The Survivor

By Felipe Albero Gomez and Ken Scott

This is the incredible account of Felipe Albero Gomez, who fought for both sides in the Spanish Civil War. When it ended, he was placed on a troop train, given a new blue uniform and told he would be fighting for General Franco's friend, Mr Adolf Hitler. Upon arrival at the German border he was told to alight and the next stage of his journey would be on foot. He would be walking 1500 kilometres to the Russia front, just in time for winter. At ninety seven years of age Felipe has decided to tell his personal story of survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Acorn Books
• Release date: May 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781785385070

Book preview

story.

Chapter One

I’ve always been a survivor, it’s just the way I am, I have had my fair share of accidents and misfortune but I’ve always seemed to pull through. My first brush with death I can remember came when I was around ten years old. It was 1928 and I lived in a village called Elda, twenty kilometres inland from the city of Alicante in the south of Spain. Times were hard but although my father was a strict disciplinarian, my childhood was relatively happy and we didn’t starve like many of the other poor children in the town. Yes we went hungry, but never for days on end. We had an odd night where we went to bed hungry but not that many that I can recall. When we were sent to bed hungry we were told that the whole world was in a depression and that’s just the way it was.

My father was a member of the Guardia Civil, well respected and relatively well paid in comparison to the poor farmers and factory workers at the time. His wages put decent food on the table for me, my three brothers and three sisters and we ate most days unlike some of my poor friends. I was the youngest of the seven, my mother Felicia, died of pneumonia when I was quite young and my father ruled the roost, his home was his castle and he was undoubtedly the King. I knew what time I had to come home in the evenings, what time I had to eat and if father asked you to do something there was no question you would do it without hesitation. He never beat me that I can recall but nor did he ever think to his arms around me to hug me. I can’t recall any warmth, any show of affection or pride in my achievements. There were times when I thought he was about to pull me in close and give me a cuddle but it never happened, not even as a small child. The best word to describe my father would be to call him cold... cold to the point of freezing but he taught me a great lesson in life and that was how not to bring children up.

My mother was different altogether, she was very loving and feisty with it. She would be described these days as a party animal, she loved the many fiestas in and around Elda and never wasted the chance to celebrate with her friends and neighbours. The overriding memory of my mother was that she had no teeth, not one single tooth in her head and yet I never found out how or why she lost them! That must sound very strange but I remember being asked to describe her in later life to my own children and my grandchildren and I just said - she had no teeth. What an image that conjures up.

She died far too young, within a few weeks of my little sister Paquita, who was two years younger than me. I would have been around seven years old and I was devastated when I realised I would never see either of them again. My sister died from the measles, I missed them both very much and turned to my father for comfort. I guessed that surely he would now take mothers place and at least show me some of the love and affection she had. It did not happen, if anything father turned even colder towards me and my siblings.

I was playing in a street called Calle Zorilla, this particular day when a motor car pulled into view. Motor cars were few and far between and not very fast and the game at the time was a relatively simple one. The young boys of the village would run alongside the motor car trying to keep pace with it while shouting at the driver who appeared to spend most of his energy telling us to get out of the way. I prided myself in being one of the fastest runners in town and was in competition this particular day with a boy slightly older than me called Pepe. Pepe had long legs, much longer than me and he ran like an African gazelle, who I’m told runs very fast with long almost clumsy legs, that described Pepe perfectly. But this day my heart was bigger than his and my legs stronger and faster than his African gazelle legs and as the car came up alongside us I edged into a half metre lead.

Get out of the way you idiots!, the driver was shouting furiously as he shook his fist at us but I wasn’t listening or taking notice as I left Pepe trailing in my wake. I turned for a split second, goading Pepe with some insult and was aware that a look of defeat had pulled across his face. Hah! I thought to myself, I have the beating of him, I will be the talk of the village tonight as I recount how easy it was and how I ran like the wind. But I didn’t see the football sized boulder at the side of road and as my foot hit it I heard a loud crack as my ankle bent like a wet stick. My leg gave way and I was pitched into the dusty road two metres in front of the car. The driver had no way of stopping and time seemed to stand still as half a ton of metal moved rapidly towards me. I wanted to close my eyes and place my faith in the Lord but for some reason the will to live kicked in and instead of praying I threw my arms up to ward off the screeching monster.

I could hear people screaming as I disappeared under the vehicle in between the two giant wheels, but wait, the Lord was looking out for me after all because being a small boy of just ten years, the length of my body was smaller than the width between the two wheels. I almost broke out into a smile as the two huge front wheels whizzed by me in a cloud of dust. I curled up in a ball as the rear wheels powered towards my body and I wanted to cry out ‘miracle’ as they too, sailed harmlessly by me.

