, one had made a nasty head wound, one had gone through his left thigh and two through his right foot.” Sixten talks about the Company’s Commanding Officer. A Berliner everyone called Emil. “I don’t know his real name. But he was the greatest guy, the greatest old man. Well, that’s what he was to us, seeing as he was around forty years old, grumpy most of the time. But at the front… there you need people who know their job. And he did.” In his book, Sixten has written one scene where Emil holds the main roll. It’s a festive sight, amongst all the brutalities: “For a long time we’re not left alone. The damned line of tanks up on the road starts filling the forest with shrapnel and noise, but now Emil loses his patience, runs over to our tanks and half begs, half forces one of them into action. We’re very careful of them, but now we have no choice. The sight is fantastic. Our Commanding Officer hardly looks like an officer at all, in his dirty, deformed coat, with the ridiculous hat on his head. He stands tall on the tank, shouting his orders at the driver, with shrapnel flying all around him. The first shot hits too far away. Emil goes mad with rage. - Damned saboteur, you damn hillbilly… haven’t you ever seen a cannon before? Well shoot, you blubbering idiot!!! Bulls-eye! Emil goes mad again, but for the opposite reason this time. “Ombri, beloved ombri… ona mas… bueno… bueno!” Not far enough. In an instant he changes temper again, showering the unfortunate Spaniard in the worst verbal abuse of five different languages imaginable… Another bulls-eye! Emil has lost every sense of civilized behavior, dancing a wild war-dance up on the roof, while one ball of fire after the other points out the idiocy of the Italian boldness. No less than five tanks and an ammo-wagon are turned into piles of smoldering rubble in just a few minutes. That night we cheered for Emil, in ether cognac or black wine, and never before has a Company Commander been so celebrated in such an unconventional way…" “The next day,” says Sixten, “we were attacked from behind. The Italians had broken through the break to the right of the Battalion. So all we could do was form a new line towards them. But we hadn’t dug trenches. It was an easy time getting us out of the way. We had to retreat, and we all thought that it was all over… You get those kinds of thoughts easily when there’s a break-through and you can’t see more than five hundred meters, sometimes up to a kilometer or so, of the front. You imagine there are innumerable troops in front of you, but none behind you. - We’re the only ones who exist, you think. Since they broke through at our place, it’s over. We never would have thought there was a second line behind us. The First Company was down to some seventy men, the Second and Third down to some thirty. In my section, there were two of us left. The Company Commander had been killed by a dumdum to his head. So we moved backwards, those of us who could move. I tried to gather up abandoned weapons – a light machine-gun, two rifles and three heavy hand grenades. Then I felt a blow to my hip. A bullet had gone clean through, just a few decimeters in from the widest part of my body. But it didn’t break any bones. If it had smashed my pelvis, I couldn’t have walked today. I could walk, barely. After a while I had to drop the grenades, then the rifles. It was too heavy, carrying it all. I saw a big German walking there. That’s the picture I remember the most clearly. He wasn’t carrying anything, which I thought was wrong. You should make use of everything you can. So I asked him if he couldn’t help carry something. Then he lifted his shirt, and I saw the blood pulsating from a hole in his chest. Someone else took care of the machine-gun. Some Spaniards gave me a hand, so I could limp on. Then suddenly we saw the second line. It was there, after all. Fresh recruits from the Interbrigades lay ready to fight, well equipped, and let us through. They were the ones who forced the Italians back.” Sixten was given medical assistance at a hospital. Then he was sent to the convalescent home in Benicasim, which was quite a paradise for most of the sick recruits. But sometime towards the end of April he was back in Albacete . The armory, the workshop there, had good use for a Swedish weapon smith. At the same time, though, they started picking out volunteers for an anti-tank company. The Russian anti-tank cannons had come, brand new, model of 1936. “It was an absolutely monstrous weapon”, says Sixten Rogeby. “If they’d been equipped with a telescopic sight, you could have hit bulls-eye with the 45-millimetre grenade every single time, at no less than one hundred, one hundred fifty, even two hundred metres distance. So I figured it was worth another go. We came to the southern front for a while – and then to Brunete. I was in the Thirtieth Brigade then. Yeah, Conny Andersson was there too. The cannons had three kinds of ammo – one for the tanks, one that hit wide, against the infantry, and one normal grenade-kind to be used for example, against, machine-gun nests and trucks. We were going to free the University City in Madrid , where the Fascists had broken in. But we moved too slowly, since their Artillery was placed outside the city. According to what I heard later, we lost six hours there. Franco had time to pull together reinforcements. We were assailed hard by haubitses that would tear up pits in the ground, three to four meters wide and deep. But as long as you weren’t right where the grenades hit, there wasn’t any real danger. There wasn’t much shrapnel. They were just for breakthrough. But they messed up the terrain something terrible. There weren’t many casualties, and we could pull the cannon back with us, when it proved that we were, once again, running the risk of getting closed in from the flanks, and therefore couldn’t hold the line.” After the battle of Brunete Sixten went home on leave. On leave to do some work. He had sent contributions to the Worker’s Paper in Göteborg. Now he was going to work on something bigger about his experience in Spain. He had been encouraged to write a brochure about the war, which grew into an entire book. And he was out speaking at Spain-meetings. He traveled back down to Spain again, but this time as a journalist, writing articles for the paper and visiting his comrades on the front, whenever there was any possibility to get there. After returning to Sweden in 1938 he worked a while for the newspaper Ny Dag (New Day). During the Autumn of 1939 he was called home for emergency service. He was sent from Skeppsholmen to the destroyer Hugin and was – after a break of nine years – once again a weapon smith in the Swedish Navy. “On the destroyer I met a boy whom I had got to know in the beginning of the thirties. He had taken his Higher School Certificate by correspondence. See, before I was fired from Skeppsholmen, I had begun studying at Hermods; English, German and Math. But my education was stopped when I was forced to leave the service in ’31. Then I had seen this boy at a Nazi meeting, where he was the standard bearer. Now I recognized him. He was an organized National Socialist, a secretary for The Swedish. And here we met on Hugin. This was during the days of the German-Soviet Pact. He had gone through the War Academy, and become a Second Lieutenant. Later he blabbed to the Germans about which Norwegian ships were stationed along the west coast. When the Germans were given the information they could easily board the Norwegian ships as soon as they left the harbor. He was arrested, given three years. But before that, he had the full confidence of the Swedish Defense. That’s how well they would treat Nazis. Communists on the other hand…” I heard you met Nordahl Grieg in Barcelona . “Yeah, a great huge blond guy. He looked down upon us shorter boys, who had been out getting something done… looked down upon us with some respect… No that’s all wrong. You can’t say like that. Nordahl Grieg had no respect for anyone, but he could express an appreciation and… it’s hard to explain. I was walking around in Barcelona in an old, torn uniform, and it was raining. I was soaked. So he let me borrow his woolen sweater. It came down to his waist, but down to my knees. I looked incredibly ridiculous. He spoke simply and friendly, and was on a higher spiritual level than most guys. I thought it was unfair that he was shot down over Berlin …” Sixten says that’s what happened to lots of people he met, and liked: “They died long before their time.”

