A Bright Cold Day

By Mark Ciccone

The life of Eric Arthur Blair greatly impacted the work he wrote under the name 'George Orwell'. The Spanish Civil War, wartime Britain, and the rise of totalitarianism all fed into seminal works like Animal Farm and 1984 whose impact is still felt today.

But what would Orwell have written had he lived in another timeline? A world where his experiences in Spain were different, and the Second World War broke out over Czechoslovakia, not Poland?

Mark Ciccone weaves a tale that's part literary and part historical as a different but recognisable Eric Arthur Blair responds to a very different world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sea Lion Press
• Release date: Oct 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223354789

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. While ‘real-world’ characters may appear, the nature of the divergent story means any depictions herein are fictionalised and in no way an indication of real events. Above all, characterisations have been developed with the primary aim of telling a compelling story.

Published by Sea Lion Press, 2022. All rights reserved.

1.

Spanish Republican lines outside Huesca

May 20, 1937

Dawn was just beginning to break in the east, heralding the end of another cool night and the start of a blazing hot day. If Eric Blair raised his head even a few inches, he could see the edge of the sun, peeking above the mountains and the lip of the trench line. He didn’t; if anything, he hunched further forward as he walked, until his chin was practically touching his knees, or so it felt. The sides of the trench he was following were nearly as tall as his own two-metre frame, but there were plenty of stretches where the parapet ran low enough to expose one’s head, making an easy target for Fascist snipers. Being taller than almost everyone else in Spain, he’d gotten more than his share of warnings about staying low — and plenty of bullets had zipped past to drive that home. He still had lapses too, where he couldn’t stop himself from pausing for a real look at the Fascist lines or the surrounding countryside instead of seeing almost nothing through a vision slit.

A few minutes’ more ambling brought him to the stretch of the line he was bound for. The parapet here formed a rough right angle and rose a bit higher and farther out from the rest of the line, providing a space for perhaps a squad of riflemen, or a machine-gun or mortar post. At the moment, the company had no working machine-guns in their sector, and the only soldiers present were two sentries, both leaning half-asleep against the parapet. He put a hand to the shoulder of one of the men and shook, gently. The other POUM militiaman straightened at once, though keeping his head below the lip of the trench. Oh — morning, Eric, the American said around a yawn. He stretched, still staying low, then nudged the other sentry — Ramon, brother-in-law of one of the other Englishmen in the battalion — fully awake and shifted the strap of his rifle back over his shoulder. Time for relief?

Yes, near enough, Harry, Eric replied. He gave Ramon a smile and nod, then glanced back the way he’d come, then further up the trench. Jaime should be along soon. In fact, the other sentry was probably still fast asleep. No surprise there. The Spanish penchant for tardiness — summed up in that inevitable word mañana — likely meant he’d be a while longer after waking, even with Benjamin, their captain, getting him moving with just a word or look. He stole a glance over the sandbags that topped the parapet, quick as a jack-in-the-box, or a prizefighter ducking a blow. Anything like trouble during the night? More patrols had been probing the Fascist positions the past few nights, and there was always the chance of these touching off a local counterattack, or at least a firefight.

Nothing besides the usual searching rounds, Harry said, meaning the random stray bullets that passed between the lines perhaps every few minutes — and the sniper shots that were frequently too well-aimed. He frowned when Eric made another fast bob and weave to try and glimpse the Fascists but didn’t say anything; he’d given up trying some time ago. No sign or sound of any new troops coming in on the other side either, though that damn rifle grenade they’ve been popping off keeps things lively enough. If the trench mortar we’re promised arrives, and we place it here, could be we’d finally shut that up for good, and give them a taste for a while.

Until they bring another, or worse, Ramon put in. His English had a heavy accent, but he was getting steadily more fluent, thanks to lessons with Williams. He stared at the wall of the trench, as though he could see through it to the Fascist lines, a hundred and fifty yards away. My cousin near Segovia writes the Fascists bring in more of everything, by the day: guns, men, planes, tanks. Maybe some of it is coming our way, before long.

They’d have a hard time of it, around here, Eric said. Despite this mostly justified bravado, he cast a wary eye to the heavens. Planes were scarce on the Huesca front — as were so many other things — yet occasional flyovers and bombing or strafing runs still happened. More, in fact, since just before he’d returned to the front, and without any real reprisal from the Republican air force, or none that he’d seen. And some of the word lately is there’s more than just a trench mortar coming our way — much more. All true, at least according to hints from Georges Kopp, their battalion commander. From what he’d passed on, there was a new offensive in the works at last, with tanks, aircraft and perhaps thirty thousand men soon to be brought up from the Madrid front. On paper, and with the enemy strength Eric estimated lay in front of them, that should be plenty to take them to Huesca, if not farther. With mañana and all the other usual problems, however, he was far from sure.

