The Cantabrica Wolf

By Ben Laffra

Gideon de Boyne, an emotionally fragile English Surgeon, joins the Civil War in Spain with a guerrilla force led by the legendary Lone Wolf. He is intimidated by Esteban's domineering personality and is torn between admiring his remarkable bravery and being repelled by his pitiless treatment of the enemy. Their clash of wills develops into a compelling and characteristic war within a war that dictates the narrative.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Optimus Maximus Publishing
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781944732677

Book preview

Universal Cause Célèbre

Map Credit: University of Warwick

Unlike conflicts between disparate nations, there is something ominous and deadly in a Civil War. It is the contagion of hatred. In the case of the Spanish Civil War, it was brother Spaniard versus brother Spaniard, each inspired with the spirit of a committed ideology, each utterly convinced that their cause was right and their reason alone had a sublime purity attached to it. It generates vicious violence that transcends the common pale of human conflict - empty of human compassion!

After the war, Ernest Hemingway wrote: The dead sleep cold in Spain tonight. Snow blows through the olive groves, sifting against the tree roots. Snow drifts over the mounds with small headboards. For our dead are a part of the earth of Spain now, and the earth of Spain can never die. Each winter, it will seem to die, and it will come alive again each spring. Our dead will live with it forever.

The guns had the inventors' names on them, and the bullets with the names of the dead and wounded!

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PART ONE

The Strategic Operations Executive

Westminster

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Big Ben struck the hour of nine with authority invested in it since May 31st 1859.

It had been a winter to forget, but this wonderful crisp sun-kissed March spring day in London was one to remember when everything and everybody’s mood seemed to spring to life. Even its usually irritable citizens' daily grind and rush to work were much better-natured as they rode the crowded bus or the tube, all because Mother Nature had been kind.

But this consideration was not shared in Spain.

At precisely 0900 hours, the phone rang in the 1st Level basement of 64 Baker Street in Westminster. There were two other levels below the basement, but each held its secrets and restricted entry to only those with the requisite access. Some in Baker Street privately believed a tunnel ran under the Thames for two miles, connecting SOE to MI5 and MI6. Such opinions were held in private, for posters pasted on Baker Street walls carried the Director General’s quote from Coleridge: ‘Silence is a friend who will never betray’. There would be a tap on the shoulder for those who occasionally strayed from this advice.

The lady operator on the switchboard plugged in a line and gave the discreet answer, Good morning. Baker Street. May I help you? as if that was ample identity of the Company to the caller. It was, in fact, only for those who knew what 64 Baker Street stood for!

The caller’s phrasing was precise, but his accent was Spanish. Good morning. My name is Ramon de Tana. I wish to speak to Mr Joshua. I will call back in precisely three minutes, please.  That specific sentence, I will call back in precisely three minutes, was the password that the caller was genuine. The lady tripped a switch that immediately lit a red light on Joshua’s desk, alerting him that there was an incoming call from an operative known to the Company.

The slim, middle-aged man impeccably dressed and sporting a trimmed Van Dyke beard stayed in the Hotel’s phone box and, checking his watch, rang the Baker Street number again. He got the same answer and gave the same response, this time minus the password phrase. He was connected to Joshua.

Joshua answered, Where are you staying, Mr de Tana. It was a flat statement rather than a polite question minus a greeting.

"The Savoy."

"Good. Please leave your hotel in thirty minutes, not before and take a short walk to Simpsons-in-the-Strand. Please give your name to the Maître d’hôtel, and you will be seated at a secluded alcove table. I’ll meet you there. Is that clear?"

"Yes. I will leave the Savoy in thirty minutes...". He didn’t get to finish his sentence.

Good. The phone abruptly went dead with a click in the caller’s ear.

A man entered a side entrance to Simpsons-in-the-Strand. He was not as elegantly or immaculately dressed as the other breakfast guests and yet received a warm welcome as he shook hands with the Mitre de, Good morning Mr Harris. Your guest has been seated in the curtained alcove as requested. He has ordered breakfast. Your usual Sir?

Yes, thank you, Hugh. He strode purposefully to the nook and shook hands with de Tana.

