A Trilogy of What "Might Have Been" in the Spanish Civil War

By Adam Dumphy

From three documented mysteries of the Spanish Civil War of 1936 the author has woven fictional accounts that may explain the mysteries.

First is the account of the ‘Joy Riders’ at the Siege of the Alcazar. A car drove deliberately to the street between the opposing forces. A young woman slowly emerged and sat on the fender lighting a cigarette and calmly awaited the flood of bullets from both sides that destroyed her. Who she was no one knows. Only the car remained as proof of the incident.

The famous offer by Franco of seven thousand Republican prisoners for the return of the Statue of Our Lady of Victory, turned down by the Government, good atheists all, for fear of her effect on the fighting and reported as ‘lost’. Where was she? No one knows.

 The “Massacre” of Badajos was a savage battle true, but only elevated to a ‘Massacre” by a propagandizing reporter of the Paris Tribune, ‘the Havas Special Correspondent’ who used as an eye witness an American correspondent who was at the time 400 miles away. It scored the biggest propaganda scoop of the war setting permanently a false character on the Franco forces in the minds of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 20, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467812092

Adam Dumphy

Inflamed by a novel of and during the Spanish Civil War of 1936, titled, “The Kansas City Milkman”, Adam Dumphy searched out and contacted a clandestine enlistment center for the British Ambulance Corps operating there. Clandestine as it was at the time an illegal act to aid either side in the conflict. To Adam that fit the novel and made it all the more interesting to him and more Hemingwayesque. He ever after felt the British people generally to be biased and intolerant as he was rejected and simply for being only twelve years old. Still he found himself fascinated by that most peculiar of wars even as some men are towards our American Civil War. All the books and information he collected then he still has. His loyalty he has tried to maintain unbiased to either side although it has varied in degree from one side to another from year to year. Now from the vantage point of eighty years of age the only thing he can decide with certainty about the affair is that both sides got a very “bad press”. But then he believes that is true of most major events.

Book preview

A Trilogy

of

What Might Have Been

in the Spanish Civil War

Adam Dumphy

USUK%20Logo.ai

© 2010 Adam Dumphy. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/3/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4208-8630-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-1209-2 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

To Irene

Of Course

And

Mair and Joe

Contents

INCIDENT AT THE ALCAZAR

The Adventures of a F.A.N.Y.

…but the wedding was supposed to be yesterday!

Prologue 1:

Of all the mysteries of this world, war must be the ultimate one. From cause of origin, to time and mode of onset, through particular occurrences, to outcome, no matter how minutely they be examined, all remain cloudy.

No one wants wars. No one approves of them. And no one understands them.

Superimposed on these large mysteries are numerous little mysteries, each of which remain totally enigmatic.

In the Spanish Civil War of 1936 to 1939 there are three of these little mysteries.

First is the account of the Joy Riders at the Siege of the Alcazar. A car drove deliberately to the street between the opposing forces. A young woman slowly emerged and sat on the fender lighting a cigarette and calmly awaited the flood of bullets from both sides that destroyed her. Who she was no one knows. Only the car remained as proof of the incident.

Second is the famous offer by Franco of seven thousand Republican prisoners for the return of the Statue of Our Lady of Victory. This was turned down by the Spanish Government, good atheists all, for fear of her effect on the fighting and reported as lost. Where was she? No one knows.

Third is the Massacre of Badajos, a savage battle true, but only elevated to a Massacre by a propagandizing reporter of the Paris Tribune, the Havas Special Correspondent who used as an eye witness an American correspondent who was at the time 400 miles away. The Special, whoever he was, scored the biggest propaganda scoop of the war. Setting permanently a false character on the Franco forces in the minds of the world.

Disclaimer:

The details of these episodes may vary from one author to another depending on his authorities and on the author’s individual bias. The basic facts are true however as admitted by all. The characters are all fictional

Prologue 2

Epics are few and preciously rare in the annals of history and justly so for it takes a special breed of man (and woman and child) to produce them amid unspeakable human suffering.

Surely the siege of the Alcazar in Toledo in the Spanish War of 1936 deserves to be included in these.

