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　there　was　Gall；　the　Hungarian；　who　ought　to　be　shot　if　you　could　believe　half　you　heard　at　Gaylord's。　Make　it　if　you　can　believe　ten　per　cent　of　what　you　hear　at　Gaylord's；　Robert　Jordan　thought。
He　wished　that　he　had　seen　the　fighting　on　the　plateau　beyond　Guadalajara　when　they　beat　the　Italians。　But　he　had　been　down　in　Estremadura　then。　Hans　had　told　him　about　it　one　night　in　Gaylord's　two　weeks　ago　and　made　him　see　it　all。　There　was　one　moment　when　it　was　really　lost　when　the　Italians　had　broken　the　line　near　Trijueque　and　the　Twelfth　Brigade　would　have　been　cut　off　if　the　Torija…Brihuega　road　had　been　cut。　〃But　knowing　they　were　Italians；〃　Hans　had　said；　〃we　attempted　to　manoeuvre　which　would　have　been　unjustifiable　against　other　troops。　And　it　was　successful。〃
Hans　had　shown　it　all　to　him　on　his　maps　of　the　battle。　Hans　carried　them　around　with　him　in　his　map　case　all　the　time　and　still　seemed　marvelled　and　happy　at　the　miracle　of　it。　Hans　was　a　fine　soldier　and　a　good　companion。　Lister's　and　Modesto's　and　Campesino's　Spanish　troops　had　all　fought　well　in　that　battle；　Hans　had　told　him；　and　that　was　to　be　credited　to　their　leaders　and　to　the　discipline　they　enforced。　But　Lister　and　Campesino　and　Modesto　had　been　told　many　of　the　moves　they　should　make　by　their　Russian　military　advisers。　They　were　like　students　flying　a　machine　with　dual　controls　which　the　pilot　could　take　over　whenever　they　made　a　mistake。　Well；　this　year　would　show　how　much　and　how　well　they　learned。　After　a　while　there　would　not　be　dual　controls　and　then　we　would　see　how　well　they　handled　divisions　and　army　corps　alone。
They　were　Communists　and　they　were　disciplinarians。　The　discipline　that　they　would　enforce　would　make　good　troops。　Lister　was　murderous　in　discipline。　He　was　a　true　fanatic　and　he　had　the　complete　Spanish　lack　of　respect　for　life。　In　a　few　armies　since　the　Tartar's　first　invasion　of　the　West　were　men　executed　summarily　for　as　little　reason　as　they　were　under　his　command。　But　he　knew　how　to　forge　a　division　into　a　fighting　unit。　It　is　one　thing　to　hold　positions。　It　is　another　to　attack　positions　and　take　them　and　it　is　something　very　different　to　manoeuvre　an　army　in　the　field；　Robert　Jordan　thought　as　he　sat　there　at　the　table。　From　what　I　have　seen　of　him；　I　wonder　how　Lister　will　be　at　that　once　the　dual　controls　are　gone？　But　maybe　they　won't　go；　he　thought。　I　wonder　if　they　will　go？　Or　whether　they　will　strengthen？　I　wonder　what　the　Russian　stand　is　on　the　whole　business？　Gaylord's　is　the　place；　he　thought。　There　is　much　that　I　need　to　know　now　that　I　can　learn　only　at　Gaylord's。
At　one　time　he　had　thought　Gaylord's　had　been　bad　for　him。　It　was　the　opposite　of　the　puritanical；　religious　communism　of　Velazquez　63；　the　Madrid　palace　that　had　been　turned　into　the　International　Brigade　headquarters　in　the　capital。　At　Velazquez　63　it　was　like　being　a　member　of　a　religious　orderand　Gaylord's　was　a　long　way　away　from　the　feeling　you　had　at　the　headquarters　of　the　Fifth　Regiment　before　it　had　been　broken　up　into　the　brigades　of　the　new　army。