And who can say if they’re in fact headed for the front? his mind whispered. Or where their guns would be pointed, if they are? Before his recent leave in Barcelona, he would’ve thought either idea absurd, both from a logical, pragmatic military standpoint, and from a more naïve belief in the unity of the revolutionary parties against Franco. Now...now he wasn’t certain of anything, a terrifying thought in itself. Word had just come of the Caballero Government’s resignation three days ago, replaced by an alliance of the Communists under Negrin and liberal Republicans under Prieto. On the one hand, this shift might herald a stronger government and a new emphasis on order and discipline — badly needed on the front line, especially among the militias. On the other, after the fighting in Barcelona earlier in the month and the shows of Government force afterwards, it could just as easily mean a greater tightening of control over non-Communist factions and areas, as a prelude for a widespread campaign of arrests and repression. The POUM — Worker’s Party of Marxist Unification — whose militia Eric was serving in, had already been threatened with suppression during the Barcelona events; being one of the smallest, least powerful parties in the Republic, it presented an easy scapegoat for the Government and the Communists. After that, it would likely be the turn of the Anarchists, and the trade unions — then anybody the Communists didn’t fancy. And what would be the fate of the thousands of militiamen, POUM and others, if their parties were outlawed and crushed? There were plenty of possibilities there, all grim.

Harry and Ramon’s sober looks told him they were thinking along the same lines. Before they or Eric could say anything, hopeful or bleak, Jaime came trotting up to the position, in a half-bent, half-squatting stance that almost gave him the look of a leaping frog. His dirty, moon-shaped face sagged with fatigue, but he seemed otherwise alert and friendly. "Buenos dias, camaradas, he said, then switched to the English-Spanish pidgin that had become common among their part of the militia: A pretty morning, is it not? Hopefully it will not rain; I don’t want to spend another day and night digging out of the maldita muck."

Yes, it looks like another bright day, Eric replied, glad to turn his thoughts to better, more immediate concerns. He looked to the east, where the sun was growing stronger, raising his head a bit higher. Harry, if you and Ramon can spare a little while before going off to kip or eat, maybe we can share out a smoke and a hand of — A ray of new sunlight poked over the eastern range at that moment, hitting him square in the face — or maybe it was reflected off a tin can or something on the other side of the trench, making it stronger. He squinted and turned away in annoyance.

A hot flash streaked by — so close, he felt a burning at his neck. Everything seemed to burst into light for the briefest instant, stronger even than the sun, like he was at the center of an explosion. A sharp crack, as of splintering wood, came from somewhere to his side, or in front of him. Then he found himself on his stomach, a half second after; he didn’t know whether he’d dropped there or if he’d been knocked or kicked down. His head ached; he must’ve hit it against the opposite wall, or the planks lining the trench bottom. His ears rang, the tinny sound drowning out everything else. The right side of his neck burned, as though someone had laid a red-hot poker across it.

He lay there, stunned, right arm crumpled underneath his body. Hands grabbed at him, turning him on his back, fiddling with the buttons on his coat. The ringing began to fade as well, letting in new sounds: the thud of running boots, the chatter of several men in English and Spanish, and Harry Milton’s panicked voice rising above this: Are you hit? Eric, are you hit? Other voices became distinct: Where’s he hit? Is he breathing? Get his shirt open!

This clamour pulled him further out of the haze. He raised his left hand, bringing it to his neck with an effort. The small crowd of men around him now drew back, perhaps taking this as a sign to leave him be. He felt tenderly at his neck, dreading the feel of blood pouring from a torn artery. Instead, there was a long, raised ridge of skin, exactly like a burn; he hissed and pulled back when his fingertips brushed it. There was a bit of blood, but no torrent. A damnable lingering pain ached in his squashed arm and his head, the latter of which brought a rising and ebbing dizziness. Other than this, though, he wasn’t hurt, or didn’t seem to be.

He sat up — carefully, grateful for the hands at his back steadying him. I’m all right — I think, he said to no one in particular. His voice came out rough and dazed. Tasting blood, he spat a gobbet of it into the mud. He probed the inside of his mouth with his tongue, and found a slight gash in one cheek, probably from his teeth cutting into it when he’d fallen. His limbs all moved when he tested them, and the pain — apart from the burning at his neck — was beginning to diminish, too.

Someone — Harry — knelt beside him, pulling his coat and shirt collar back. The American’s voice was soft with amazement. A graze — a damn close one, but a graze. He prodded at the edges of the wound, careful not to press too hard. Might not even need a bandage for long, once the burn goes down. His surprised, anxious face came into Eric’s view. Anything feel broken? Any other pain?