If only I’d lain prone for three seconds more I would have escaped injury altogether, if only I hadn’t been so stupid but to lift my head as the rear axle floated by, but how was I supposed to know the exact make up of a motor car and the engine underneath? It had four wheels and two axles to hold them in place and a dirty great noisy engine in between, but my knowledge of a car was such, that I didn’t know that right at the back of this monstrosity of a vehicle was a steel pipe called an exhaust that spewed out all of its emissions into the countryside. This pipe had a heavy steel box on the end of the pipe and as I raised my head with a cheeky grin it smashed into the back of my skull and my world pitched into darkness.

I don’t know how long I was ‘out’ for but when I came round there were dozens of people fussing around me.

I’m okay, I tried to explain. Leave me alone, I want to go home.

At this stage I was more concerned that I had dirtied and torn my clothes and my father would be none too happy and that his hand would no doubt be warming my arse before the day was out. I was terrified of my father and knew the more people fussed over me the more likely news would filter back home and he would find out about my act of lunacy and I would surely be punished forever. I felt at the back of my head, it was all wet and my immediate thought was that some fool had thrown a bucket of water over me. Only when I was lifted to my feet did I notice the small crimson lake at my feet and subsequently my own blood that stained my shirt and my short trousers. Damn! How the hell am I going to hide this from my father?

So I survived the unfortunate accident and I survived the wrath of my father but only just. My head was covered with bandages and I was stitched up by the local doctor, there were no hospitals around where we lived. When my father returned from work and saw the plight of me he showed me a little sympathy but was more embarrassed than anything else. It seemed that the bandages that covered my head showed what an imbecile his son had been and of course that reflected badly on him. He kept me off school until the bandages were taken off, the stitches removed and my hair grew back normally and even then he couldn’t bear to send me to my old school because everyone knew what had happened there. Instead, he sent me to a private school some distance away which meant a long solitary walk twice a day, whatever the weather. There were some days in the summer when I felt I was dying by the time I reached school and when I left for home again the temperature was even hotter. When I complained he told me not to and reminded me that my ‘special’ education was costing him one peseta every week. One peseta was a lot of money in 1928.

It was several months before a man turned up at our door. He was from the school he explained and he looked very frightened. We lived in the local garrison, the casa-cuartel and there were several other Guardia Civil officers, my father’s colleagues, out in the street. I listened behind the door as my father argued in the street with the man. It appeared that no one had bothered to ask my father for the school fees and he was now many weeks behind with the payments. I know why no one asked my father for the fees, they didn’t ask him because they were scared of him and his uniform and his colleagues who lived in close proximity to us. The Guardia Civil were a feared organisation back in those days, they stuck together and wielded an almost unchallenged power and answered to no one. They were founded in 1844 during the reign of Queen Angelines II of Spain and were known to be corrupt and very influential in the politics of the time and not averse to more than a little brutality.

The poor man from the school was stuttering as my father shouted at him that he had no place to come and bother him at his home. As the man walked away still begging my father to make up the payments my father said he would visit the principal of the school when he had a spare moment and threatened the man with a fate worse than death if he ever darkened his door again.

Two days later my father announced that I was educated enough and he’d found work for me at the local leather factory.

I was ten years of age. I never forgave my father for taking me out of school at such an early age. Although it was not uncommon at that time, even at the age I was, I knew it was wrong. I had just been learning to read and although not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, I absorbed the knowledge like a sponge and every day I spent at school was a joy. I wanted to learn more, I wanted to write like my teacher could write and I wanted to read like she did when she stood in front of the class and spoke effortlessly as she read from a big thick book.

The following Monday I started work for the princely wage of three pesetas a week. I resented my father, I was bitter but nevertheless in time I put my bitterness behind me and slowly began to enjoy my new role in life. I was now a real man working in a man’s world, fetching water and coffee for the men and women who toiled in the factory. I loved the noise and the smell and the atmosphere as the men and women teased and joked with me and I enjoyed it even more when I was given my three pesetas at the end of the week. Unfortunately I didn’t have it in my hands very long; my father relieved me of it as soon as I walked through the door that evening. I later found out from my other brothers and sisters that this was par for the course, quite normal, even my oldest brother at twenty seven years was not considered responsible enough to look after his own wages and handed over every single cent at the same time every Friday evening.