At　either　of　those　places　you　felt　that　you　were　taking　part　in　a　crusade。　That　was　the　only　word　for　it　although　it　was　a　word　that　had　been　so　worn　and　abused　that　it　no　longer　gave　its　true　meaning。　You　felt；　in　spite　of　all　bureaucracy　and　inefficiency　and　party　strife；　something　that　was　like　the　feeling　you　expected　to　have　and　did　not　have　when　you　made　your　first　communion。　It　was　a　feeling　of　consecration　to　a　duty　toward　all　of　the　oppressed　of　the　world　which　would　be　as　difficult　and　embarrassing　to　speak　about　as　religious　experience　and　yet　it　was　authentic　as　the　feeling　you　had　when　you　heard　Bach；　or　stood　in　Chartres　Cathedral　or　the　Cathedral　at　Leon　and　saw　the　light　coming　through　the　great　windows；　or　when　you　saw　Mantegna　and　Greco　and　Brueghel　in　the　Prado。　It　gave　you　a　part　in　something　that　you　could　believe　in　wholly　and　completely　and　in　which　you　felt　an　absolute　brotherhood　with　the　others　who　were　engaged　in　it。　It　was　something　that　you　had　never　known　before　but　that　you　had　experienced　now　and　you　gave　such　importance　to　it　and　the　reasons　for　it　that　your　own　death　seemed　of　complete　unimportance；　only　a　thing　to　be　avoided　because　it　would　interfere　with　the　performance　of　your　duty。　But　the　best　thing　was　that　there　was　something　you　could　do　about　this　feeling　and　this　necessity　too。　You　could　fight。
So　you　fought；　he　thought。　And　in　the　fighting　soon　there　was　no　purity　of　feeling　for　those　who　survived　the　fighting　and　were　good　at　it。　Not　after　the　first　six　months。
The　defense　of　a　position　or　of　a　city　is　a　part　of　war　in　which　you　can　feel　that　first　sort　of　feeling。　The　fighting　in　the　Sierras　had　been　that　way。　They　had　fought　there　with　the　true　comradeship　of　the　revolution。　Up　there　when　there　had　been　the　first　necessity　for　the　enforcement　of　discipline　he　had　approved　and　understood　it。　Under　the　shelling　men　had　been　cowards　and　had　run。　He　had　seen　them　shot　and　left　to　swell　beside　the　road；　nobody　bothering　to　do　more　than　strip　them　of　their　cartridges　and　their　valuables。　Taking　their　cartridges；　their　boots　and　their　leather　coats　was　right。　Taking　the　valuables　was　only　realistic。　It　only　kept　the　anarchists　from　getting　them。
It　had　seemed　just　and　right　and　necessary　that　the　men　who　ran　were　shot。　There　was　nothing　wrong　about　it。　Their　running　was　a　selfishness。　The　fascists　had　attacked　and　we　had　stopped　them　on　that　slope　in　the　gray　rocks；　the　scrub　pines　and　the　gorse　of　the　Guadarrama　hillsides。　We　had　held　along　the　road　under　the　bombing　from　the　planes　and　the　shelling　when　they　brought　their　artillery　up　and　those　who　were　left　at　the　end　of　that　day　had　counterattacked　and　driven　them　back。　Later；　when　they　had　tried　to　come　down　on　the　left；　sifting　down　between　the　rocks　and　through　the　trees；　we　had　held　out　in　the　Sanitarium　firing　from　the　windows　and　the　roof　although　they　had　passed　it　on　both　sides；　and　we　lived　through　knowing　what　it　was　to　be　surrounded　until　the　counterattack　had　cleared　them　back　behind　the　road　again。
In　all　that；　in　the　fear　that　dries　your　mouth　and　your　throat；　in　the　smashed　plaster　dust　and　the　sudden　panic　of　a　wall　falling；　collapsing　in　the　flash　and　roar　of　a　shellburst；　clearing　the　gun；　dragging　those　away　who　had　been　serving　it；　lying　face　downward　and　covered　with　rubble；　your　head　behind　the　shield　working　on　a　stoppage；　getting　the　broken　case　out；　straightening　the　belt　again；　you　now　lying　straight　behind　the　shield；　the　gun　searching　the　roadside　again；　you　did　the　thing　there　was　to　do　and　knew　that　you　were　right。　You　learned　the　dry…mouthed；　fear…purged；　purging　ecstasy　of　battle　and　you　fought　that　summer　and　that　fall　for　all　the　poor　in　the　world；　against　all　tyranny；　for　all　the　things　that　you　believed　and　for　the　new　world　you　had　been　educated　into。　