Gösta Karlsson Gösta Karlsson was born in Hällefors, Västmanland, 1915. He was one of nine children in a tenants family. Already at the age of 16 he joined the Communist Youth Club in Hällefors. When the Spanish Civil War broke out Gösta Karlsson worked at the rolling-mill of Hällefors Bruks AB. In March 1937 Gösta Karlsson went to Spain. He fought at Ebro and was wounded in his face. Gösta was sent home with the others by the end of the year when the International Brigades were dismissed: ”I was completely aware of what the struggle was all about. When you came home from Spain , a lot of people would ask if you’d been there because of the adventurous aspects of it. But I believe that I’ve given a convincing answer, now thirty years afterwards, by still being politically active. You could say that the Socialist Revolution was a secondary matter in Spain . In other words: you were fighting for the survival of the Republic. But at the same time I was completely aware of the fact that Spain – because of the general atmosphere there – would probably develop into a Socialistic Democracy. You counted on the Leftist groups to stick together in the struggle, develop a program and get some Socialist reforms going. I never thought that the Communists would be able to carry out a social revolution on their own. I mean, they had a lot of influence, but it is well known that the Anarcho-Syndicalists, CNT, were a strong organisation too, as well as UGT, the Reformist National Organisation. The bourgeois democracy in Spain was so very compromised, tied up with the big landowners and Capitalism. To fight for the upholding of that system – that was probably pretty unthinkable.” Those are the words of Gösta Karlsson: He describes a program for the People’s Front, but a program including more than just the Anti-Fascist Defence. He has a scar under his left eye and a piece of shrapnel, the size of a sugar cube, in his chest of drawers. The piece of shrapnel came from a Fascist grenade launcher just south of Ebro , the 20th of September 1938 . It went in under his left eye and stopped in his right cheek. It was stuck for fifteen days before surgeons could finally reach it and remove it. Gösta Karlsson is from Västmanland, born in Hällefors in 1915, one of nine children in a tenant farmer’s family. He became an ironworker early on. He worked at the rolling-mill of Hällefors Bruks AB, an ironworks now run by Svenska Kullager (the Swedish Ball-Bearings Industry). “I joined the Communist Youth Club already in 1931. I was a member of the Committee – working as the Group Treasurer. Political organisations have always been strong in Hällefors, the farming society that grew into a market town. We had some eighty members in the Club. The Social Democrats had about two hundred members in their youth club. But we were more active than they were. Our clubroom was in a café. It was a great movement. We agitated against the behaviour of the authorities at Ådalen in 1931 and against the Berlin Olympics. Then the collection drive of the Spain Committee got rolling. We would help out, and there was probably a lot of generosity within the working class, but people didn’t have much to spare. When I started working at the works unemployment was high. The older men would work no more than one week per month. There were more jobs for us younger boys, easier jobs. We only made forty five öre an hour. But then the market went up in 1934, when the works received orders from Japan and Germany . The rearmament was getting started. We had one huge order from Japan for control-wire, as they called it, a little seven or eight millimetre wire. I have no idea what they were going to use it for, but we would say that it probably served some military function.” Didn’t you see it as a problem – you getting it better, thanks to the rearmament of the Fascist countries? “Yeah, better… We had jobs. But we were working for starvation wages. I don’t see how we managed to exist at all. You had to give up most things. Our Spain Committee was excellent. Social Democrats, Syndicalists and Communists working together. Today you see how scattered the work for Vietnam is. That wasn’t the case with Spain . The supervisor of the local Konsum store in Hällefors let them use an office where you could account for the funds collected and where you’d meet every Sunday. But I was gone by then. I had left. First I tried to go with a friend, Knut Jansson, from back home. That was in 1938. You had to think of something, so we said we were going to Paris . The Swedish Police were questioning us already up in Stockholm after we had got on the train to Trelleborg. We were travelling with a sailor, Erik Karlsson. They stopped us in Trelleborg. We had to sit in their office all day, being interrogated. It was all in connection to legal proceedings against the newspaper “Hamn och Sjö” (“Harbour and Ocean”), which was going on at the same time in Stockholm . The newspaper was accused of working as a recruiting agency. In Trelleborg they asked us what we’d be doing in Paris . - I’m going there to look around, I said. - But, they said, you don’t have enough money to get back home. All you could do was answer: - Well, I guess the consulate will have to give us a lift back then. The police had their doubts. But when the newspaper in Stockholm was acquitted they let us go. Then we boarded the ferry to Sassnitz. Then some Swedish customs officials or whatever they were shouted: - Here come the three Spain Travellers! There were Germans on the ferry. They probably understood. They could most likely understand that much Swedish. Because I heard them sitting talking about Spain later on. Besides; Trelleborg was considered to be a real Nazi centre, so they could contact the German police from there as well. But at first everything seemed to go fine. We came to Sassnitz in the evening and went through customs. Then we stood waiting for the train going south, through Hamburg and Kiel . We heard it coming at a distance. Then two men rushed out of the Customs office. They were in uniform, with swastikas on their arms. We were taken back to the office. They were going o search us. I had a Parisian address on a note in my breast pocket. I figured it was probably a good idea to dispose of it. So I rolled up the piece of paper and swallowed it as I pretended to dry my mouth. We were questioned. I figure these men were customs officials. One of them spoke Swedish. I had a little flashlight. - This, they said, is good to have at the front, isn’t it? The interrogation was short. But we were sent away. We had to get on the ferry again and wait for it to take us back to Sweden the next morning. Erik Karlsson had a real motive for his trip though. He was headed for Rouen to enlist on a boat. They couldn’t get anywhere with him. But they sent him away anyway. Before we got on board the customs official who spoke Swedish came over to me and asked: - Do you have any Communist magazines? It sounded like he really wanted to read some. But right away I thought it might be a provocation. He seemed friendly, ingratiating and nervous all at once. I thought: this is a dangerous guy, who it’s best not to get involved in that sort of reasoning with. The Germans never got any evidence that we were headed for Spain . They sent us away on pure suspicion. Fourteen days later I travelled through Göteborg and Antwerpen. Then I had a stamp in my passport that said: “DEPORTED FROM GERMANY ”. I came to Paris the 17th of March. I showed my little note with the address to the cabdriver. I couldn’t speak with him, so… He took me to a hotel in Montmartre , where they took on Spain Volunteers both day and night. Right across the street was the bureau, the meeting point before the train trip to the south of France .” Gösta Karlsson came to Albacete and Madrigueras. But soon he was sent north again – to Catalonia . The big Aragon Retreat was under way. He was sent from the training camp in Catalonia to a guard duty at Ebro . He was part of the Danish Andersen-Nexö Company. There weren’t quite as many Scandinavians there as in the Georg Branting Company. He was a private infantryman, but served for a few weeks as corporal while the regular corporal was on a course. “We were moved from Ebro to take part in an offensive up towards Huesca. But the defence was too strong. We couldn’t break through. The Scandinavians were never even put in. I had never been in any battle before the offensive at Ebro . I shot a few shots at Ebro in May, but that hardly counts. Then, on the night of the 25th of July, we rowed over the river in boats. When we reached the other side, we were fired at. I jumped out of the boat. I could stand on the bottom. I was going to shoot, but I had got water in the rifle, and had to quickly remove the bolt to dry it out. Then I shot some rounds and threw a grenade up the slope. But by then the Swedish company had already broken through. We rushed forwards. There were no Fascists left in the positions on the riverside, but they had left a lot of stuff, like ammunition girdles and leather bags. We didn’t have anything like that. I carried my ammunition in a trouser leg that had been sewn together. We had used Russian guns first, but they were later exchanged for Czech carbines. The Poles were given the Russian guns, so that each company would have uniform equipment. The offensive continued. You can’t remember everything. But I do remember the Scandinavian Death-hill at Corbera. One morning we were going to storm. We advanced towards the Fascist positions, but met heavy defence from the side. We received contra-orders. We had to retreat to our original positions. I was in charge of a light machine-gun together with a Danish guy. When we reached our positions he got a ricochet in his back. It ripped off a little piece of meat. He gave me the machine-gun and said: - Goodbye, comrade! I’m done for. I pulled up his shirt to take a look. It wasn’t that bad. The wound was bleeding a lot, but we managed to bandage it. Maybe he had gone