Searching for Barton Carter: The Story of a Young American Hero

By Nancy Barton Carter Clough

In 1936, Barton Carter, a talented young man from a wealthy New England family, turned away from the future laid out for him to fight against Fascism in the Spanish Civil Warand disappeared in the midst of that fight when he was only twenty-three years old.

Carter had just been jilted by his English fiance two weeks before their wedding when a Spanish Nationalist acquaintance asked him to travel to Barcelona to retrieve some of his familys possessions. Carter jumped at the chance for an adventure and a change of scene. During his two-week Spanish sojourn, his beliefs were radically changed by exposure to the countrys civil war, driving his involvement in Communisma political movement in opposition to everything for which his family stood. He also found himself working with Spanish orphans and serving as the administrator of four orphanages, where he saved the lives of thousands of children.

This narrative biography explores the life of a young American who saw the horrific effects of Fascism on the children of Spain and responded with bravery and dedication to rescue them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491765173

Nancy Barton Carter Clough

Nancy Barton Carter Clough holds a bachelor’s degree from Colby College in Waterville, Maine; a master’s degree from Notre Dame in Manchester, New Hampshire; and a CAGS from Rivier University in Nashua, New Hampshire. She and her husband, Charlie, live in Concord, New Hampshire, and Charlestown, Rhode Island.

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SEARCHING FOR

BARTON CARTER

THE STORY OF A YOUNG

AMERICAN HERO

NANCY BARTON CARTER CLOUGH

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SEARCHING FOR BARTON CARTER

THE STORY OF A YOUNG AMERICAN HERO

Copyright © 2015 Nancy Barton Carter Clough.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5043-2568-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-2570-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-2569-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015908200

iUniverse rev. date: 8/27/2015

CONTENTS

Four Generations of the Carter Family

List of Characters

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Part 1

Chapter 1     Bart’s Early Years

Chapter 2     Some Early Role Models

Chapter 3     An Early Source of Inspiration

Chapter 4     Bart’s Williams Years and Falling in Love

Chapter 5     A New Adventure

Chapter 6     Friends in France

Chapter 7     A Father’s Love

Chapter 8     A Mother’s Love

Chapter 9     Exposure to a Different World

Chapter 10   Impressions of Barcelona

Chapter 11   The Valiant Fight for Human Rights

Chapter 12   Children’s Blood

Chapter 13   The Family’s Jewels

Chapter 14   Bart’s Revelation

Chapter 15   Brotherly Love

Chapter 16   A Visit to Hollis Ridge Farm

Chapter 17   The Carter Family Business and Military Service

Chapter 18   Bart’s Return to Spain

Chapter 19   Initial Impressions of Valencia

Chapter 20   Comrades Shed Tears for Spain

Chapter 21   Bart’s First Evacuation of Madrid’s Children

Chapter 22   Unwavering Commitment to the Cause

Chapter 23   Terror at the Jarama Front

Chapter 24   The University City Front and the Aftermath

Chapter 25   Reunion with a Friend and Dispute with a College

Chapter 26   A Forbidden Liaison

Chapter 27   The Horror of Guernica

Chapter 28   A Loyalist Rupture

Part 2

Chapter 29   The Coronation of King George VI

Chapter 30   Bart’s Renewed Commitment to Spain

Chapter 31   Save the Children!

Chapter 32   A Beam of Light Awakens Nick’s Heart

Chapter 33   A Month of Hope and a New Beginning

Chapter 34   Creative Ingenuity in the Foster Parents Plan

Chapter 35   An International Exposition and Noninterventionism

Chapter 36   John Langdon-Davies’s Visit

Chapter 37   Massacre of the Innocent

Chapter 38   Nick’s Imminent Acceptance of Communism

Chapter 39   The Attempted Expansion of the Foster Parents Plan

Chapter 40   A Stirring Speech

Chapter 41   Further Fund-Raising Attempts

Chapter 42   An Unforeseen Betrayal

Chapter 43   The Fascist Strafing of Puigcerdà

Chapter 44   Nick’s Tearful Departure

Chapter 45   Enlistment and Basic Training

Part 3

Chapter 46   Nick’s Last Communication

Chapter 47   A Firsthand Account from the Aragon Front

Chapter 48   A Father’s Worst Fear

Chapter 49   A Father’s Endless Perseverance

Chapter 50   Hope Dims

Chapter 51   A Mother’s Pledge to Her Son

Chapter 52   The Fate of the Foster Parents Plan

Chapter 53   The Barton Carter Red Cross House

Chapter 54   Winthrop Carter’s Death

Part 4

Epilogue

My Search for Barton Carter

Chapter 55   A Reoccurring Dream

Chapter 56   A Child’s Shattered Dreams

Chapter 57   My First Visit to the Barton Carter Memorial Red Cross House

Chapter 58   A Precognitive Dream

Chapter 59   A Glimpse of Heaven

Chapter 60   A Compelling Dream

Chapter 61   The Haunted Red Cross House

Chapter 62   A Visit to a Medium

Chapter 63   Death of the Old and Beginning of the New Carter Generation

Afterword

Appendix

Bibliography

To the life of Barton Carter, who saved thousands of children’s lives during the Spanish Civil War and cofounded Plan International. I am honored to be his niece and to present his story to our family and to the world.