For there about fifteen hundred men, woman and children defied the might of all the troops and guns and mines and planes of the Spanish Republican Nation and despite all circumstances simply would not give in.

And when relief came they were skeletons living in a pile of rubble but still there.

Surely the most enigmatic event of the Siege was what was called by the defenders, The Joy Riders. When on the thirtieth day a passenger car bumped up a cart track behind the fortress, came to a sudden stop and a man jumped from the driver’s seat and escaped into the rubble. A young woman passenger got out slowly and was lighting a cigarette and making no effort to escape when she was destroyed by bullets from both sides.

Who were they? No one knows. Why were they there? No one knows. Why did the woman make no attempt to escape? Who knows? It is truly enigmatic, unexplainable.

The event is well documented by both sides. The car itself remained there until the end of the siege. It was a blue Peugot sedan, Model of 1930 or 1931. The license number was N54269, the chassis number 37706 type 301 D.

No one could ever imagine the reason for this strange event and probably no one will ever know. Here, however, is a possible, if fictional answer to it.

Prologue 3

Toledo in 1936 was a city of about 28,000 people. Located as it was close to the geographic center of Spain it has always been important due to that fact and that it is locked in a bend of the Tagus river on three sides leaving only one side from which it could be attacked.

It had been a distinguished capitol of the several Duchies before there was a Spain and in the earliest days of the Nation itself. Once the glittering capitol of the greatest nation in the known world, it had subsequently become a dead end since Carlos V had built Madrid on a barren plain 48 miles north. It has remained a medieval city to today but its five hundred years of glory still show in its many palaces, villas, nunneries and cathedrals. Some of it’s streets are still too narrow to allow any but an oxcart to pass.

Standing on a hill above the Square and back to the river the Alcazar dominates the city. In 1936 and after 300 years of repairs and additions it was a vast, high, rectangular building of three stories with a large paved central courtyard. The key to the defense of this monstrous fortress/palace was that the hill on which it was built, sloping to the west in three steps each about a story in height. This allowed extensive underground works including large arched chambers, halls and even an underground road, the famous Catacomb Road, which extended beneath the building starting from the Wagon Road entrance and winding beneath all four sides of the building to return to the entrance again. The high quality of the medieval masonry of the walls of the Alcazar was stubbornly resistant to artillery fire and the underground passages made it nearly impregnable even to infantry assault.

INCIDENT AT THE ALCAZAR 

Chapter 1

Many a July night in Barcelona can be hot and oppressive but on this particular night, 19 July, 1936 there was more in the air than heat and humidity to oppress the heart and mind, depress hope and to arouse despair.

Perhaps it was the unending rumors and the many denials.

The garrison in Morocco has risen.

The garrison in Morocco is loyal.

The Guarda Civil has rebelled in Malaga.

Malaga is quiet.

The government is fleeing.

‘All is quiet in Madrid"

Or perhaps it was the radio voices, La Pasionaria with her harsh, exciting, voice exhorting Spanish women to root out the Rebellion as against Napoleon in 1808 with every resource they had, hands, teeth, bodies and to the death if necessary. Or was it the commentator from Radio Madrid with the constant assurances that there was no rebellion. Repeating that the government was in complete control throughout Spain.

Or the almost hysterical radio announcements repeating, Don’t leave your radio. Keep in touch with the latest bulletins. Don’t turn your radio off.

Or then it may have been the cancellation of the time honored Sunday bullfight, an unheard of thing. No man could know then that there would be no scheduled Sunday bullfight again for three long, bitter years. But even the most bovine minded could feel the threat of a new kind of bloodletting. War, the most savage of wars, Civil War, was no longer threatening or imminent. It was here.

By 8:00 PM the usually busy streets were deserted. The usual holiday makers were home crouched over the radio. There was the frequent sound of marching troops or the passage of a militiaman, his rifle slung over his shoulder bicycling wildly on some errand of overweening importance. Only an occasional civilian could be seen stubbornly refusing to limit his Saturday night stroll.