into shock. It was a Czech machine-gun. We took care of it for a long time, the Dane and me – until he was wounded. After that I was alone among the Spaniards. They had never received any military training. At times, when there wasn’t much fighting, I would sit and train them, taking my weapon apart and putting it back together. During my time as a conscript back in Sweden you‘d got used to that kind of stuff. But I wasn’t licensed to use any machine-gun when I left home. You had to learn it all down there.” Is it difficult, the first time you’re going to be shooting at someone? “Yes, if you compare it to the conscript days. To go from shooting with a wooden plug to the real thing… it can turn out that way. But I saw it more as a job, actually. You went to Spain to help, and part of that help, when you were on the font, was to try and eliminate the enemy. Before we came to Ebro I was already used to it, having to take aim at people and shoot. What you remember… is mostly how people around you would get killed or wounded. I saw eight or nine Scandinavians killed in one single artillery-explosion. We were going to relieve the others out on the front. We marched in column, advancing through a grove, but were discovered by enemy planes, and got all hellfire over us from the artillery. That’s when they died. We were headed over a hill. In front of it was another hill, lower than the first. That’s where we were going. But we found a cave we could take cover in. There they couldn’t reach us with the artillery fire, and we waited in there until it calmed down, before we headed for the positions. If you can really call them positions. There were no trenches. We had to dig little by little. It wasn’t easy. You’d start out with a little pit, and make it bigger with time… until we had trenches with connections backwards as well. I was wounded three or four days before we were going to be pulled off the front. It took place at Sierra Caballs. I was temporarily outside of the trenches that evening, behind them. They were shooting with grenade launchers in the dark. I heard the hum – sort of like birds, when the grenades go by high above you. But if they hit anywhere close by you don’t have any time to hear anything. You just hear a sizzle and then it’s over. The grenade hit close to me. I had a burning sensation in my cheek. I had blood in my eyes and couldn’t see anything. I called for the medics. They came, but couldn’t see the wound in the dark. I took his hand – and took it to my cheek so he could feel the wound. He bandaged my entire head. The medic… a Catalan… led me some kilometres backwards to the stretcher carriers. They carried me into a first-aid tent. I was given a shot. Then they lifted me into an ambulance. I fell asleep there and woke up in a hospital. I can’t remember where it was situated. I said to a friend: - I think I’ve gone blind. But then I pulled down the bandage and noticed that I could see perfectly clearly. I had been bleeding a lot, but I hadn’t been in much pain. It got worse later on. The piece of shrapnel was stuck in my right cheek. The wound got infected. My whole face swelled up, and then I was in a lot of pain. I was in a convalescent home when they removed it fifteen days later. They were missing material there. So they took the piece out without any anaesthetic. I was in several hospitals, among them one outside of Tarragona and one in Reus . The International Commission for the evacuation of Volunteers was travelling around, to see how many of us there were at the hospitals. The Swedish lieutenant-colonel Olof Ribbing was part of the Commission. He told us there were very few Scandinavians who hadn’t been wounded at least once. The International Brigades had been run down hard. I came to Stockholm along with the great group of boys coming home from Spain . But I didn’t go straight to Hällefors. Instead I contacted the senior lecturer Nils Silfverskiöld. He was going to help me find a doctor for a plastic transplantation. It turned out to be Doctor Allan Dragnell, one of the most skilled. But I had to wait an entire year before I got a place at the Seraphim Hospital in Stockholm . I didn’t get in there for the operation until sometime in September 1939. Then I travelled home to start working.”

Gösta Hjärpe Gösta Hjärpe came from Löa a small place among the mining fields of Västmanland in the south-centre part of Sweden. He worked as a sailor when the Spanish Civil War broke out. At summer 1937 he went to Spain. Gösta Hjärpe fought at the battles of Teruel and Ebro: Gösta Hjärpe took part in the crossing over of Ebro the night of the 25th of July 1938 and spent the two following months fighting in the heavy-casualty battles in the bare, ghostlike mountains of Catalonia . He discusses the possibilities the offensive could have opened if the Supreme Commander Juan Modesto of the Ebro Army had used a different strategy with great energy. Why was it so necessary to take Gandesa? Hjärpe was twenty-four when he left for Spain . He comes from Västmanland, in the southern centre of Sweden . His hometown Löa lies among all the mining fields – Stråssa, Grängesberg, Stripa. "Dad was a farm labourer. After elementary school I was given a job at the farmers. I came to the forest with a charcoal-burner who had been a sailor. During the winter nights he would sit and tell of his adventures. Of course, you would listen, captivated. Then another guy came along too. He… well, I wouldn’t want to claim that he tricked me to Stockholm , but… yeah, I was probably very willing to go on my own, anyhow. So we went. That was in 1931. Through that guy I came in contact with the radical groups of Stockholm . He had fairly Anarchistic or Syndicalistic sympathies. I met the boys in Inter Club, the "Red Union Opposition" (the Communist Union for Sailors). There were several athletes among them. And they had sports activities on their agenda. I was never technically part of their organisation. But I was very into sports and took part in a trial game to the Spartakiad. We ran three thousand metres through the Ingenting Forest towards Huvudsta. But I only came in second. The guy who placed first got to go to Moscow . My prize was sandwiches and milk. One of the guys helped me get a job on a ketch. We would transport limestone between Gotland and the Southern Mälarstrand . Then it was AK-work (Government funded work during the depression). I got in even closer contact with the Syndicalist groups, which accelerated your views even further – that things in society were not the way they ought to be. We would hold big demonstrations. I was in one where we were around five thousand people who marched up to the Parliament, demanding work, bread and living quarters for the sailors. Because they had nothing while they walked around waiting for the next ship in Stockholm , unless they were registered here. I remember especially… There was this parliament politician, a very fat man, standing on one of the balconies of the building. They said he was from up north. I didn’t like the look on his face at all. He seemed very indifferent to us demonstrators. We kept walking down Fredsgatan. Then we were going to go over Tegelbacken to the City Hall. But we couldn’t get through – not at all. Mounted policemen had closed off the street. They sat on the horses with their long leather whips. Also, there was a long row of policemen on foot. Then they charged. I fell over a wire fence in front of a grass lawn and received burning hard blows from the batons to my back. These kinds of events gave you a bad picture of the society. I sympathised with the Syndicalists, but never joined their union. I was never part of any political organisation. I never have been. I like to think of myself as a little freer. If you can’t behave according to the rules and regulations of a party, then I don’t see any point in joining either – you just have to take the best stuff from wherever you find it. In 1934 I really went to sea – as a stoker. I came to South America , and saw all the misery there. The work on that boat, a Broströmer named Färnebo, a steam engine boat, was heavy. We had worthless charcoal. When you’d burn it you’d just get cinders and ashes. No effect whatsoever. You had to shovel and shovel. On the way home I didn’t manage further than to Pernambuco. I left the ship. After a while I got a job on a Swedish tanker, Castor from Trelleborg. In Curacao we loaded oil for Hamburg in Germany . When we got there we were all fired, the entire crew. The skipper was from Skillinge, and he only wanted other people from there, if possible. We came to Hamburg , where I stayed for some weeks. It was 1936. Hitler’s birthday was being celebrated. The Nazis were marching. We didn’t want to watch their demonstrations as we were walking down the street. So we turned our backs to them, and stood looking in through shop windows. Then the so-called authorities came and turned us around. If we didn't want to, they'd hit us with their batons. I boarded other Swedish ships and read all about Spain . In the spring of 1937 I was lying in England with the s/s Groveland from Råå. Then I received a letter from Holger Ekström that I had met in Göteborg. He wrote: - If you want to make a difference then come!” That was basically the