FOUR GENERATIONS OF THE CARTER FAMILY

Watson/Barton and selected members of the Carter families are incomplete, as they are not mentioned in the biography.

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LIST OF CHARACTERS

It was in Spain that men learned that one can be right and still be beaten, that force can vanquish spirit, that there are times when courage is not its own reward. It is this, without doubt, which explains why so many men throughout the world regard the Spanish drama as a personal tragedy.

— Albert Camus

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Searching for Barton Carter has taken me seven years to research and write. Throughout this time, I have received invaluable support from many old and new friends as well as family members. First, I would like to thank Dr. Nicholas Wright, a dedicated alumnus and part-time instructor at Williams College. While attending a service at Williams College’s Thompson Memorial Chapel, Nick carefully scrutinized the listing of alumni on the World War II memorial plaque. He noticed the name Barton Carter ’37 followed by Calaceite, April 1938. Nick’s research led him to my home in Concord, New Hampshire, where together we spent hours going through my newly acquired boxes containing Barton’s memorabilia. A substantive friendship evolved that culminated in a trip to Spain.

Nick arranged for Jordi and Elena Ortiz, residents of Barcelona and descendants of Loyalist grandparents, to guide us and our spouses through the Spanish Civil War (SCW) battlefields in Aragon. The Ortiz family researched the whereabouts of Barton’s orphanages and military service prior to our arrival in Barcelona, providing the backdrop that brought Barton’s story to life. Had it not been for the passion that Jordi, Elena, and Nick sparked in me, I perhaps would have never started this book.

Soon after our trip to Spain, my husband and I attended a lecture at Dartmouth College given by Marysa Navarro, a Latin American studies professor. I learned that she was the daughter of a Leftist Republican and was forced to flee from Spain to France at the age of three with her family as the Nationalists invaded Bilbao. Her father worked for Esme Odgers as the administrator of one of the Foster Parents Plan colonies in southern France. I can never thank Marysa enough for her teachings, her literary commentary, and her fact-checking regarding my book. When I became discouraged, she would look into my eyes and say, "Nan, you will write this book." Marysa is an amazing woman, and I consider her to be a dear friend and mentor.

I also give my sincere thanks to Peter Mahony, a close family friend and neighbor. Peter read each chapter as it was written and provided valuable input that I often heeded. He traveled with Charlie and me into the Spanish battlefields and guided us through Barcelona in a thorough search for the places mentioned in Barton’s and Alan Logan’s letters.

I am grateful to Barton’s remaining friends who were in their early nineties during my interviews with them. Farnsworth Fowle, Bill Everdell, and Reverend Lawrence Whittemore attended Williams College with Barton and knew him well. Janet McKey Raymond, a cousin of Bart’s fiancée, Joan Kent, and a close family friend related her vivid memories of Bart. All of Bart’s friends were thrilled to share their thoughts and stories regarding my vibrant uncle. Together with the oral descriptions of Barton’s life that my grandmother, father, mother, stepmother, great-uncle, and his friends provided along with the written accounts (letters, diaries, books, newspapers, and testimonials), I was able to create the story of my uncle’s life.

I want to express my thanks to several of my well-read and intellectually gifted friends and family members who read my manuscript in its entirety. Christian Frantz, Lindsay Field, John Clough, Ellen Shemitz, Pat Bailey, Mary Birle, Nick Mook, Bill Engeman, and Elena Iannucillo, I will forever be grateful for your encouragement, interest, and sincere belief in my project. You were my cheerleaders!

I am grateful to my grandson Eben Field for his unwavering interest in his great-uncle Barton’s story. Eben provided several illustrations in this book.

Without the technical skills provided by Thomas Clough and his patience in teaching his technologically challenged stepmother, I probably wouldn’t have been able to complete this book. Thank you, Thomas, for your help and interest.

Since Sydney Carter’s and Kay Carter Smith’s families lived a few thousand miles away, I had almost no opportunity to spend time with my cousins. I contacted Sydney’s children, T. Barton Carter and Evelyn Carter Cowles, who I hadn’t seen since Nana’s (Ebie’s) funeral forty years before. Both are delightful human beings and have been very supportive of my project. Barton, who has inherited the Carter gene for gifted intellectual acumen, is head of the Communication and Law Department at Boston University. Evelyn, a talented artist, shared numerous letters and documents regarding our uncle Barton.

I never had the pleasure of meeting Kay’s son Winthrop Win Smith until a few years ago. Win is a sculptor who shares a deep love for the arts like Evelyn Cowles and many of our Carter ancestors. This past spring, my son, Christian, and I had lunch with Win, his wife, and their daughter Sarah Warren. Although it was the first time they had met, I was amazed at the similarities between Sarah and Christian. I now have living proof that our ancestors live on in us. My continuing relationship with my cousins has been an unexpected gift. I am indeed grateful they are now in my life. Thank you, Barton, Evelyn, and Win for your friendship and support.