Although life was tough and I worked long hours in hot dirty conditions I was also the factory runner and the errand boy and many hours would be spent outside the factory running with letters and messages to the Town Hall or local offices and farms. In the evening I would be sent into town to deliver bags and small suitcases to the ladies of the night. I would be about fourteen years of age then and the girls would tease me something rotten. I never did find out why a prostitute needed so many bags and cases and I never dared to look inside them. It was regular business though and there were a lot of prostitutes in and around Elda, I can tell you and despite the depression of the time their business seemed quite regular.

I eventually became a trainee carpenter in the factory and enjoyed the work as I was shown the skills of a woodworker, it seemed that my career was heading in the right direction and everything was just fine. I’d also began to take interest in the fairer sex and in particular I’d cast many roving stares on a girl in the village called Isabel, or Isabelita as I called her which means little Isabel. She was perhaps around thirteen years of age and quite the most beautiful person I had ever seen.

Her skin was as smooth as satin and she looked a little different to the other Spanish girls in town because she had an almost oriental appearance, eyes that were probably more suited on a girl from China. Her hair was of a slightly lighter shade of brown, cut short but neat with a silky sheen and on the odd occasion I caught her eye and she smiled at me with those beautiful dark brown eyes it made me want to melt and on more than one occasion I swore I lost the power in my legs and thought I would surely collapse in a heap.

I’d be about sixteen or seventeen when things began to change. The moments where the men and women laughed and joked were few and far between and now serious political discussions took place during the coffee breaks and lunch. I listened intently but seldom joined in, politics did not interest me and the events of unrest in Barcelona and Valencia seemed like a thousand kilometres away. I had never been to these cities nor did I want to, they talked of violence and shootings and someone even said that men were setting fire to churches and killing priests. That sort of thing didn’t happen in Elda, or even Alicante, they could keep their unrest and I could get on with learning to be a carpenter.

My father was now retired from the Guardia Civil but my brother Julian had followed in his footsteps. Why not? It was good wages and they were paid regularly and always on time. He had been posted to Benissa over a hundred kilometres away which meant we seldom saw him but Father told me over lunch one day that Julian would be coming to visit and would stay a few days in the garrison in Elda. We were all quite excited as we hadn’t seen Julian for several months. However, when he arrived he looked very solemn and explained he was in Elda to quell a little unrest and that the garrison needed their help. A big factory had gone on strike near Alicante and the workers were out looking for trouble.

We shared a quiet dinner later that evening and I noticed that many of my older siblings looked quite concerned. The following day the news was worse. Julian returned in a bit of a state, there was blood on his uniform and he had a graze on his forehead where he said he had been knocked to the ground.

He explained that the strikers had rioted and the Guardia Civil had no choice but to open fire on them. Several strikers had been shot and one had even died. It seemed I was wrong and that civil unrest had indeed arrived in the Alicante region after all.

Things seemed to change from that day. Looking back, it was certainly a turning point and attitudes changed. Suddenly I felt that my family were shunned by certain individuals and even some of my good friends in the factory began to distance themselves from me, one man openly admitted that he would not talk to the family of the Guardia. He said they were murderers of the working man. During the breaks, the once gentle discussions had turned into vicious squabbling and even an occasional fist fight.

There had been another development in the factory too; a large part of it had been turned over to production of a leather item worn by soldiers. It was called webbing and buckled round a soldier’s upper body and attached to the leather were pouches where water bottles, rifle magazines and other equipment could be carried. By the end of the month the factory was churning out thousands of them and the workers were beginning to talk about a civil war. One of the older men who was quite wise and respected said it was only a matter of time before the Spaniards would be fighting their brothers.

Julian arrived in Elda unexpectedly the following week. I recall the date well; it was the 10th July 1936 and he was spitting feathers as he announced he was being posted to Cadiz indefinitely. Now Julian was talking about civil war too as my father remained unusually silent. The following morning we all waved Julian off. I don’t mind admitting I shed a few tears, Cadiz was more than a whole day’s drive away and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why the Guardia Civil High Command wanted my brother to go there?

Being posted to Cadiz saved Julian’s life. Just two days after he left, his Guardia Civil Garrison was attacked by a mob. There were very few Civil Guards there and they were unable to defend their post, several were killed and the survivors, battered and bruised transported to a prison ship in Alicante Harbour. People in the street were saying it was a revenge attack for the killing of the striker in Alicante but this was not the case. Things were happening quickly and the mob who attacked the garrison at Benissa probably knew nothing about events in Alicante the previous month.

Over the coming days the