only thing important in the letter. Later when we came to Norway – I think it was Sarpsborg – I went ashore and travelled to Göteborg. When I reached it I got in contact with the boys at the Sailor’s Club. They were going to see if it was possible for me to go. After a few days I was sent to a customs official. They told me he was going to give me an address in France . But when I came there… He didn’t have any address. He looked through his drawers without finding anything. Then he said: - When you you get to Paris , go up to Humanite. They’ll take care of it for you. I can’t remember if I was given any greetings to send along. But the trip worked out. This was in the end of the summer of 1937. I travelled with a Norwegian. We needed an official reason for the trip. So we said we were going to visit the World Fair that was going on just then in Paris . We took the train through Germany . It stopped for a few hours in Hamburg . So I figured we might as well go visit a restaurant owner who had been my landlord the previous year. He was letting rooms on the bottom floor of his house. He entertained us so well with food and drink that we missed the train completely. We didn’t reach Paris until the next evening. Just as it was getting dark. We took a cab from Gare du Nord, even though we were low on money. I don’t speak French. The Norwegian kid said he could though. I have no idea what language he was speaking. But sooner or later we wound up at the French Spain Committee. It was working receiving those who came from Spain . The Frenchmen started undressing us, to see if we were wounded. The Norwegian couldn’t explain to them, and neither could I. Once we had got dressed and come out into the night, he disappeared. I never saw him again. In the morning I took a cab to Humanite. It was an old house that the Communist newspaper owned. Somehow I managed to ask my way up to the top floor. There was a girl there who spoke German. She helped me to a hotel, where I stayed until they would contact me. Maybe you’ve heard of a bureau called Number Five or Number Seven. I came there and was examined by a doctor. Then it wasn’t many days before I was on my way south. I travelled with Frenchmen, Czechs, Poles and Germans. Except for me there were no Scandinavians in the group. Somewhere in the South of France we got off the train. We continued on busses. The trip took… maybe three days… since it was supposed to be carried out in secrecy. But the farmers in the fields obviously knew what was up. They would wave to us, and greet us with their clenched fists. We wandered, one hundred hundred and fifty men, over the Pyrenees by night. We waded for hundreds of metres down the rivers, climbed the slopes of the mountains and sneaked along the outer rims of the villages. Every time a dog barked we would have to lay down on the grass, so the group leader could find out exactly what might be happening. By eight o’clock the next morning we were in Spain , by lunchtime we were in Figueras. We stayed there for some days. Then more Swedes came. The first one was named Fritz Karlsson. He was from Stärnö in Blekinge, and had gone ashore off a boat in France . There were Danes too. And then there was Lars Berggren from Gävle. He was later captured at Teruel, but came home in 1939. I was given number 72493 in the Eleventh Brigade, which was supposed to be motorised by this time. The enlistment took place in Madrigueras near Albacete , where I met Holger Ekström again. He asked if any of us could ski. I thought the question sounded strange in the Spanish sunshine. But I could ski. And I told him. - Good, he said, because we need a group that can ski. Later on I would get to see the Aragonian winter. But then Holger’s question sounded highly unnatural. But we never used any skis. I was placed in a Company called “Divisionaria”. It came to be a guarding company for the staff of the 35th Division. Much later, when I was visiting Yugoslavia , I heard there had also been a battalion called Divisionaria. But it didn’t exist until during the Ebro days. The Commander of the 35th Division was the Pole “Walter”, who’s real name was Karal Swierczewski, a big bald man. After the Second World War he was murdered by Anti-Communist Partisans back in Poland. We got our departure orders in the autumn. First we came to Lerida , then Alcaniz. The Division moved slowly through Aragonia up towards Teruel. We were in Caspe over Christmas. There we met Lise Lindbrek and Nordahl Grieg. Lise stayed with us in an old windmill. We were completely infested with lice by then. So we warned her about it. We said that she ought to chain her mattress to the ground. Because otherwise she ran the risk of being carried away by all the lice. At the same time something very nasty occurred. A kid from Gotland had been put in the arrest. He had been into some shady business up in the city. But he broke out. The Chief Commander had had a lot of patience with him before. I can see why his patience was all used up this time. He drew his pistol and shot the kid. We were five Swedes and one or two Danes in the Company. The rest were Spaniards. There were no Germans there. We would guard the intendencia – in other words the food storage, ammo storage and kitchen. The battalions would pick up their necessities from us. Early in the autumn we heard rumours of a Typhus epidemic up north. We also had reports about the death of several Danes, but we managed fine in our company. I don’t think any other Swedes died during the epidemic either. The Republic took Teruel. Then came the Fascist counter-offensive. That’s when the 35th Division was put in. We had moved ever closer to the front. It was getting colder, and the wind was horrible up on the mountains. We dug pits for ourselves. We had no living quarters, except for at a few places. I remember staying in a barn once. One of us must have lit a cigarette. There was plenty of hay in the barn, and it all caught on fire. The whole thing burned to the ground. The farmer wanted reimbursement. Our Spaniards got away but Fritz Karlsson, the Dane Möller and I had to pay him four hundred pesetas each. Around this time I got scabies. It was damned uncomfortable, especially in the cold. I had to use ointment on my thighs to get rid of the damned stuff. The 20th of January we were going to go in as replacements for some Scandinavians on Muleton, the mountain to the north west of Teruel. That day Birger Dahlström, a boy from Värmland, was killed. I especially remember this event, as there was but one Swede left in the Company, except for me. Birger was going to show him how to lay down. While he was doing that the bullet came. I never found out where it hit him, but he died instantly. There were no real positions there. We just lay straight on the mountain – or sometimes among the rocks. There was hardly any soil, no more than some twenty or thirty centimetres. We had no possibilities of making positions in the cold. We were right up on the peak. The Fascists shot at us with howitzers, grenade launchers and rifles. I was wounded the 21st. The experts say it was the shrapnel from a howitzer grenade that hit me. It exploded up in the air and the metal rained over us. It felt a bit like someone had knocked me in the head. You were a bit confused. The pain came later on. First all you could feel was the warm stream of blood. Which woke you up. Then came the shock. I had a stinging sensation in my head, my leg and my arm. I had been wounded at three different places. Well, there were some little wounds too. Now I had to get off the mountain as fast as possible. I had to drop my rifle as I walked alone down the slope. Otherwise I couldn’t hold tightly around my arm where it was bleeding. I thought I was hurt bad, so I wanted to keep the blood from pouring out. There was supposed to be a sanatario down in the valley. I wasn’t having a hard time walking. But I couldn’t find any medic. I had to walk for several hundred metres before I found an ambulance. It was parked on a little side-road. By the ambulance there just happened to be a Swede-Norwegian named Andersen. He drove me to the village where the first-aid centre was located. Maybe it sounds irreverent to say it, but when you got there and stepped in… it was a cave, fifteen times twenty metres around… it all felt like a relief. You were wounded. You had got in from the cold. The cave was warm, cosy – and they’d given you a shot against surgical fever. The Fascists took the mountain top on the 22nd or 23rd. No one could say what might have happened if you’d still been up there. We, , the wounded, were sent to Benicasim. There were a lot of us. But once at the Mediterranean coast we saw nothing of the winter at Teruel. We were quartered into villas. The dining room, a glass veranda, was out in the sea. We would hear the water splashing under the floorboards when we ate, a pleasant sound. My wounds weren’t all that bad, even if there were a few complications before I was completely recovered. I was sent from Benicasim to a hospital in Murcia . But then we were evacuated up north, as many of us as they could possibly transfer. That was in the beginning of April. You realised that the Fascists were about to cut the area of the Republic in two. The 15th of April the split