It is difficult to put into words the gratitude and love I feel for the unconditional support provided by my husband, Charlie Clough, during the entirety of my eight-year project. He read and edited each revision of all the chapters, he patiently waited in many libraries in Europe and the States as I conducted research, and he followed in Barton’s footsteps throughout Spain, taking pictures and walking miles through several Spanish cities and over mountainous terrain. Regardless of his extraordinary efforts and sacrifices on my behalf, Charlie never complained. He realized how passionate I was about my book and did everything in his power to help me through the process.

INTRODUCTION

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Ebie Nana Carter and Nancy Barton Carter, age two

— Carter family collection

Of all my earliest memories growing up in Hollis, New Hampshire, one memory remains indelibly etched in my mind. Although I was only four years old, I recall with amazing lucidity the images, emotions, and dialogue of one unforgettable day in 1950.

My parents, my older sister, and I lived in a gray colonial house across the street from my paternal grandmother, Elizabeth Barton Carter. Within the next few months, she would be moving to Nantucket Island, and my immediate family would relocate to the palatial Carter estate, where my father had summered throughout his youth. It would be a big step up from our small home.

My blonde, curly-haired sister, Hiya, three years my senior, was accompanying my parents on some errands that day while I chose to spend the afternoon at my grandmother’s house. In fact, when given the choice of visiting with my grandmother or buying a toy, I immediately decided to spend the afternoon at her house, which had been named Hollis Ridge Farm by my grandparents. I loved tottering through the expansive hallways where one immense room spilled into the next. The awesome sights and sounds overwhelmed my senses as my eyes darted from side to side trying to capture the beauty surrounding me. One of my grandfather’s avocations had been attending auctions and frequenting antique shops, where he purchased priceless antiquities with which he furnished his homes. Among my favorites were the tiger maple Queen Anne highboy chests of drawers and the Chippendale desks with dark, pencil-thin waves swirling through the grain of their polished tan wood, decorated with glistening brass hardware.

The ticking of the old clocks was soothing, and when each melodiously struck the hour, I was usually able to correctly distinguish the source. Even at four, I was aware of the rarity, beauty, and provenance of almost every one. However, my personal favorite was the mahogany Aaron Willard grandfather clock with shiny brass finials that originally stood watch in my great-grandfather Charles Barton’s front hall in Framingham, Massachusetts. I loved to snuggle my small, slender body against my grandmother’s delicate frame as she read to me in her chaise longue. When that clock struck, my grandmother once explained to me, Nan, dear, the Aaron Willard clock was in my front hall in Framingham when I was a little girl. After my father died, I brought it to Hollis Ridge Farm and placed it in the living room so all my guests could see and hear it when they visited. I love hearing it strike the hour. I can hear it clearly from my bedroom, my sitting room, and the dining room. It is my favorite of all my furniture because it brings me comfort and renews fond memories.

Throughout my childhood, each time I heard that clock strike, an overpowering wave of unconditional love emanating from my cherished Nana surged through my body and made me feel safe.

On that memorable day, my father accompanied me across the street to Hollis Ridge Farm after lunch. We walked hand in hand through the back door, and the smell of freshly baked cookies quickened my pace. We heard a muffled conversation coming from the kitchen, and as we walked in, Bessie, my grandmother’s maid, offered us some warm, paper-thin ginger cookies she had recently prepared. My father politely declined, kissed me on the cheek, and quickly departed.

Before my arrival, Jack Woods, the foreman of my grandmother’s estate, and Bessie had been deeply engrossed in conversation. They continued their discussion as I sat at the kitchen table to consume my cookies and milk. Jack was discussing a fond memory he had of Barton. I recognized my middle name and immediately inquired, Who is Barton?

Bessie and Jack glanced at each other, and from the looks on their faces, I could tell that they knew they had perhaps made an error. Bessie explained that Barton was my father’s brother who had saved many children from death in Spain several years before I was born and ultimately lost his life in the Spanish Civil War. I realized that this was the handsome young man in the portrait that hung over the fireplace in my grandmother’s dining room and the man surrounded by dark-haired children in the poster-size photograph in her sitting room. I had previously inquired about his identity, and my grandmother and my father had offhandedly replied that it was one of our many relatives.

Now I knew that Barton was her son and my father’s older brother. Why hadn’t anyone told me about him?

I had previously never dared to go into my grandmother’s bedroom unless I was summoned. Every time I visited, Bessie would take care of me if my grandmother were resting. I would then listen for Nana to ring the buzzer from her bedroom to the kitchen, indicating that it was time for me to join her upstairs. Now, even though I was aware she was napping, I ran at breakneck speed, barged into her room, and demanded to know more about my uncle. At that moment, she looked so sad. With a small trace of tears in the corners of her eyes, she rhythmically patted the space beside her and elevated my small body to my designated place onto her antique canopy bed.

She held me close, and I could barely hear her voice as she related the story of her son’s life. I was spellbound. I always loved listening to my Nana’s stories, but I was somehow aware that this story held the greatest significance.