Among these was a tall, gangling, old man who strolled along calmly, hands behind his back, pipe aglow. No Spaniard certainly he was dressed all in wide waled corduroy, Norfolk jacket and slacks, with a trilby on his head, and chukka boots on his feet. The clothes were English surely by their tailoring but the indolent walk, the slouch, the deliberate certainty in attitude, stamped him indubitably an American.

Along the east side of the Plaza de Cataluna he stopped to observe a militia company at ease. Some sat, others slumped back on the hard paving stones and slept. Their rifles were akimbo, pointed at the next man, or the file man or even at themselves. Others ran about wildly talking in spurts while a group of officers lounged negligently in their uniform of military tunics, tight jodhpur pants and boots and tried to appear calm.

These troops showed all the pluses and delinquencies of militia he decided. Totally undisciplined and tending to argue over every order but with that occasional tremendous enthusiasm that could at times defeat the best of regular troops in battle

The old man watched, shook his head and strolled on.

At the corner he stepped back and watched trucks and liveries, cabs and horse drawn wagons, paraded along the avenida packed with compesanos shouting for arms.

Turning away from the great square he angled north toward the University Section. This was an unfailing path with him after having had dinner at his favorite restaurant on the bay and an indirect route to his flat.

As always he stopped on the Avenida Mericada to admire the Chaplet. A tall elegant minicathedral with lilting roof lines and a campanile, squeezed between two short, ugly and box like business buildings with only space on either side for a walkway. In the dark he had to imagine the exquisite arch of the roof and the tower extending up into the moonlight. In his mind he could see the front facade covered with statuary of gargoyles and saints and biblical scenes. He visualized the great oaken doors, with their delicate carved columns and the patina of great age.

This was the Chaplet of Our Lady of Seven Dolores, Queen of the Skies, Star of the Sea, of Barcelona. Of Barcelona was hardly correct for she was Barcelona. Before there was a Spain or a Barcelona she was. At first a tiny village church founded by St. James it is said, and visited by St. Peter himself on his trip to Rome. Not only this building itself, which had only been here since the sixteenth century, was historical but the site also where there had been a shrine since the six hundreds. In 783 prayers to her had aborted a plague. In 1323 she had saved the people from an earthquake. She had protected her people from floods and hurricanes and attacks from barbarians repeatedly. She had turned back invaders, the Visigoths and the Moors and in her own good time expelled each of them completely.

Looking more closely the old man was startled to see that one of double doors was open. This was a most dangerous thing in these times when fifty-nine churches had been bombed and burned to the ground in the last month in Barcelona alone.

He mounted the steps and looked in curiously. A red light hung over the altar and rows of votive candles illuminated the inside faintly. He heard the soft murmur of voices and then could make out a half dozen black clad women in the front pews. Black mantillas hid their faces but their voices were distinct, Hail Mary Full of grace…

He leaned against a pillar and wondered for the thousandth time about the dichotomy of the Spanish nation. The woman stable, decent, moral, long suffering and Catholic. And still with that striking beauty and vivacity, that fire, that made then renown in Europe. The men often short, fat-bellied, pompous little machos. Capable it is true of great enthusiasm for a moment but unwilling to give up their creature pleasures be it wine or gossip or women for more than a few days for any cause. Blowing from enthusiasm to enthusiasm with the slightest breeze or no breeze at all. And capable of much cruelty.

What could have made this change in three hundred years from the unquestioned leaders of Europe in every field? Then their troops were feared everywhere, their knowledge of the Classics and Medicine preeminent, religion was the watchword of the Nation, their colonies stretched all over the known world.

Was it lead in the pottery as was suggested for the loss of virility in the case of the Romans? Or was it the incessant wars wherein the boldest and bravest and most dedicated were killed off leaving only poltroons? He didn’t know, could not decide.

Chapter 2

His ruminations were sharply cut off by a burly, young militiaman who clumped heavily up the stairs, pushed him roughly aside and shouted from the center aisle.

Arriba Espana. Death to the Rebels. Death to all clerics and intelligentsia. Viva Death. He fired a round from his rifle into the roof.

The shot into the ceiling reechoed from the walls and then the silence returned. The figures in the front rows never turned nor interrupted their prayers. Perhaps it was that on a night like this they had expected some such thing.