was a fact. Franco’s troops reached the Mediterranean at Vinaroz, but by then we were already up north. We were were lying a little here and there, spread out over most places where you could find a hospital. Towards the end of April we were formed into little groups and sent down to Tarragona . There a camp awaited. I built a little hut of reeds together with a Swedish legionary and youth novelist. That was our lodgings. In the camp three Finnish Canadians were executed by a firing squad for some crime. Those with alcohol problems were ordered to witness the execution. You run into these kinds of executions in all wars I suppose, especially civil wars. You should also keep in mind that no more than sixty percent of the volunteers in Spain were there for ideological reasons. The others had more or less no idea what they were getting themselves into. That’s why you would run into these sorts of situations. But I don’t think it happened very often. I mean… I would hear rumours about one thing after the other, but personally, I didn’t come in contact with it more than these two times – when the kid from Gotland was shot in Caspe and then this execution." When the Fascists had reached the sea south of Ebro the Republic was in a very precarious situation. The General Staff was reorganised and the unity between the labour organisations was made stronger due to the impending defeat. Also, on the 17th of March the French Parliament had opened the border. Big trucks with Russian air planes on their platforms rolled through the south of France , where they had to cut down alleys of trees several kilometres long so the wings of the planes could get through. But the border was closed again on the 13th of June, and the Mediterranean route from the Soviet Union was under blockade. The Fascists started an offensive towards Valencia . Everything was calm at Ebro . The People’s Army lay to the north of the river, seemingly without activity during these summer months. Gösta Hjärpe: “We called it the holiday front. The piece of land we were patrolling was straight across from Flix. We spent most of our spare time fetching wine from a maturing cellar by the river. There were specialists for that too. One of them was named Gottfrid Olsson, another one Ernst Matsson. The Fascists seemed to have some aversion to the wine fetching. They tried to hit the jugs the boys carried with their rifles. But they wouldn’t aim at the boys. This may be because the soldiers on the Fascist side were new recruits. They didn’t seem so keen on fighting. It seemed more like they were kidding with us. They would often shout through the loudspeakers, trying to get us to come over. Because they had food and girls. We had propaganda of our own as well. I know that we lay in the bushes at Ebro with old fashioned gramophone horns (His Master’s Voice) shouting. We explained how there was freedom with us, even for Franco’s recruits, to develop the right way. But I can’t remember ever getting any defectors at that place.” The Republic prepared its Ebro Offensive. Three army corps were going to be dispatched, with Modesto the Chief Commander. Several of the Republic’s elite units were part of this Ebro Army. There were the Spanish divisions “Lister” and “El Campesino” as well as the 35th and 45th International Division. The Eleventh Brigade with, among others, the Scandinavian Battalion, were a part of the 35th Division. That main force would be aimed at the city of Gandesa within the so called Ebro Arch. The attack had to be carried out, despite a total lack of artillery and air planes. They transported fishing boats up from the coast, built temporary ferries and pontoons. They ran an intensive education for the recruits. The holiday front by Ebro really was a holiday – but also a sort of false front. They would practice river crossings. Some of the men were sent to the Officer School in Cambrils, among them Gösta Hjärpe. One of the teachers there was the German author Ludwig Renn (Arnold Vieth von Golssenau). He had been en officer during the First World War, become a pacifist and socialist, endured three years in a Nazi prison camp and led the Thälmann Battalion at Madrid in 1936. On the southern side of their corridor between Catalonia and the Levant the Fascists lost 20,000 men when their offensive towards Valencia culminated the days after the 18th of July. The 23rd they seemed to be stuck. The next day the preparations at Ebro were finished – 150 kilometres behind them. “Before this”, says Gösta Hjärpe, “the Tumanov Bureau had done a god job getting information on the Fascist dispositions of troops, materials and connections. I was now part of the Georg Branting Company. The education to become a non-commissioned officer turned out to be a good investment in reserve officers, as the Company and Section Commanders seemed to die all the time.” The attack over Ebro took place along a 100 kilometre wide frontline. Neutral trades-unionists expressed their – as it is referred to – full recognition of the way in which the operation was carried out technically. They especially congratulated the engineering troops’ bridge-building in the dark. One other thing was that these wooden bridges were fragile, laying on their makeshift pontoons, and Franco’s bombers went at them non-stop during the following weeks. All the supplies were cut off. But, on the other hand, the pilots were up against a hard task. The targets were too small. A calculation was made in Barcelona : Before the Fascists could destroy one single little pontoon bridge, they would have to drop some 500 bombs. Besides; the engineering troops defied the bombers, repairing constantly. Was the Georg Branting Company the first unit to cross Ebro ? “No”, says Gösta Hjärpe. “On the night of the 25th of July, a half hour after midnight , the first of us were supposed to cross. The boys in the Lister Division did, but the 35th was delayed, especially the 42nd Battalion, the Scandinavian one. We had to march further.” Others have spoken of the delay. The Swedish Defence Staff’s War History Department claims that the attack from the Eleventh Brigade over Ebro was delayed 24 hours “for unknown reasons” in their essay “The Spanish Civil War”. “That’s also wrong”, says Hjärpe. “We were on the river bank at four in the morning.” Hjärpe is sitting with a stack of hand written notes in his lap. He reads from them, as long as they last, then goes on telling freely. I will try to summarise: “That night must have been extremely rough for most of the Scandinavians, physically as well as mentally. The summer night was warm, and the silence among the boys total. All you would hear was some metal jangling every now and then. Near Mora la Nueva we went to the right, and by then we already knew the crossing would take place to the south of Asco. When we came there we took a short break while the orders to the different groups and sections was passed silently from man to man. The rowers were in place –Herbert Blom was in charge of the team that was taking us. They were dragging the heavy lifeboats down to the sandy bank. But the Fascists still hadn’t discovered us. There was cold fog over the dirty yellow water of Ebro . We couldn’t be seen through it. But it was, at the same time, to the Fascists advantage, in case they were grouped so as to meet us with crossfire. Because we were expecting crossfire. The atmosphere was so tense that even the lice in your clothes were affected, keeping still. We climbed down to the bank, where the first boat was in the water, rowers ready. The water level was low. We had to wade out to the boats. Our group, including a light machine-gun, got into the second boat. Gösta Andersson was with the machine-gun, Gusten Forsman, Sven Winberg, three or four Spaniards and me. Gusten and Sven were both from Kramfors. The Spaniards were serving as ammunition carriers. Gusten… he was the one who had hauled out scabs from Milos in Ådalen in 1931. Gösta Andersson was from Borås. We had been given orders to spread out to the left towards Garcia. Asco was to our right. Then we were going to continue straight up towards Fatarella. The Fascists woke up. Single bullets whizzed by as the rowers rowed with all their might to reach the other side as quickly as possible. The first boat had already reached the other bank, but we had some twenty-five metres left. Gösta Andersson lay in the stem of our boat, machine-gun ready. The rest of us sat hunched over behind him, listening to the men of the first boat and their grenades. Suddenly everything got quiet. The boat hit the bottom of the river. With incredible speed we jumped down into the water and rushed madly towards an oat field – or a barley field, that we could see in the distance. Your heart was beating like a tilthammer. After five minutes we regrouped and continued over the field. Then all of a sudden I no longer had solid ground under my feet. Neither did Gösta. We had stepped through a tank grave that the Fascists had dug. But to get past, everyone had to go down through it. Everyone was swearing in Swedish and Spanish. We had to take the bayonets off our rifles, and use them to climb up the other side. Dawn was still a ways away. We could just barely make out the railway embankment we were going to cross. To the