After she had finished her account, several questions came to my mind. I asked, Nana, there are lots of pictures in your house of Daddy, Aunt Kay, and Uncle Syd when they were kids. Where are the pictures of Uncle Barton when he was little?

She looked away and impassively replied, I put all Barton’s pictures and letters in boxes and placed them in the attic above the carport. She abruptly added, When I want to look at them, I can get them.

I looked up at her and asked, Where did Uncle Barton used to sleep when he was living here?

She looked directly into my large, inquisitive brown eyes and explained, Barton and Sydney used to sleep in the room where you and Hiya always sleep when you visit for the night. We used to call it the boys’ room. In fact, Grandpa bought the maple beds with the pineapple carvings for them. He couldn’t find two that were exactly alike, so he brought two similar pineapple beds. Then his woodworker friend exchanged the head- and footboards and reassembled the beds. Now they are exactly alike.

My eyes widened in surprise. You mean, Nana, that Uncle Barton used to sleep in the same bed that I sleep in?

Yes, Nan, dear, you always sleep in the bed near the door, and that is where he slept. You are particularly special to me because you remind me of Barton. When your daddy and mommy decided to name you Nancy Barton Carter, I was overjoyed. She affectionately ran her fingers through the softness of my curly brown hair and added, The Carter family lives their lives through their heads and brains, and you live your life through your heart, just like Barton did.

That evening at home, I lay in bed and listened for the arrival of my mother. There was a round, wrought-iron grate not far from my bed that had been created to allow the heat to rise from the living room fireplace into the bedroom. It also served a more covert purpose: I acquired much useful but sometimes unsettling information by listening to the adult conversations taking place below me.

I learned, for instance, that my mother vehemently disliked my grandmother. She was jealous of my father’s undivided attention toward his mother and was eager for her to move to Nantucket. Although I was looking forward to moving to the Carter estate, I really dreaded my grandmother’s relocation. My grandmother was the only adult with whom I felt safe, and her geographic proximity somehow assuaged my fears. Most of all, however, I would miss her aura of peace and contentment, which encapsulated me within a protective shell from my parents’ impending strife.

My parents’ conflicts were slowly increasing, especially when they were drinking cocktails. The more alcohol my mother consumed, the louder and more hurtful their arguments became. My mother was beautiful, humorous, and loving, but when she drank, she became mean spirited, and her goodness was no longer detectable. Sometimes on those nights, she stumbled into my room to tuck me in, and I pretended to be asleep to avoid her odious smell and strange behavior. Even though her abuse of alcohol was infrequent, I never really felt safe. I never spoke to anyone about my fear, but I always believed that I was completely safe with my grandmother. What was I going to do when she moved?

As my mother walked into my room that evening to tuck me in, she smiled affectionately, kissed me on my forehead, and sat by my bedside. Every night before I went to bed, my mother sang to me, we recited the Lord’s Prayer in unison, and I would bless everyone in the family. I began my normal litany—God bless Mommy, God bless Daddy, God bless Hiya, God bless Nana—and then I added, God bless Uncle Barton.

My mother exclaimed, Oh my goodness! How do you know about Uncle Barton?

I then told her about Nana’s and my discussion that afternoon. My mother explained that she never knew Barton, since she had met my father after his brother’s death.

She went downstairs and briefly spoke to my father. Soon he entered my bedroom, sat by my bedside, and held my hand. He softly stated, I understand that Nana told you about Uncle Barton today. Our eyes met, and I nodded.

He explained, I loved my brother Barton very much. He was always very kind to me, and it was fun spending time with him. He was a brave man and saved lots of children from certain death. I was just seventeen when he died. He fought in a war and was shot by the enemy in the mountains in Spain. His body was never found, so it is important not to talk about him to anyone. If it is known that his remains were never discovered, someone may come and pretend to be Barton and take money from our family. Besides, if you talk about him, you will make your grandmother very unhappy.

He then looked at me sternly, pointed his index finger inches from my face, and firmly reiterated, Nan, you must never talk about him.

I was wary of my father because he did occasionally have a bad temper, and I had no desire to be the target of his rage. In the early 1950s, DNA testing of an individual who might claim to be his brother was not an option. My father was fearful of the potential damage that I could cause his family if I talked too much.

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Hiya Carter, age seven; Nancy Barton Carter, age four

— Carter family collection

The next day, I asked my sister if she knew about Uncle Barton, and even though Hiya was only seven, Nana had already told her about him. She then warned me, Don’t talk about him to anyone. Someone may come here, pretend to be Uncle Barton, and take money from our family. Although at the time I suddenly felt very sad, I didn’t really understand why. In hindsight, I realized why. The Carter family was known for their gifted intellect, social decorum, and emotional containment—qualities that were incomprehensible to me. Uncle Barton and I were both heart people, my grandmother had said. I had finally connected to someone in the Carter family, and I had to pretend that he never existed.

