hit by the swinging pole of a mule train — no time to lay the car up now for repairs. Fifty, 60, 70, 80 kilometers an hour — God, what a swell road! At this rate we could be in Franco’s line in half an hour’s driving! ~ “This frontline dispatch appeared in the Daily Clarion in 1937. It was one of a number of Bethune’s articles published in the working-class press. The Tribune is reprinting it now, more than two decades later, to honor Dr. Norman Bethune, a Canadian Communist, on the 25th anniversary of his death. He died in China, Nov. 13, 1939, after a cut on his finger became infected during an operation at the front. He was with the Chinese Eighth Route Army fighting Japanese fascism. Today, Bethune’s humanism and heroism and his contribtuions to medicine are more and more widely recog- nized in his own country. Sharp left turn at the top of the hill and there was the 500-bed hos- pital. No more red crosses now. Last week the fascist planes tried to bomb With the Canadian brigade at Guadalajara Spain, 1937 By DR. NORMAN BETHUNE HE HOSPITAL stood at the top : of the hill on the right as we th Crossed the bridge coming into Hh town of Guadalajara. It was Rac 11 — the clear, cold-bright day i March 12. In the Ford was Hen- 4g Sorensen, Geysa and Calubras, ay Spanish assistant. I was driving. an the back we had a refrigerator 110 pint bottles of preserved blood a | | | 0 ‘mq n Be \ Now the first public showing of a mural dedicated to Dr. {hoy thune, by Canadian working-class artist Avrom ny Sky, took place on Sunday, Nov. 22. Beginning about ha .? More than a hundred artists and laymen came to view A Q ork and the progress drawings which preceded it. Earlier, | Scture marking the 25th anniversary of Bethune’s death, packed in a wire basket. We had left Madrid at 10 and had made 54 kilometers in less than an hour, roll- ing along that fine paved Zaragosa road at well over 70 most of the time. At Alcaia de Henares we had look- ed for one of our hospitals but found they had moved overnight up to the front, leaving behind in their hurry their refrigerator. We picked it up and were taking it to them. All the roads showed the evidence of the battle ahead. We passed truck after truck loaded with young sol- diers standing in the swaying cabs with bayonets fixed, singing and shouting’ as we shot past. No more could be seen the old signs they used to paint on the side—no more CNT, UGT, FAI, CP — now just the great red five-pointed star of the people’s united army. Tanks ahead — a string of them — like great dinosaurs. You didn’t rea- lize until you tried to pass them how fast they were moving on their seeming-clumsy caterpillar wheels — 25, 30, 40, 45 miles an hour — we catch up and pass with a wave of our hand to the unseen driver. Gasoline trucks, bread wagons, donkey carts, mule trains all moving up. Yes, a drive was on. How im- portant? Who are those steel-helmet- ed troops — a shout in German — the famous Thaelmann Battalion going into action. It must be im- portant. They are the feared “shock troops” of the International Brigade. The wind was piercing cold as we crossed the plain. Blowing straight down from the snow-covered peaks of the Guadalarama range on our left, glittering so near, it made us turn up the collars of our warm brown coats and thank again below our breath the generous Syndicate of Tailors of Madrid who had pre- sented us with them the week before. The front left window of the car was broken and had been for a week — CANADIAN MURAL HONORS DOCTOR BETHUNE Stanley Ryerson, editor of Marxist Quarterly, referred to the progress drawings as revealing “the process of creation.” More than 50 persons who had come to hear the Ryerson lecture lingered to examine the mural and the progress draw- ings. The photograph shows the mural, with artist Avrom Yanovsky, perched on the ladder, applying finishing touches. it so down came the cross — too easy a mark to hit — 500 wounded helpless men, too good a chance to miss. The sure &gns of an engagement were the long rows of blood-drenched stretchers, propped up on end, lean- ing against the walls, waiting to be washed. All was bustle and hurry. “Yes, go straight up.” So up we go to the operating room. Here three tables are at work, the close air heavy with the fumes of ether. Cast- ing a glance, a nod, a salud to the chief surgeon as we cross the room to the white enamelled refrigerator standing against the wall. The row of empty blood bottles on the top tell the story — three, five, seven empties and inside, only three un- used. “Better leave them six now; must come back tomorrow.” “All right?” — the chief surgeon looks up for a second from the table. Nods his head and smiles. “Where are the tags?” “Here,” says a nurse and pulls a handful of blood-stained bottle tags from her apron. A glance at each — on the back is written the name, the battalion, the wound, the date of the recipient. “Let’s go.” Out the door, down the long corridor filled with stretcher-men, doctors, nurses and walking wounded to Dr. Jolly’s department. His fine, open, New Zea- Bethune returned to Canada in June, 1937, to raise funds for Spain. He had joined the Communist Party in 1935. In an interview given to the Daily Clarion, he said: “Fascism has intervened in Spain to destroy the country. We Cana- dians have intervened to save Spain. We must build up a people’s front in Canada because no one party, whether socialist or Communist, CCF or Liberal, can withstand fas- cism alone. The threat to this coun- try is fascism. ‘The Spanish people are fighting and dying for their country. Today it is Spain’s turn, tomorrow it may Canada’s. The world war has al- ready started. Fascism won the first two battles, one in Manchuria and One in Ethiopia.” land face breaks into a smile as he sees us. We are old friends from early days in Madrid. “Where’s the refrigerator?” “We have it in the car outside.” “Good, bring it in. We need it. There’s a rush on.” The room is packed with wounded. They sit on the floor with blood- stained bandages on head, arms and legs, waiting to be dressed. “Sorry, I must go now. Just operat- ed on an Italian captain, poor fellow. Shot through the stomach. Hope he will live. Andre wants to see you. He’s used up all his blood.” We feel fine. We feel like a suc- cessful salesman who has just placed NEXT PAGE December 4, 1964—PACIFIC TRIBUNE—Page 7