right, where the embankment was a bit higher, we heard the swearing of the men from the first boat, who were trying to get over. This was where Kalle Ernstedt was mortally wounded. He was standing on the embankment and was going to help one of his mates up. The guy reached out with his rifle. Kalle Ernstedt grabbed it to help pull him up. But the rifle’s safety wasn’t on. The guy happened to touch the trigger. The shot went off, and the bullet hit at an angle through the chest of the Company Commander. But we, the boys in my little machine-gun group, didn’t know anything about it at the time. We found out later, late in the morning. We were also told that a Finnish Lieutenant had taken temporary command of the Company. Kalle Ernstedt hadn’t been on the first boat, but in the third or fourth. We continued our advance. Our orders were to not get involved in any fighting that could be avoided. We were supposed to move around the stationed posts. To our right we could see the others climbing the hills. We had a little vale with olive trees to walk through. This was the first place we were fired at. It came from a white house. We took cover behind a stone wall and waited. More groups came. The new Company Commander was in one of them. He told us what had happened to Ernstedt. We hadn’t come more than a few kilometres from the river. The heat was unbearable – as was the thirst. We hadn’t seen a sign of the Fascist Air Force. But we heard the bombing to the left in the distance. It was all aimed at the Lister Brigades, who had come over several hours before us. So they had the fascist planes all over them. But we were still fairly well protected. We had advanced so far that we expected to meet the troops from Ribarroja and Flix on their way to Batea, Campesino’s men. But this was all on the assumption that the other battalions of the Eleventh Brigade had taken Asco and Fatareila. But we knew nothing of what was going on there. Therefore we had no way of knowing if the people in the white house were friends or foes. After an hour or two our group was ordered to try to pass the house on the left, while the others stayed behind, covering us. We crept along the ground to the end of the stone wall. Then we ran zigzag across an open field, where the bullets from the house exploded like whip-cracks on the ground, until we reached the cover of some olive trees. We kept going from tree to tree until we had passed the house. Then Gösta lay down with the machine-gun and fired at the house until it was reduced to smouldering rubble. Then the firing from then house ceased. We never found out who had been in the house. The important thing was that we weren’t being shot at. By now it was late in the afternoon on the 25th of July. We hadn’t been given any food. There was no water. All we could think about was food and water. And the lice started annoying you again. We took off our uniform coats and shirts. In the armpits of them we would crush louse after louse with our thumbnails. We called them “Tre motores”, since they usually sat in groups of three. We heard firing from grenade launchers and machine-guns to our right – and to our left. The Spaniards muttered: - We can’t sit here… So we decided to keep on going. So we advanced without any general direction. We spread out along a line with Gösta and me in the middle, and the others on the sides, ten metres apart. They carried their ammunition boxes, which weren’t as heavy after we had been shooting at the house. But you still had your grenades, untouched, jumping in your belt with every step you took. A lone man came walking through a grape field from our right. He bent over every now and then to pick grapes and place them in a cloth bag, made of a handkerchief or something like that. He had his rifle across his back, as if there were no Fascists to be found. I was thinking: He’s out of his mind! Then I recognised him. It was Kalle Bystedt, a strange man in every aspect. He yelled at us with his croaking voice: - Have you had any food? I’m on my way down to the river to see if the chow has got over here yet. Just then we noticed cavalry further away in the valley. We threw ourselves to the ground immediately, with our rifles ready. We lay that way for a long time, looking. But for some strange reason we saw no riders – just horses and mules. At last we started crawling closer. Upon which we discovered that it was no more than mules grazing peacefully. The animals had machine-gun frames of leather on their backs, but no machine guns. The frames were combined saddles. Bystedt, who always had good advice, came with the suggestion: - Let’s slaughter one of them, and we’ll have food for the entire Company. But the mules were to be viewed as prisoners, and we were supposed to treat our prisoners well. So I recommended he borrow one of the mules and ride down to the river to see if there was any food, like he had been planning on doing previously. He agreed. We helped him up, and he tried to get the animal to move with Swedish commands. It was practically impossible. She probably had to hear Spanish words to get moving. Besides, I remembered: A riding sailor is an abomination in the eyes of God. Kalle Bystedt, an old seaman and boatswain… it was bound to fail. The night closed in. We decided to go a bit further. Then one of the Spaniards found a telephone wire running along the ground. We followed it up a hill. When we had come halfway up we were fired at again. We had to run for cover. Gösta aimed the machine-gun. As I lay next to him, loading cartridges, the others shot with their rifles, round after round, at some rocks and bushes a little further up the hill. Someone got sand in his bolt and couldn’t reload. He swore long and hard, in Swedish, and it echoed upwards. Then, just as Gösta was going to start firing the machine-gun, we heard a Swedish voice the crown: - What the hell are you doing? Are you gonna shoot at your friends! It was Elis Eliasson, dubbed the Lapp, who was lying up there. We quit firing immediately, and ran up to him. He had lost his troop and found an empty Battery Staff office full of stuff – clothes, shoes, cigarettes, canned foods and photographs. And that’s how the 25th of July ended for our group – as far as I remember. There were a few smaller advances during the night. We came in contact with smaller groups. But we had no idea where the main body of our company was situated. In the morning more groups came along. We met our new Company Commander, Hans Beier, probably Austrian, a quiet and considerate man. After he had arrived we reorganised. I was put in charge of the Second Section. Also, the new Commander had brought maps and compasses. We could figure out where we were. It turned out we were standing at the top of the triangle Asco – Fatarella – Venta de Camposinos. We had to march at great haste back to the river. The Austrians had stormed Asco the previous day, but there could still be Fascists there. We were supposed to clear it up. During the march the Fascist planes came on strong. The sky was full of them. The bombs wounded two men. One of them was named Fritiof Andersson, most likely from the North of Sweden . After that day, the second day of the offensive, we were bombed constantly. Our clearing operation had no effect whatsoever. What I mean is: Some of the boys couldn’t keep their fingers in check. For example, there was one kid called the Dalecarlian. He had quite a peculiar interest in little carpets. I have no idea if they were real or not, and I never understood what he was going to use them for. They made him dig latrines as a punishment. The Fascists had been in a hurry when they left the town. We had ample evidence for that suspicion. In a bakery there were big vats with dough that was rising over the edges. All you had to do, if you wanted, was to start the dough machine, a cross situated inside the vat. You were supposed to crank the cross around to give the dough the right consistency, mix water, yeast and flour. And then you baked it. The dough hadn’t had time to go hard. In the evening we went back towards the front to patrol around the road between Fatarella and Venta de Camposinos. For several days after that our company had to act as a fire department and close the breaches where the Fascists had broken through. The lines weren’t solid. Basically, they resembled a saw blade, and some of the teeth were open. The Fascist Scouts had probably found some of the openings. Then they’d advance at those points, and our Company was called in to close off the lines. It was trying, especially as it was done at night. On the 28th to the 29th of July we were in the area to the northwest of Corbera. The offensive had been stopped. We could understand this, as we weren’t getting anywhere. Corbera had been taken earlier by Camposino’s militia. But we got stuck outside Gandesa. There was a lock there, that the Georg Branting Company was going to break open. This lock was referred to as the Hill of Death, a hill covered with machine-guns, defended mostly by Moroccans and members of the Foreign Legion. It seemed pointless to storm it. But we tried anyway. We were lying at the same altitude as the Fascists, at a two hundred metre distance, running our machine-guns like crazy at their trenches, to keep them