Since that memorable day in 1950, I seldom entertained thoughts of my uncle until sixty years later. A compelling dream suddenly propelled me toward a path I had not thought about in decades. I was walking alone through an arid region in Spain. The terrain was flat, and the sandy, sunbaked soil was sprinkled with small rocks and scrub pines as far as my eyes could see. It was a hot, sunny, and cloudless day. I was involved in a mysterious quest and was determined to continue regardless of my fatigue and the extreme heat. I suddenly stumbled into a shallow ditch, which was camouflaged by sagebrush. I removed the brush and found an antiquated tunnel that had been constructed in the ground with a wooden frame and massive mahogany beams.

Although it appeared that no one had been in the tunnel for many years, I was somehow compelled to enter. As I made my way down, I was afraid that I would not be able to exit, since the unlit tunnel sloped downward at a forty-degree angle. In spite of my fear, however, I knew I had to proceed. I finally reached the bottom and found several torn and discolored documents randomly spread on the dirt floor. On the top of each piece of paper was a typed or handwritten date ranging from 1936 to 1938. I carefully retrieved the fragile papers and placed them in a pile. I was compelled to bring these antiquated documents to the attention of others.

Miraculously, I had no trouble exiting this dim enclosure, since the light at the entrance guided me as I climbed toward it. I grasped the documents in both of my hands, and as I reached the outdoors, a piercing ray of bright sunlight illuminated them as I tried to interpret the contents. I recognized my grandmother’s handwriting and deciphered the name Bart. I knew that I had to bring these priceless documents, dated more than seven decades earlier, into the light of awareness and share a tragic time that sparked Barton Carter’s heroic life in our current world.

When I woke up from this vivid dream, I immediately understood that I was compelled to tell the story of Uncle Barton’s brief yet meaningful life. I contacted my stepmother, who had the boxes containing the numerous accounts of my uncle’s life that my grandmother had spoken about more than half a century earlier. I then collected three large rectangular boxes that were made of cardboard with several dog-eared corners and covered with a beige linen material, dust, rust spots, ink splatters, and some partly ripped plain white labels with red borders. The boxes were haphazardly crammed full of letters, pamphlets, photographs, and newspapers that were musty, yellowed, and worn with age, with frayed corners, rips, and imprinted rust stains left by paper clips and staples. In addition, I retrieved a shopping bag containing several of my grandmother’s diaries, which came in all shapes and sizes. Each one included familiar but minuscule, faded, and at times illegible script, which covered a period of five years.

None of these items had been opened or read in years. Upon opening each box, in spite of the musty vapors that permeated the air, I was overcome with wonder and excitement. I liken my discovery to Howard Carter’s elation as he entered King Tut’s tomb and the awe he must have felt when unearthing the artifacts as he proceeded through each room. When piecing these treasures together in totality, Carter was able to present a vivid depiction of the eighteen years of King Tut’s life that mesmerized the current world.

As I carefully and respectfully handled each letter, brochure, photograph, and newspaper article, I realized I was responsible for weaving a tapestry of my uncle’s life. Initially, I organized the items into five leather-bound photograph albums in chronological order. I then created a time line of Bart’s life by using my grandmother’s diaries, several of his scrapbooks and yearbooks, and portions of books and articles written by Carter family members. I produced a brief history of events in the United States, England, Spain, and other parts of Europe corresponding to each year of Barton’s life. In addition, I read hundreds of articles and several books on the Spanish Civil War and spent hours conducting research in archives and libraries in Europe and the United States. While in Spain, I visited the towns and cities in which he spent time. Next, I met and/or corresponded with people from Australia, Spain, Venezuela, England, and the United States who had been associated with Bart’s life. I then conducted several oral interviews of Bart’s surviving family members and friends who actually knew him, chronicling my recollections of the accounts of his life provided by my grandmother, father, and mother.

By integrating the interviews and my research and travels with the contents of these dust-covered boxes and tattered leather-bound journals, a story of a courageous young man emerged. As I pieced these parts together, my love and respect for Barton continued to grow, as did my understanding of the intensity of the grief of those who cherished and loved him. As I placed the last piece in my uncle’s intricate puzzle, I was finally able to focus on the totality of his heroic life. I suddenly realized that I had been given the prestigious honor of providing a written account of Barton’s search for himself and his parents’ futile search for their beloved son. More than three-quarters of a century after his disappearance, I initiated my search for my avuncular hero only to discover our remarkable personal similarities.

This journey cemented my understanding that Barton has been a strong force throughout my life. In my recent yet unwavering quest for my uncle, I realized that everything in my life that I had previously learned, read, and experienced laid the groundwork for this book, which I am mysteriously compelled to write. I somehow sensed I would never be totally content until I completed this book.

Eight years ago, I first attempted to write this book. Since its inception, it has evolved from a strictly historical account with multiple footnotes into a semifictionalized version of Barton’s life. As a psychologist, I tended to focus upon the emotions and relationships expressed in the letters and diaries, while the historical events eventually became a peripheral backdrop. As the characters evolved through my written word, they came to be part of my soul. I vicariously lived through their grief, their fear, their joy, and their love. I realized that I needed to change my two-dimensional depiction of Barton’s life to three dimensions by using dialogue and adding some degree of imagination when the actual documents were sketchy. However, the characters, places, events, dates, and settings are based on fact. All of the names of the adults are real with the exception of Jordi, Frank, Bjorn, Penny, and John. In the event that the Spanish government intercepted Bart’s writings, he chose not reveal his five friends’ names, as it could result in their arrests. All of the children’s names that were associated with the Puigcerdà colonies were real; however, when discussing the young refugees Bart evacuated from Madrid to Valencia, I used pseudonyms to improve the fluency of the text.