The militiaman astonished at the lack of response shouted again. Fools. You in the front there, leave the building.

Still there was no response. Offended at being ignored the soldier turned to the old man.

And you. What do you do here? What is your party? He demanded.

The old man didn’t appear nonplused but an unbiased observer might have noticed that he knocked the dottle from his pipe on the marble floor, a thing that he would never have done under normal circumstances.

Finally he responded in grammatical if stilted Spanish. Sorry to disappoint you, Lad. I am an American. I take no sides. I will neither help nor hinder any of the fools on either side of this imbecility.

The militiaman could not understand these words. What are you doing here? He repeated.

I was just walking home from the restaurant as I do every evening. I stopped when I saw the door was open.

You have picked a poor night to visit, American. Another five minutes and you will be buried in twenty tons of rubble.

The old man was so astonished he could not at first understand fully what had been said.

What! What is that you say? You would blow up the Chaplet of our Lady of Barelona?

It is ordered. And ordered for tonight to celebrate the new beginnings for the Republic without priests, or nuns or the ewe sheep of the Legion of Mary. Look at them.

The old man was truly shocked now. He mumbled and then got out. But this is something that you cannot do! You are talking of destroying a Spanish Shrine. The Spanish shrine. The greatest Spanish Shrine.

Can we not? You who do not take sides, Senor, believe this?

The rifle muzzle turned to point at the old man’s lean, belly.

You had best come with me to the Commandante. You wear a suit, a shirt and tie. You look to me like an intellectual. We do not need intellectuals in the new order.

The old man still unbelieving persisted. You are serious in your intention to blow up this beautiful building? And with these women inside?

Come along, American.

The old man scratched the back of his neck, blankly sorted through possible options to this unbelievable scenario. Blowing up the building was one incredible thing but to destroy the women inside was something he could not accept.

Apparently deciding something he leaned forward, Shhh. He said very softly. Shhh… you will wake the baby.

What do you say?

The old man repeated it again even more softly.

The soft tone and illogical words disarmed the militiaman as nothing else might have and he leaned forward further to understand.

At that moment the old man pushed the rifle muzzle away from pointing at his abdomen with his left hand, and his right hand brought a heavy flashlight out of his coat pocket and struck the young man just above the ear where the skull plates are thin.

The militiaman’s look was one of total surprise until his eyes closed and he sunk to the floor. The old man caught him deftly and eased him into a pew. The rifle he deflected with his foot to the floor gently so it would make no noise.

Almost silently he repeated. I will not take sides. I do not take sides. But… this I could not allow. Not the Chapela. Not the Shrine of the Virgin.

He stepped to the great door and pushed the half door closed, drew the two heavy timbers across them to bar it from the inside.

The shot had brought no response from the women but the silence and then muted sounds with creaking of the door brought all eyes on the old man.

Senoras, there is a mob outside, mainly Austurian miners with their dynamite. There is no time. Quickly all of you go out the side entrance through the Priest’s Garden to the street.

His quiet assurance carried the crowd and they turned as one and like broody hens under the swoop of a hawk hurried out.

The old man followed, stopped to take one last look at the beautifully carved and painted ceiling, the curving stairs to the choir, the lectern extending out over the first row of pews like a ship’s prow.

As he turned a motion in the Lady Chapel across the room caught his eye. He strode over to find one more black garbed figure kneeling at the altar rail.

Come Senora. You must leave now.

Without even looking up the woman said distinctly, No.

The voice was so vehement, so full of rancor the old man actually jumped back.

Senora. There are militia with dynamite at the door.

Is that so? I am not surprised. Still I will not leave. They will not destroy my Chapela. I will not let them.

The old man scratched the back of his neck again as he did when thinking deeply. You are very courageous, Senora, but they have rifles, machine guns and dynamite. How do you intend to stop them, by giving them a piece of your mind?

Yes and more than that. My mind, my heart and my life if necessary.

You are very brave and very young…

She interrupted. I am not young.