You　learned　that　fall；　he　thought；　how　to　endure　and　how　to　ignore　suffering　in　the　long　time　of　cold　and　wetness；　of　mud　and　of　digging　and　fortifying。　And　the　feeling　of　the　summer　and　the　fall　was　buried　deep　under　tiredness；　sleepiness；　and　nervousness　and　discomfort。　But　it　was　still　there　and　all　that　you　went　through　only　served　to　validate　it。　It　was　in　those　days；　he　thought；　that　you　had　a　deep　and　sound　and　selfless　pridethat　would　have　made　you　a　bloody　bore　at　Gaylord's；　he　thought　suddenly。
No；　you　would　not　have　been　so　good　at　Gaylord's　then；　he　thought。　You　were　too　na飗e。　You　were　in　a　sort　of　state　of　grace。　But　Gaylord's　might　not　have　been　the　way　it　was　now　at　that　time；　either。　No；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　it　was　not　that　way；　he　told　himself。　It　was　not　that　way　at　all。　There　was　not　any　Gaylord's　then。
Karkov　had　told　him　about　those　days。　At　that　time　what　Russians　there　were　had　lived　at　the　Palace　Hotel。　Robert　Jordan　had　known　none　of　them　then。　That　was　before　the　first　_partizan_　groups　had　been　formed；　before　he　had　met　Kashkin　or　any　of　the　others。　Kashkin　had　been　in　the　north　at　Irun；　at　San　Sebastian　and　in　the　abortive　fighting　toward　Vitoria。　He　had　not　arrived　in　Madrid　until　January　and　while　Robert　Jordan　had　fought　at　Carabanchel　and　at　Usera　in　those　three　days　when　they　stopped　the　right　wing　of　the　fascist　attack　on　Madrid　and　drove　the　Moors　and　the　_Tercio_　back　from　house　to　house　to　clear　that　battered　suburb　on　the　edge　of　the　gray；　sun…baked　plateau　and　establish　a　line　of　defense　along　the　heights　that　would　protect　that　corner　of　the　city；　Karkov　had　been　in　Madrid。
Karkov　was　not　cynical　about　those　times　either　when　he　talked。　Those　were　the　days　they　all　shared　when　everything　looked　lost　and　each　man　retained　now；　better　than　any　citation　or　decoration；　the　knowledge　of　just　how　he　would　act　when　everything　looked　lost。　The　government　had　abandoned　the　city；　taking　all　the　motor　cars　from　the　ministry　of　war　in　their　flight　and　old　Miaja　had　to　ride　down　to　inspect　his　defensive　positions　on　a　bicycle。　Robert　Jordan　did　not　believe　that　one。　He　could　not　see　Miaja　on　a　bicycle　even　in　his　most　patriotic　imagination；　but　Karkov　said　it　was　true。　But　then　he　had　written　it　for　Russian　papers　so　he　probably　wanted　to　believe　it　was　true　after　writing　it。
But　there　was　another　story　that　Karkov　had　not　written。　He　had　three　wounded　Russians　in　the　Palace　Hotel　for　whom　he　was　responsible。　They　were　two　tank　drivers　and　a　flyer　who　were　too　bad　to　be　moved；　and　since；　at　that　time；　it　was　of　the　greatest　importance　that　there　should　be　no　evidence　of　any　Russian　intervention　to　justify　an　open　intervention　by　the　fascists；　it　was　Karkov's　responsibility　that　these　wounded　should　not　fall　into　the　hands　of　the　fascists　in　case　the　city　should　be　abandoned。
In　the　event　the　city　should　be　abandoned；　Karkov　was　to　poison　them　to　destroy　all　evidence　of　their　identity　before　leaving　the　Palace　Hotel。　No　one　could　prove　from　the　bodies　of　three　wounded　men；　one　with　three　bullet　wounds　in　his　abdomen；　one　with　his　jaw　shot　away　and　his　vocal　cords　exposed；　one　with　his　femur　smashed　to　bits　by　a　bullet　and　his　hands　and　face　so　badly　burned　that　his　face　was　just　an　eyelashless；　eyebrowless；　hairless　blister　that　they　were　Russians。　No　one　could　tell　from　the　bodies　of