In my initial version of the book, I integrated the documents, brochures, letters, and newspaper articles within the text. Although these relics continue to form the blueprint of my book, in my final account, I chose to include several of these items in the appendixes to enhance the character development and narrative format and accelerate the pace of the text.

Bart didn’t record his experiences during his basic training. However, the dates of his whereabouts between February 21 and March 19, 1938, were in his military records and recorded in his friends’ and colleagues’ writings. The chapters covering his participation at the training camps were supplemented by the descriptions given by other brigadistas (brigadiers) who were in the camps during the same time period.

PART 1

1

BART’S EARLY YEARS

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Bart playing tennis in Hollis, New Hampshire

— Carter family collection

At the age of ten, Barton Carter was an optimistic and gregarious youngster, lauded by all those who knew him. He was bright, fun loving, and athletic, as well as sensitive, intuitive, and caring. He perceived life as an adventure, and love and personal relationships were of utmost importance to him. Fear, on the other hand, was never part of his repertoire.

He was well aware of his elitist roots, but he didn’t have a snobbish bone in his body. In fact, he treated the servants in his homes with the same respect as his parents’ friends or well-heeled peers.

During the winter months, Bart lived in a large federal-style house up the hill from downtown Nashua, New Hampshire, close to the family paper company where his father, Winthrop Lakey Carter, worked. In May, his family moved to Hollis, New Hampshire, ten miles west of Nashua, where they would stay through late September. Bart particularly loved the Hollis farm that his parents had purchased four years earlier because he much preferred the country to the city.

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Kay, Sydney, Barton, and Win Jr. Carter

— Carter family collection

Bart had three siblings. Kay was fifteen and was a boarding student at Concord Academy in Concord, Massachusetts. He was very fond of his sister and looked forward to her weekend visits and their summers together. Sydney was twelve and a half. He was very bright but always seemed to get into trouble. Sydney was subject to temper tantrums, particularly when he perceived that his parents had treated him unfairly. Bart frequently witnessed Sydney’s accusatory ear-shattering outbursts. He hollered at his parents, You love Bart, Win Jr., and Kay more than me! You give them more and pay more attention to them! It’s not fair!

Bart realized there was some truth to Sydney’s accusations. Bart spent more time with his father than Sydney did. In fact, Bart often went skiing, hiking, fishing, horseback riding, and to college and professional sporting events with his father, and Sydney was seldom invited. At four years of age, Win Jr., Bart’s youngest brother, was too young to go.

One night in Hollis a few months before, Bart witnessed one of Sydney’s emotional outbursts. His mother, Ebie Carter, after reading to Win Jr., put him to bed and kissed him good night. As Ebie left her toddler’s room, Sydney approached her and asked, Mother, I’m not feeling well. Can you spend time with me?

Ebie put her hand on his forehead and replied, You don’t feel hot, Sydney. I’m tired, and I am going to bed. Why don’t you go to bed too, and you’ll feel better in the morning.

Sydney immediately screamed at his mother. His behavior was completely out of control. Several of the household servants came to Ebie’s rescue and attempted to calm Sydney down but soon fell victim to his punches, insults, and threats. Bart ran out of the bedroom that he and Sydney shared to help remedy the situation. After several minutes, Bart was able to coax his angry brother into the bedroom.

It’s not fair! Sydney wailed. Mother doesn’t love me. Dad doesn’t love me, either.

Bart softly responded with affection, Of course Mother and Dad love you. You need to calm down, Syd.

Sydney seemed exhausted and fell off to sleep within a few minutes.

It was late August. A chill was in the air, and darkness was quickly descending. After a short nap, Sydney exclaimed, I’m running away! Bart, don’t follow me or tell anyone that I’m going.

Bart adamantly responded, If you’re leaving, then I’m going with you. Let’s pack up some things and go to Mother’s little house in the woods. We can sleep there and then decide where to go tomorrow.

The brothers packed up jackets and two small blankets, pilfered some food from the kitchen, and set out on their adventure. Without Syd’s knowledge, Bart had written a short note indicating where they were going and his promise to return within a couple of hours. After Syd snuck out of the bedroom, Bart placed the covert communication to his mother on the bed.

As soon as they reached Ebie’s little house, the brothers reminisced about their adventures with Horace, their young male babysitter, who had taken them hiking and camping in the mountains earlier in the summer. After an hour filled with laughter, Bart knew that he had successfully changed his brother’s mood, and Syd agreed to return to the house.

Of all his siblings, Bart was closest to his baby brother, Win Jr. Every day when Bart arrived home from school, Win Jr. sat patiently on the front steps with his governess, eagerly waiting for his brother’s arrival.

Hi, Win. So great to see you! What do you want to do this afternoon? Do you want to play catch or finish the book I started to read to you yesterday? Bart cheerfully asked his brother.