He continued. And what seems brave and right to you now, may not seem right when you are able to think it all over. I don’t know…

Yes. What do you know? I am the Contessa de Astra. My family first built the Chapela in 1266 and have kept it up with our donations ever since. They will not destroy it. No one shall destroy it. It is not theirs to destroy. The last was choked sounding but the old man could see it was not from tears.

He was aware now of pounding at the main entrance behind him.

The woman continued. And I will fight for my Chapela. I will fight for what I love. She held up two small fists with scarlet tipped nails.

The old man was beginning to feel that things were going too fast for his understanding. Still he felt he must try to bring some reason to the affair. Why of course, Contessa. But I don’t see how you can be much help to the Chapela or to Spain under twenty tons of rubble. Wouldn’t it be better… Couldn’t you do more for Our Lady, for Spain if you were alive?

What?

If they destroy the Chapela but left you alive then you would be able to rebuild it again.

I will not leave. Let my death be upon their heads.

The old man was silent then, Right. Well if that is how you want it…

For the first time she turned to look at him in surprise and disdain at his facile acceptance, that he could continence such a noble death so calmly.

He continued. But they won’t be able to see or hear you where you are.

He stepped over to the middle aisle of the Chapela. If you stand here the light of the candles will show you to them at once.

He drew her to the center and she stiffly, disdainfully followed.

Now see isn’t that much better?

The pounding at the door was more intense now and as he looked he saw an ax head break through the paneling. It was savagely withdrawn for another stroke.

He stooped suddenly grasped her about the knees and stood erect with her over his shoulder and hurried into the garden. The movement was so sudden and so unexpected the lady did not realize at first what had happened until she was in the moonlight at the garden fence.

Oh. How dare you! How dare you. You… You… Put me down.

She kicked and pounded his bony old back so strongly that he grunted with pain but he continued into the street where he set her on her feet.

He had lost his hat somewhere. It was a favorite and he turned to look about him for it.

She was at him like a lynx, pounding him on the chest with muscular if small fists. Oh…Oh you lout, you scoundrel…

She was interrupted by a sudden explosion from behind them that nearly threw them to the ground.

Turning they saw the exquisite arch of the Chapela rise slowly, gradually, into the air a few feet then hesitate and slowly settle to the ground with a crash of dust and debris.

Stunned they watched in total silence while the dust rose in a cloud and then as if an encore, the back half of the roof settled slowly forward gradually increasing in velocity and crashed onto the other rubble leaving only a part of the back wall standing.

Even now great cracklings could be heard and flames were already visible, the ancient wood going up in flames like kindling.

Turning the old man saw the woman standing stiff and straight but tears draining down her cheeks like a rainstorm.

I am truly sorry, Madame. I loved the Chapela too. It was the most beautiful building in all Europe.

She did not answer and they watched in silence as the flames mounted.

At last the old man asked. Do you have a way home?

She did not answer even when he repeated it.

Whether she heard him or not was problematical but she finally said, Yes, yes. disinterestedly.

Then I will leave you. I offer you my sincerest condolences and bid you good night, Madame.

He strolled off searching his coat for his pipe which also had apparently been lost.

But at the corner he made his mistake. Stopping he looked back. In the light of the flames he saw her still standing as he had left her. He could now see her quite clearly for the first time. Even in the ridiculously high heels she wore she was short for a Spanish woman. The totally simple black gown outlined a stocky figure if abundantly feminine. Just now her head was down, her shoulders previously so stiff-backed, slumped as she sobbed into her hands. As he watched, her black mantilla fell from her shoulders to the ground unnoticed.

I do not take sides. The old man mumbled. He hesitated then he headed back to the lady.

Picking up the mantilla and putting it over her head he took her arm.

Come, Child. And she followed as docile as if she were a child.

He walked fast and with his long strides she had to hurry, run at times to relieve the pressure on her arm. She was still sobbing broken heartedly as they hurried through the dark streets. At the approach of a car or marching troops he pulled her into a darkened doorway and stood in front of her shielding her from sight.

At last the sobs slowed and then stopped aside from an occasional choking sniff. Approaching the edge of the University Section he saw a cab. The old man stopped it by the simple expedient of stepping in front of it leaving the cabby the only choices of stopping or running him down.