No — not much, anymore. Eric started to get up, but a wave of dizziness made him sit back down, propped against the trench wall. The others crowded close, holding out canteens, bandages, bits of food, a cigarette. He waved these aside, still trying to get his bearings. When he turned his head upwards a fraction, he saw a fresh bullet hole in one of the wall’s planks, maybe a meter and a half above the ground. Tiny flakes of wood and dirt were still wafting from it. Recalling where he’d stood moments before, he knew at once it was the round meant for him. And it would’ve hit squarely, if I hadn’t turned just right. The thought brought a shiver, and a new burst of pain in his neck. A sniper, no doubt of it, one of the many that targeted this particular area of the line. He shivered once more. Just a moment’s carelessness, and I —

He forced his mind away from that thought. Taking stock of himself again, he found the general achiness in his body had nearly faded, and the dizziness had gone down — although he still didn’t feel up to standing, not yet. The other soldiers were still gathered round, much more loosely. Some, seeing he wasn’t likely to die or need bearing away, had begun to drift back to their posts. Harry dabbed at the neck wound with a bandage, then splashed a little alcohol at the site. The sharp sting from this made Eric wince, and register again what his comrade was saying, in a near-babble: "Damn close — and lucky, damn lucky. Every time you come around here, you practically dare the Fascists to take their best shot, with how tall you are. He pressed a bit of gauze over the wound, gently. Have to keep you out of this sector from now on — hell, anyplace you’d stand out above the rest."

Don’t think that place exists, not in Spain, Eric remarked, humour momentarily overriding the pain. Harry laughed, shakily. He made a last check, then bent lower to drape Eric’s arm — the left, to avoid aggravating the wound — over one shoulder and help him to his feet. There was a moment’s unsteadiness, then Eric felt the strength in his legs return. Keeping his balance with Harry’s help — and being sure to bend well forward, even more than before, so that his head stayed far below the trench’s lip — he let the other militiaman lead him for a fuller exam by the medics.

2.

Approaching Ibiza, the Balearic Islands

May 29, 1937

A drop of sweat rolled down Captain Anton Progrorin’s forehead, making a streak across one lens of his flight goggles. He wiped it away with a quick swipe of his thumb. Though the interior of the SB-2 Katiushka bomber was relatively cool, more sweat soaked his flight clothes, and made his hands unpleasantly moist inside his gloves. The roar of the twin engines pounded at his ears. He ignored both of these sensations, too, never taking his eyes or mind from the controls, and the flying still ahead. He’d stayed in this state since taking off from Los Alcazares and wouldn’t break from it until they reached their target.

Far off on the horizon, he spotted a darker smudge against the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean. The voice of Dmitri, the bombardier and nose gunner, crackled in his ears: Ibiza in sight, Comrade Pilot, stating the obvious.

Confirmed, Progrorin replied; he wouldn’t speak more than necessary, either. He twitched both hands minutely, altering their course by a hair to bring them straighter in. This let him spot the second bomber in their flight, slightly ahead of them, flown by Lieutenant Vassily Schmidt — a relative newcomer to Spain, but a competent pilot judging from his performance thus far. Nothing less would do, if they were to hunt down and sink any of the Nationalist naval squadron in these waters.

The island came into sharper focus: a brownish-green, potato-shaped mass, with patches of mountainous terrain here and there. Their target — the island’s main port — was spread over the south-eastern corner of the landmass. There were no enemy planes patrolling above it, or not that he could see. Even with the distance still to go, Progrorin could see the shapes of vessels in the harbour. Fishing craft of all sizes, a few medium-sized freighters — and the low gray lines of a warship, anchored in the port’s approaches. A destroyer, maybe; perhaps even their main target, the Nationalist heavy cruiser Canarias. He smiled tautly. Either way, the hunt had paid off after all. Turning a bit, he brought his mouth to the speaking tube on the fuselage next to him: Any sign of enemy craft?

No, Comrade Pilot, Pavel, the navigator and rear gunner, replied from the rear of the craft. Like Progrorin, he was on the stolid side, but had quick reflexes and sharp eyes — arguably sharper than the pilot’s, making him an ideal choice for both course plotting and spotting any potential attackers. If he wasn’t seeing any Nationalist aircraft in the air this close to the target — or German or Italian, though both were less likely in this area — the odds were good they had complete surprise on their side.

Flashes of light came from the warship’s sides: anti-aircraft guns. Black puffs of exploding flak shells began to dot the sky just ahead of the two bombers. Vassily Schmidt’s craft jinked and swerved to avoid these, finally swinging out of Progrorin’s range of vision. He put his craft into several sharp dives and climbs, dodging the bursts — yet keeping on course for the warship. Tiny fragments skittered off the skin of the bomber; one struck with an unsettlingly loud clang! A half-second’s glance at the gauges showed no fuel tank damage, and the controls still responded smoothly. He made another swift dip, then rose the plane back up and levelled off. In almost the same moment, he grasped the bomb bay door lever. Stand by for release, he announced to the two other men. They were almost inside the harbour, set to pass directly over the cruiser’s starboard side. Another few seconds...then just a few more...

He pulled hard on the lever. Release! he called out. The bay doors flew open with a