Win Jr. ran down the steps, clapped his hands, threw his arms around his brother, and replied, Bart, I missed you. I thought you’d never get home. I want you to take me to the baseball field to play catch today. I want to learn to be a good baseball player just like you. Then we can come home and look at your baseball cards.

Bart and Win Jr.’s governess exchanged smiles, as both knew they benefited from this arrangement. The governess was allowed a two-hour reprieve while Bart gladly assumed her duties. He loved spending time with his youngest brother.

Although Ebie spent a number of hours a day in her bedroom and attached sitting room, Bart enjoyed spending time with his mother. For the most part, the governesses, Horace, or selected servants took care of the Carter children. However, on occasion, Ebie would spend time with them. Whenever her children were ill, she showered them with attention. She then summoned them to her room and read to them at length. Although Bart loved his mother deeply, he decided early in his life that he wouldn’t adhere to this regime. He viewed his entire immediate family as physically fragile and constitutionally weak. His mother was often sick, his father frequently complained of minor maladies, and his siblings always feigned illness to get attention from their mother. Not Bart. If he became ill, he would never admit it and claimed that he felt fine. He refused to become a victim and instead assumed the role of caretaker and insisted upon nurturing his family members whenever they were sick or in need.

Bart attended a private school in Nashua run by Mrs. JM McDuffie. His father approached him one evening and asked him to accompany him into the living room. They sat on the couch in front of the fireplace, and Winthrop looked into his eyes and said, Bart, I am thinking that it would be a good idea to find a new school for you. You are the brightest student in your class, and your studies come very easily to you. Starting in the sixth grade, I would like to see you at a more academically challenging school. I was thinking that in a few weeks, we could drive down to Newton, Massachusetts, to visit the Fessenden School.

Bart was taken by surprise and replied, Dad, that means that I would have to live at school. I like living at home with you and Mother and Win.

After Sydney’s behavioral outburst in August, he was sent to Cambridge, Massachusetts, to live with a minister and his wife and attended the Buckingham Browne and Nichols School. Since his departure, Sydney had not come home. Bart had overheard his parents discussing the frequent letters their distraught son had sent them pleading to return home. Bart suddenly worried that he would be in a similar position to his older brother.

Bart looked away and asked, Will I be able to come home much?

His father placed his arm around Bart’s shoulder, affectionately squeezed him, and responded, You can stay there five days a week and return most every weekend if you want. We will still take our fishing, hiking, and skiing trips just like we always do. I have to work a few day a week at Carter Rice in Boston to help your uncle Hubert, so I’ll come and visit a lot. I do love you so much and don’t want you to leave home, but I think this school would be the best thing for you.

Bart added, I will really miss Mother. She needs me when she’s sick. It will be hard to be away from Win Jr. so much. Attempting to change the tone of their conversation and assert his independence and courage, he asked, Does Fessenden have a good baseball team?

His father nodded affirmatively, and Bart responded, I’ll go and take a look at it. I think it might be fun as long as I can come home during the weekends and vacations and spend my summers in Hollis.

2

SOME EARLY ROLE MODELS

These are the Fessenden Boys who walk through Memorial Hall past the names of Fessenden boys who became young men who fought on behalf of their country and gave their lives for freedom.

—Along Right Lines from the Beginning, the Fessenden School centennial book

Bart arrived at the Fessenden School in West Newton, Massachusetts, on a crisp and cool sunny day in late September 1926 to begin sixth grade. As Nelson McCloud, the Carters’ chauffeur, Bart, and Bart’s mother, Ebie, drove up the hill toward their destination, Bart spotted the headmaster’s residence. This large, white, three-story, Southern-style colonial mansion with an attached portico supported by pillars was flanked by two windows on each side and several dormers positioned equidistantly on the roof. Several other stucco, colonial-style buildings bordered the southern and western sides of the mansion, and tennis courts and an athletic field extended to the north.

As a New Hampshire boy, Bart felt a bit intimidated. Nelson and his mother helped carry his oversized suitcases through the dark hallways that endlessly twisted and turned. They passed several groups of young, confident Boston Brahmins chatting about their summers at Cape Cod, the splendid new athletic center, and the upcoming sports teams. It was easy to discern the newcomers—they walked close to their parents and sported nervous expressions.

Bart, Nelson, and Bart’s mother finally reached Bart’s small dorm room, which contained a bed, a chair, a nightstand, a bureau, and a tiny closet and had just one small window. After unpacking his luggage, Bart’s mother turned toward him and explained, There isn’t much more room for any additional clothing in this small bureau. As he listened to his mother, Bart detected her cracking voice and noticed the tears in the corners of her eyes.

Bart had a large lump in his throat. Attempting to hold back his tears, he explained, It’s okay, Mother; I have plenty of clothes. If there is anything else I need, Dad can bring it next week when he comes to work in Boston.

Bart had never seen his mother cry. When she reached out to hug him tightly, he was surprised to feel the wetness of her tears on the back of his neck. Ebie took a deep breath, choked back her tears, and added, I will miss you terribly. I promise to write you almost every day.

