Bethune pioneered in the development of blood: transfusion units. He is
shown here with Canadian Hazen Sise and three members of the Republican
army in 1937. This photo and the one below appeared in the Daily Clarion in
1937. Later, Bethune returned to Canada to speak for the Republican cause.

a big order for goods. This is great!
Isn’t it grand to be needed, to be
wanted!

So we bring the refrigerator in
and set it down and plug it in. Inside
we put, our remaining four bottles
of blood. Here comes Andre, Jolly’s
assistant. A young French doctor just
out of medical school, his fantastic
black, short-cut beard making him
look like a young pirate. He shakes
our hand and bursts into rapid,
machine-gun French.

“Can you leave me another two
needles? I need another syringe. I
broke one last night. Can you give
me some more grouping serums?”

“Sure.” His thanks is effusive.

“I want to write my thesis for my
masters’ degree in University of
Paris on blood transfusion at tlte
front. Will you Canadians help me?”

“Sure.” More effusions, more
French. Dr. Jolly calls him from the
operating room.

“I must go now, but there’s a
wounded man upstairs from the In-
ternational Brigade and we can’t
make out what nationality he is. He
can’t speak English, French, Italian,
Spanish or German. He’s been hit by
a bomb, lost one hand. We had to
amputate the other and he’s blinded
in one eye. He needs a blood trans-
fusion. We have to operate but I’m
afraid he can’t stand the shock. Will
you give him a blood transfusion?”

“Let’s go!”
“Where’s the man you can’t make
understand?” .The pretty Spanish

nurse shakes her dark head with a
sad smile. -

“Oh, there’s lots of those.”

“He’s lost both his hands and
he’s blind.

“Oh, I know, here, come, this
ward.”

Yes, it must be him. He’s a big
fellow with a great bloody bandage
on his head. Must be six feet any-
way, close to 200 Ibs. His swollen
SS is covered with caked blood.
#alf an hour from the line. Still has
his old shirt on. It’s covered with

stiff blood. Where his hands used _
to be are two shapeless bundles of ©

bloody bandages.

“Sorensen, come here.” :

“At the name, the man turns his
head slowly and from his swollen
lips a question painfully comes. I
can’t understand, but Henning breaks
into a rapid strange speech. “Why
he’s Swedish. No wonder they can’t
understand him.”

Yes, he needs a transfusion. Two
tourniquets still in place to check
the blood flow from both torn radial
arteries. Must have lost a couple of

quarts from the look of his face and
feeble pulse. Five minutes and we’re

ready — blood heated to body tem- _

perature, grouped, syringe all steri-
lized. I look at the label — “Blood
number 695. Donor number 1106.
Group IV, collected Madrid 6th
March.” Yes, it’s O.K. No haemoly-
sis. Let’s go — needle in, syringe
working smoothly — five minutes
and it’s finished.

“Feel better?”

Translation. A twist from his
bruised lips is his reply.

Henning bends over him with the

anxious, distressed air of a father

for his only child. They talk. I clean
the syringe and pack the bag. Then
back.

“What’s the pulse?” Yes, 100 and
stronger, color better. He’ll do.

“Come,” to Sorensen. He tears
himself away with reluctance, a back-
ward glance at the door, a word, a
reply. :

“What did he say?”

Sorensen, quiet, mournful and low!
“He said, 10 days ago I was in Swe-
den. I have been in Spain three days.
This was my first engagement, and
now I am no more use to my com-
rades. I have done nothing for the
cause.”

“Done nothing!” We look at each
other with amazed eyes. ‘Done
nothing!” What modesty, what cour-
age, what a soul!

Yet that is the spirit of the Inter-
national Brigade; of 10,000 deter-
mined, unconquerable men, with no
thought of themselves, with no
thought of sacrifice, but simply and
with a pure heart ready to lay down
their lives for their friends. “Greater
love hath no man more than this.”

These are your comrades in Spain.
To them—Salud!