Ignoring the cabby’s protest he handed the lady into the cab. Where do you live? He asked her.

3 Avenida Fortaleza. She finally said.

The cabby threw up his sign and started to shift then turned back. That is the address of the Fortaleza Castillo. I carry no Monarchists in my cab this night.

The old man, who had started to lean back and relax, sighed and struggled to stir his mind to face a new problem.

He leaned forward and hissed. The servants entrance, Fool, she is the upstairs maid. He put a premonitory hand over the Contessa’s mouth being uncertain what she might say to this.

The lady was too startled to complain.

The cabby was still suspicious. The old man realized he must do better. She is the one who brought the news to the Commandante.

News?

Haven’t you heard? It came over the secret Monarchist radio only an hour ago.

News?

Panchito. His plane crashed at…. He tried to think of a city in the Morocco, at Melilla. Was that a city in the Morocco or was it the Canaries or the Azores? He was too tired and couldn’t remember at the moment.

The cabby wasn’t worrying about geography. Panchito?

Franciso Franco, Donkey. Don’t you see, Man. The Army has no one to lead them.

He put his hand over the Contessa’s mouth again. This time she struggled free but was too busy rubbing her lips to speak.

The old man continued. The Rebellion will be over in a week.

Over? Over and this summer?

There were the magic words, the hoped for words, that everyone in Spain had been hoping and praying to hear for months.

The cabby raised his meter flag and started off. Over in week… he marveled. And gunned the cab down the hill.

The old man leaned back, closed his eyes and pointedly ignored the indignant glance of the lady beside him.

He opened them suddenly though when the cab screeched to a stop. He need not have been worried as although it was a street barricade by militia and exactly what he had feared the driver carried then through.

Leaning out the window the man shouted, Have you heard the news?

Immediately the car was surrounded by militiamen. Franco. the cabbie continued. His plane has crashed. Jerking his thumb over his shoulder he added. This girl brought the news from the Monarchist radio. A dozen faces turned to the back seat but the old man leaned forward to shield her face by his shadow.

The cabby was not anxious to give up his center of attention. She is a maid at the Castello and heard it when it came over the Monarchist radio and hurried to tell the Commandante. Everyone in the plane died. They have no one to lead them.

The faces turned back to him.

The war is as good as over. the cabby exulted.

Stunned joyful shouts broke out on every side with sighs and fervent Thank God and Santiago. repeated over and over

The old man pushed a bony finger into the back of driver.

Hurry man we must get the girl to safety.

Chapter 3

The old man had passed the Castello Fortaleza from the street many times, and knew it as a handsome, three story, stone mansion with long side wings set in a formal garden behind a great stone wall with wrought iron gates and railings and standing on a hill overlooking the entire city.

But the driver knew it better. He turned off on Avenida Arista into a side street and to a small gate opening into the gardens.

The old man was fumbling for change as he helped the lady out.

The cabby was still exalted. A heroine of the Revolution does not pay to ride in my cab this night, Senor. Not on this night. he announced.

The old man sighed and spoke Ah you are indeed a good patriot, a hidalgo, my friend. A true loyal son of Spain. He doubled the amount in his hand and gave it the man. Here drink your health before you sleep.

The driver pleased with his proffered sacrifice and its reward wished them good night and drove off.

The old man found the gate unlocked and hurried the Contessa inside looking nervously up and down the street but no one seemed to be about.

Inside the darkness was total. Even the house was dark. Turning he reached to tip his hat to the lady in good bye, then realized again that it was missing and remembered again that it was his favorite hat.

Well Madame, you are home. I believe I can safely bid you good night.

The lady drew herself erect. I regret that I cannot find it in my heart to thank you as although I am certain that you were well intentioned you certainly are the rudest, the most consciousless person I have ever…

He wasn’t listening and interrupted her. Do you have family to look after you here?

The servants.

No family?

The servants are loyal. They have been with me for many years.

The old man thought that over. Still it is funny that there are no lights on anywhere in the house. Do you have a key?

A key? Of course I have no key. She was furious at the question and at being ignored. "The key to the Fortaleza is four feet long and heavy. Would you have me carry that about over my