Nelson, who was not only Bart’s friend but also a father figure, shook Bart’s hand firmly and explained, Bart, I’ll miss you. When you come home, I’ll take you fishing. We can fish in the fire pond this fall and go to the lakes this winter and ice fish.

Bart smiled at Nelson, embraced him, and said, I’ll miss you too. We can go fishing together, but I really want you to take me hunting. Maybe we can hunt some rabbits, and you can teach me how to skin them. Then we can make some rabbit stew.

Nelson replied, I think you are a little young for hunting, but if your father says it’s okay, then we’ll go for sure.

Shortly after Nelson and his mother left, a great sadness enveloped him, which grew heavier as he thought about his five-year-old brother. Earlier that day when Bart had left his Nashua home, Win Jr. had tightly wrapped his small arms around his brother and refused to let him go. He pleaded, Please don’t go, Bart. You should stay and go to school at home. I need you here with me. Who will play catch with me and read to me? Who will take me for walks in the woods?

Bart got down on his knees, wiped the tears from his little brother’s face, and calmly explained, I will be home most weekends and on vacations, and I promise to do all those things with you. You can even sleep in the bed next to mine if you’d like to. Now, you have to promise me to practice writing the words I have taught you, and we can write letters to each other. Maybe you can draw me pictures and send them with the letters. I will hang up your drawings in my new room and think of you every time I look at them. When Bart was finally was able to extricate himself from Win Jr.’s firm grasp, he followed Nelson and his mother out the front door of their Nashua home. As Nelson backed out of the driveway, the sound of Win Jr.’s uncontrollable wailing tore at Bart’s heart.

As Bart’s vivid memory slowly faded, he gazed around his austere room and suddenly realized that this was where he would sleep for the next year. Now at age eleven, he would never live at home again. Bart took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes and attempted to focus on the wonder of his new beginning.

Bart dressed in his uncomfortable blue serge suit and a white, stiff-collared shirt, and then he reluctantly made his way toward the dining room. Frederick Fessenden, the headmaster, warmly greeted each boy as he entered and directed him to his designated table. Each table was round and covered with a starched, white linen tablecloth, and each place setting was appointed with Reed & Barton silverware, crisp, white linen napkins nestled in initialed napkin rings, crystal tumblers, and maroon-bordered ivory dinner plates depicting the school seal.

Eleven similarly dressed boys who were approximately Bart’s age formed a semicircle around their teacher, Carl Nestor Holmes. Mr. Holmes, a middle-aged man with brown wavy hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and an engaging smile, motioned Bart toward the empty seat at the table.

Mr. Fessenden blessed the food and welcomed all the students to the start of a new academic year. Mr. Holmes displayed his humor, compassion, and genuine concern for each of the boys at his table, which immediately relieved their discomfort and apprehension. Bart realized that he could easily grow fond of this congenial and empathetic man.

Bart rapidly acclimated himself to the Fessenden milieu, and during his three-year enrollment, he was involved in the football and baseball squads and the choral club. He also made frequent appearances in school plays and piano recitals, was awarded letters in baseball, and was one of the editors of the yearbook. At his eighth-grade graduation, he achieved the highest grade point average in Latin III, graduated with honors, and won a special award for faithfulness and industry.

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Bart’s (last row on left) Fessenden baseball team

— courtesy of the Fessenden School archives

Behind the scenes, however, Bart was part of a secret society with many of his mischievous friends. Their names were embossed on a paddle used for spanking that was in the possession of the society’s leaders, Frederick and Herbert Horne, who were brothers and quintessential tricksters.

Among the many covert escapades of the secret society, some are particularly notable. Without detection by the Fessenden faculty members, these daring souls escaped out the windows at night, set off stink bombs in dormitories, and secretly disappeared on field trips for a few hours in pursuit of more exciting activities. In fact, Bart invented the makeshift ladders that were used for their nighttime escapades. Once day when the entire student body went to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston for a daylong lecture and tour, Bart and one of the Horne brothers escaped to Fenway Park and watched a portion of the Red Sox game. As the students exited the lecture hall, Bart and Herbert Horne covertly rejoined the group, and their absence went unnoticed.

Bart thrilled his parents and the Fessenden faculty with his academic achievement, superb conduct, and perseverance in his studies and extracurricular activities. He was extraordinarily popular with and respected by his peers. However, the aspect of the school that had become the most integral part of Bart’s character was the values he learned from the Fessenden philosophy and Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes served not only as Bart’s math teacher, table proctor, housemaster, and employer but also as his mentor. Bart was indeed thrilled when he learned at the end of his first year that he would live in the cottage where Mr. Holmes, his wife, and their two small children resided.

Bart had pressured his parents to send him to Great East Lodge Camp in Acton, Maine, a camp run by Mr. Holmes. As a result, Bart attended the camp for multiple summers, first as a camper and then as a counselor, perfecting his mountain climbing, canoeing, swimming, archery, shooting, and camping skills. Most importantly, he recognized the significance of working with children and realized his extraordinary gift in understanding and teaching these precious souls.

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Bart after climbing to the summit of Mount Washington with his camp counselors

Bart