Bethune enjoyed life to the
fullest. But he gave his own in
China in the struggle against Jap-
anese fascism. He died on Nov. 13,
1939. Here, still in Spain, he
quenches his thirst from a wine
skein.

side

by side
J.$.Wallace

To all the good companions and sweethearts

I’ve met in struggling through my seventy years
I lift a glass. And though it brims a little

the wine will not be weaker for the tears

HAT EVERLASTING nights we shared together
Discussing the eternal Yes or No...

One of those nights was when I played hookey from my job in
Montreal in order to be with Leslie when he drove back to Toronto.
We spent the time discussing poetry and politics. Leslie would start a
verse or thought and I would respond.

Other memories go back to 1923, to the convention of the Wor-
kers Party. They go back to the years I worked under him on the
Daily Clarion and right down to... it seems less than a handful of
months ago. All during this time my respect for him as a leader and
my affection for him as a man grew.

Every trade, every profession tends.to develop its own shorthand
in speech and in writing; the socialist movement is no exception. Up
to a point this is useful; beyond that it acts as a barrier between us
and the workers we are trying to reach. We all are conscious of this.
One of the many causes of my admiration for Leslie is the way he
worked to do something about it until he became master of a style in
speaking and in writing that was simple, lucid, convincing.

Luckily I told him so in time.

I was not as lucky in another respect. A few months ago he asked
me for a copy of the Russian edition of my poems. I didn’t send him
one because I was waiting for the enlarged and improved new edition.
And I didn’t explain this . . . because I knew how heavy his corres-
pondence was and I didn’t want to add to the burden. Now it is too late.

It is sad and strange when you think how many leaders of Com-

munist Parties have died this year: Canada, the United States, France,

. Italy, the German Democratic Republic. Not so strange when you

realize how mature and far flung the movement has become. In the
Soviet Union they now have such a choice they can even replace a
good man like Khrushchoy. Here, as at the time of Lenin’s death, it
will be necessary for many. to come forward for the first time and for
others to add a little, even their all, in honor of a man who is going
to hold a high place in the ranks of Canadian heroes and statesmen.

Tribune columnist —
is book fair guest

“PTIHESE POEMS are genuine lyrics
and most refreshing to meet
nowadays. They are emotion-

ally dynamic without undue spread

of sentiment. I like the impact. Wal-
lace is writing out of his life and
no one may deny the sense of con-
viction.”

This is what the late E. J. Pratt,
professor emeritus at Toronto’s -Vic-

toria College, said about Joe Wal- ~

lace’s first book of poems, “Night
is Ended”, published in Canada.

This praise by an eminent poet
and the author of “Towards the Last
Spike” remains a singularly rare tri-
bute. The literary Establishment still
excludes Wallace from a deserved
place in Canadian anthologies. Thus
Joe Wallace has come to be known
as Canada’s “banned” poet. ~

His works find mass audiences in
books printed in Russian and English
in the Soviet Union (where many
Canadian literary and musical figures
have been given a warmth of recep-
tion they are denied at home). Yet,
with the honorable exception of some
modest publishers and the labor and
socialist press, Wallace’s poems are
still snubbed by officialdom.

December 4, 1964—PACIFIC TRIBUNE—Page 8 ©

The reason can be found in the
poems themselves, and more particu-
larly in his latest book, “A Radiant -
Sphere”, also published in the USSR.
The author himself will read from
the book at a Book Fair at the West-
bury Hotel in Toronto, Saturday,
Dec. 12, at 8 p.m. His first Canadian
publisher, Mitch Sago, will introduce
the poet.

Wallace’s poems are anathema to
the literary upper crust because they
are uncompromisingly committed to
the labor movement, civil rights,
world peace, socialism, the socialist
world and Canada. His writings are
eloquent proof that poetry, politics,
and warm regard for people do mix.

Young people who are today flock-
ing to hear folk singers — poets wi
guitars and songs in their hearts —
as they are packing lecture rooms t0
hear readings of poetry, owe it to
themselves not to miss hearing this
pioneer Canadian poet-balladeer.

More of his poems should be set
to music and taken on the coffee
house circuits by some of Canada’s
folk singers.

—Mark Frank