down while our boys stormed it. But they never got more than halfway up the hill. They fell and rolled back down. Many Swedes were wounded here. So many that the Company had to be reorganised yet again. According to my data the Political Commissioner Bengt Segersson, from Göteborg, the two boys Gusten Forssman and Sven Wiberg from Kramfors, along with Gösta Nilsson from Trelleborg and Börje Eriksson from Sundsvall were all wounded on the 28th and 29th July. There were several others too, but I can’t remember their hometowns: Henry Pettersson, Axel Håkansson, Gustaf Mård, Tage Andersson, Rolf Strand, Wilhelm Andersson… It goes on. There was only one single section of the Company left. During the days at the Hill of Death, the Company Commander Hans disappeared. There were rumours of his suicide, and I could understand if he didn’t have any more strength to carry out the pointless orders. His successor was named Fritz Wogge. We also had a replenishment of the troops. There were several Danes and Norwegians, but also Icelanders and Finns, as well as a group of young Spaniards. Among the Swedes was the lively Åke Richter, the Stockholmers Pysen Söderström and Åke Mossfelt, Uppsala-Jerker, Oskarshamn-Lasse, Kurt Svärd from Göteborg and Baum, a kid from Landskrona. The Company was ready for more attacks, this time at night. The Fascists had moved their positions forwards a little by Gandesa, and we were going to reclaim some lost terrain in one sector. This was during the first half of August. When the night had fallen we grouped along a line, to advance down through the olive trees. The Fascists shot sporadically the entire time. We moved from tree to tree, getting all the closer to a stone wall below a grape field. There was a hill above us. We conferred: Were there Fascists on the top of the hill or not? We hadn’t received any fire from there. We finally agreed that the hill was unoccupied. The Company Commander, Lieutenant Wogge, ordered an advance. But in the dark it was very hard to see if everyone was moving forwards. This was often doubtful – if you’d really get the entire line on the way, seeing as everyone was walking under the same conditions. Most of the time, someone would stay behind, hiding in the bushes. That was the biggest drawback of nightly raids. You had no idea what was really going on, seeing as you couldn’t come together in bigger groups either. Just as my closest comrades started climbing the hill, I felt a great need to pass water. So I was left some twenty-five metres behind. Once I had got halfway up the hill the Fascist machine-guns started tearing through the grape bushes, making the leaves fall like snow all around me. At the same time somebody cried: - Teniente prisionero! Lieutenant captured. With a speed I never would have thought I possessed I whirled around, running in great leaps like a hare, down to the protection of the stone wall. In a minute it got quiet again. All my comrades were gone, my throat as dry as parchment. There was no water to be found. Then I heard someone whisper: - Come over here. The sound came from a tree to the right. I slowly crawled over. Behind the tree were two men. A Norwegian and a Dane. They had a cantim plora, the canteens we usually carried our water in. They gave me a sip. I accepted gladly, to their pleasure, but alas! It was raw cognac. Immediately I saw two dead men in front of me. It wasn’t just the cognac, but also the fact that they had stayed behind, defying orders. I managed to hold my temper. But in my anger I walked away through the olive trees – back to the first line. In the dark, I took the wrong way, and wound up by a well, the ground around it scattered with dead bodies. It seemed to me that they were dark of skin – probably Moroccans. The stench was unbearable. Our offensive ended that night. The defence started. It was horrible. During the advancements the Spaniards, especially the Lister Brigades, had done the most, not counting those brigades who had landed furthest to the south – Frenchmen and others. The Eleventh Brigade had stormed the fortified Fatareila and marched over terrain from the north towards Gandesa. The city was surrounded from three directions. There was only one small road open to the west. So why did we necessarily have to take the city? Why wasn’t the effort put into cutting off the westward road. Then we could have sent out forces with the possibility to break further into the Fascist’s areas. In Modesto … when we were discussing… I can’t really remember what he said, but he obviously found it necessary, out of a propaganda point of view, to take the place. Maybe it would give some international exchanges. What do I know? I’m not a strategist. But I still think… It’s my personal opinion that we could have come much further than we did. After we had lost Fritz Wogge we were given a Company Commander named Otto. We were reorganised again. I told you earlier about Elis Eliasson, the Lapp, who shot at us, and was shot at by us, after he had occupied an empty staff office. During the time of the defence he was made a pole-vaulter. That’s what we called the stretcher carriers, the sanitarians. Since they carried poles, with a canvas cloth in between, and a first aid kit. We had another stretcher carrier named Oskar Ståhl – from Norrköping. And one named Henriksson. We were put on patrol duty in Sierra Caballs outside Gandesa. The tension between Otto and us was quite intense several times, since my section was chosen a little too often – if you ask me – to do “volunteer” missions. One time we were supposed to go up to the Dutch positions after a nightly patrol of No Man’s Land. We were given a password when we left. But in the morning, when we drew closer to the Dutchmen, they didn’t have the corresponding password. They fired at us, and there was nothing for us to do but shoot back. It took a long time before we could convince them that we were part of the Government Troops. The Dutchmen had fought back an attack, and the cadavers of Franco’s soldiers were rotting out in the terrain as the sun went up. It got hotter. The smell of the dead thickened all around us. The mountains were high, the valleys small. You can’t describe the terrain. You have to see it to understand – a moonlike landscape. Sometimes the valleys would hold grape plantations, otherwise they would be completely void of vegetation. We had trenches in the mountain passes. That was also where I finally got to see one of our tanks. It stood on a little road between two mountains. I was working really hard all this time. There were problems everywhere. The boys were heavily opposed to the patrol duty. Many of them thought it to be pointless. One time they were so angry I couldn’t get them to come with me. We had to lay down some hundred metres from our positions. We lay there for hours, without moving. Maybe we didn’t see the whole picture behind the patrolling. We thought it was better to lay in the trenches and wait for whatever was coming. But the missions had to be done. That’s why it was so hard. It was also a pain when we had the possibility to just lay in the trenches. We were supposed to assign a pre-post twenty-five or thirty metres in front of the trenches. I had the orders to place one or two men there, depending on how many men were available. They were supposed to lie there, sometimes with a light machine-gun and sometimes with no more than their ordinary rifles. Then there was a string running to the trenches, attached to some old cans. You’d pull the string. The cans would rattle. That’s how you’d warn the men in the trenches. But it was almost impossible to get one of the boys to do the job, and rather than report my own men to a superior officer, I’d just go out there myself. The Fascists took Corbera. Then we had to retreat to Sierra Pandols. The positions we held there would be our last. By now we had reached September. But when we were marching towards these positions, we were fired at by artillery. We had stopped. I can’t remember why. The First Section was sitting on a slope and the Second Section, of which I was a part, was standing in an olive grove a little further behind. We saw how the artillery fire got the First Section. The Finn Uno Jakobsson was hit. He died. His brains were running down the slope. Karl Severin was also killed, and Per Hörnfelt was wounded. Nowadays he’s dead as well. I stood with my shoulder to a tree. Some shrapnel hit the tree but I remained unharmed. You’d get thoughts in your head that may seem a bit strange when looked back upon. It obviously wasn’t meant for me to be hit, since everything had proceeded fine before, I thought. It kind of gradually turned you into a fatalist. We continued out to the positions we believed to be ours. But when we came there we realised that nobody knew if we were in…the first or second line. After a little while we were ordered to advance. We thought we would be attacking. We advanced in the middle of the day, even though the Fascists were only a few hundred metres away. We had to run down a slope, down into a valley, and then up again to occupy a very small hill in between two high mountains. Actually there were three high mountains in the area, all under the control of the Fascists. We later called them Tres Piedras de Pico – The Three Stone Tops. Might be that our Spanish wasn’t all that correct. But that’s what we named them anyway. But there was no attack. We were just moving to a position that the Labour Company had made ready for us during the night. We never quite understood the situation due to the language barrier. The crazy thing – as far as I’m concerned – was to have us running down that slope in broad daylight. Because we drew fire. One guy from Småland in the south of Sweden named Larsson got a bullet through his thigh, and was left lying on the ground. Nobody could pick him up where he lay. He bled to death. This, I feel, was an utter waste. We might as well just have waited until the evening. The Spanish September nights are fairly dark. We were at that position until the 25th of September. We ran lots of propaganda. The Political Commissioner of the brigade or battalion was out to us, speaking through loud speakers. We had a lot of defectors joining us. Several Scandinavians were wounded right here. Others were killed. I know two Norwegians… Together with this boy, Björk… maybe his name was Erik Björk… I had to pick up the remains of both the Norwegians, gather them onto a blanket and carry them out of the trenches. You’d look down in the latrines and think you saw something moving among the bowels we had felt forced to throw there. We tried doing some patrolling. But it was almost impossible to leave the trenches here. The Fascists were too close. They’d observe you right away. Then came their firing assaults, and then you could never tell for sure whether they were really attacking or not. Experience had taught us that they would fire at our sandbags and trenches to hold us down as they advanced. It was nervous. We had a bad view and couldn’t always see them. So we would fire back at them, just to be safe, and maybe there was some unnecessary grenade throwing. But we also had to let them know that we were still awake. They never launched any real attacks at our positions. On the other hand… The last day we saw them coming, down in the valley, no more than a few hundred metres away. They had a flag and two stretcher carriers with them. It was approximately one section, some twenty-five or thirty men. Then Åke Mossfelt said: - But that’s our boys. Don’t you see that that’s our flag they’re carrying! But that wasn’t the case. In all the commotion nobody was thinking of how our own flag actually looked. It was red, yellow and purple, while the Fascist’s was red, yellow and red. We were a little unsure. Finally, when they had come even closer, we decided to let Uppsala-Jerker – Erik Johansson – shoot at them with the machine-gun. Which he also did. But then the mechanism filled with sand, so the gun wouldn’t work. We tried to stop them with our rifles. It didn’t work. They walked straight up to the positions of the Fourth Company, the Austrians. They were on our right side. That’s why there was no good aim at them. We had no idea if the Austrians were still in their position or not… that was beyond our knowledge. But that they were Fascists soon became clear to us. They shot at us from there, from the right. So then we were being fired at from three different directions. We had to report that we could no longer hold our position. Normally we would have turned to the Company Commander. But he couldn’t be found. It seemed as though he had disappeared some time before noon . So we reported back to the Battalion Staff Office. We requested a retreat. They declined. We were ordered to stay. If we pulled back now, there would be acts of reprisal. The fire picked up towards the evening – from our right, from straight ahead, and at an angle a little from the left, in other words from Tres Piedras. We had a real hard time protecting ourselves. We hadn’t been given any food. We were thirsty, and our ammo was running out. We still had our hand grenades, but we weren’t given that which we needed the very most, rifle ammunition. When the situation started getting critical we decided to pull back from the position, despite the orders. The exit ran backwards, at a right angle to the trench. But at the end it was so shallow that it gave no protection. So you had to get out really fast. So we decided to run out, one at a time. Then we had the slope down to our own valley. From here there was a hill, maybe seventy-five or one hundred metres high, that you had to cross to reach the second line. Not everyone made it. During the hectic retreat from our impossible position the Borås-born Gösta Andersson was killed, alongside the Stockholmer Åke Mossfelt and the Göteborger Ernst Mattsson. A young Club-member from Göteborg also fell, a red-haired, friendly chap. Several Spaniards were killed as well. Uppsala-Jerker, on the other hand, made it out ok. I managed – along with a Dane named Nielsen. Later in Denmark , during the occupation, he was called the Slayer and was captured and taken to a concentration camp in Germany . The Lasse also made it back. To be a Lasse, meant that you would run with the commands from the Commander of the company or section. In this case it was supposed to be a company, but we weren’t even a section anymore. Among the survivors was our food carrier as well, Jönsson. The strange thing was that somehow he had, on that same day, found marmalade for us. Just before we retreated from the trenches he was sitting cutting the marmalade into pieces to share with us all. We hadn’t had marmalade for weeks, but this, the last day we finally got some. We didn’t know he had been sitting cutting it up. In the valley we found the Commander of the other company, a Spaniard. He said: - You can’t stay here. You have to go on. No International recruits are allowed to stay, because the Fascists will be here any minute now. And he said: - Don’t turn to the left, because they have taken the hill and shoot anyone going through the valley you would have to use to get out that way. So Nielsen, the Lasse and I went to the right. The mountain slope was high, but we were protected during the climb, at least until we came up some fifty metres from our own positions. We did the same as earlier: We had to run over one at a time. Both the Dane and our little Lasse made it up to the trenches. I ran last. The soles of my boots were hard as iron from being worn down, and in that terrain… You slipped. I had to grab the grass on the slope with my hands to keep from falling. But I made it up. Otto, our Company Commander, was lying in the trenches. He had been there for hours. A bullet had hit him in the buttocks and gone out through his groin. He must have gone from our position – the very same road we took, that the other company’s Commander had told us to take – some time during the day, maybe even before noon . Uppsala-Jerker took the other way. I have no idea how he managed, but he made it out safe, although not until night. We carried the Commander down to the Battalion Staff Office. Then we waited, expecting to be shot by an execution squad, for retreating against orders. But the Battalion Commander, Miralles, didn’t say anything about it. We were allowed to pull back to wherever we thought it best, to the caves that were situated there. Then I walked up to this guy, Torsten Noren. He was on the observation duty in one of the caves. Furthest up stood Pysen Söderström. He had a hole through which he could see between two rocks or sandbags. I tapped him on the back. Then he collapsed. He had got a bullet straight through his neck. We knew there were snipers among the Fascists. They had their rifles in wood frames. At night they would aim them at the exact places our boys were firing from. Then they’d screw them tight in position. Then during the days they would look through binoculars at the exact places where they had seen the fire coming from. As soon as they saw any movement they would shoot. But obviously Pysen had been unaware of this. He had stood with his head right by the hole, to look through. He had probably been watching us running down the slope when we were pulling back. We were to be sent home. I was ordered back across Ebro , to the place we had started from. When you came there you expected to find someone from the Company. But no one was there except for Nielsen and the food carrier Jönsson. The others… the entire company… were dead or wounded. We, the three men of the Georg Branting Company, were moved to a place closer to Barcelona . There they created a battalion of those Scandinavians who were left, along with other nationalities. I was put in charge of the entire battalion temporarily, even though I was no more than a sergeant. They were waiting for qualified officers. But there were none to be found. All who lived were in the hospitals. Meanwhile, farewell parties were organised. I was one of the invited. Why… I never found out. I came to a casino near Barcelona , where Negrin and others from the government were, as well. I had beer for the first time in months. Then there were pastries. My stomach couldn’t take it. Everything went in one way and straight out the other. The first boat I worked on after Spain was the Swedish Lloyds Britannia. I was, with the exception of only short interludes, on the sea during the entire Second World War, but never outside the designated area.