It is kind of you to come, Mr Joshua. I understand you speak Spanish fluently. May I speak in that tongue? He smiled. It is easier for me as I still have to think in Spanish and translate it into English.

Yes, of course.

I believe Senor Matias de Ciera has informed you to expect me? Joshua nodded. Then I will make it as brief as possible, Senor. Again the listener nodded. "I was briefed to inform you of the background to this meeting. The Republican Government has been especially hostile toward the Army, banishing some senior officers to the Canaries. Some sections of the services are dissatisfied and have revolted, specifically in Navarre, Galicia, Old Castile, Seville and Morocco. There is confusion and a state of flux from which these senior Officers in the Canaries have distanced themselves as it is impossible to detect any clear lines of loyalties. However, this state of affairs cannot continue as there is a move on the mainland to conduct a coup-d’état. There is a danger that Spain will self-destruct into an uncontrollable Civil War." He paused again, this time much longer, as if expecting some approval. The cold, impatient eyes of his listener made him uncomfortable. He thought Joshua was already fully aware of what he had described in his preamble.

He took a deep breath before continuing, Senor Joshua, I am instructed to request your Establishment's services with the task to covertly fly two Senior Officers from Tenerife to a chosen Military base in Morocco. 

Joshua controlled his surprise and the sudden intake of breath and its accompanying whistle with some difficulty. And you don’t know who these Officers are. Once again, it was a hard flat statement rather than a question.

No, Senor, that is not my concern. I am purely an emissary of Senor De Ciera.

Good. Please continue. Joshua had a perfect idea of who the two Army Officers were, or more accurately, who the two Generals were. He kept these thoughts to himself: ‘Very clever of you de Ciera. The Moroccan Fuerzas Regulares Indigenas is the only fully equipped standing army of over 40,000, fiercely loyal to one specific General.’

I am to advise you that any of the following locations would be safe for their insertion. They are Ceuta, Melilla and Larache.

Has anyone else been spoken to about this operation?

The tone was rapid and clipped, and the urbane Spaniard did not know whether to be offended or nervous. He admitted privately that he felt uneasy in the company of this uncouth Englishman, Joshua. But de Ciera warned him that these people could be crude and ruthless. No, Senor, I was firmly advised that this is a closely guarded secret, and I was to speak to you and you alone.

He decided to test de Tana a bit more. And why has Senor de Ciera decided to approach us?

He told me to inform you he trusts no one else. He will finance the entire operation. I am authorised to establish a line of credit with a Bank of your choice for this purpose.

Senor Tana, this is a hazardous operation. Are all of you individually and collectively aware of the risks?

He shrugged. I am not capable of judging risk in this case, Senor. I am merely a businessman. I can only be guided by what Senor de Ciera said; whatever the difficulty, your organisation can still do it, and he trusts no one else.

I see. They finished their breakfast of light, fluffy, scrambled eggs and buttery croissants.

"Very well, Senor de Tana; I will give you an answer within a week. Please keep a low profile and stay at the Savoy. I will contact you. Now please leave here ten minutes after I have left. It is unwise that we are seen together."

Joshua drove back to Baker Street, deep in thought and well-pleased with his investment in cultivating the powerful and wealthy Banker Matias de Ciera. His intelligence reports on Spain's political and economic situation had been excellent recently, and now this extraordinary development. He had to think carefully about how it could best serve the Company and then plan the operation to present to his DG. He had the distinct feeling that the Governor would have his ideas of what future concessions could be gained. 

De Tana returned to his room at the Savoy and sat down to recover from what he thought was an unpleasant ordeal. A Hotelier by profession, he had felt intimidated and not a little bit frightened by the cold, brusque manner of Mr Joshua. He was just an emissary and hardly qualified for undercover operations. He bought a whole stack of London Newspapers to pass the time, including The London Times, Daily Mail, Daily Express, Daily Mirror, the leftist Morning Star, and the Daily Worker.

He was surprised and perplexed by the contents and editorials covering his country's growing conflagration. Some screamed Immanent Civil War in Spain, some supported British intervention, others rejected any intervention, and some openly endorsed the Revolt. In contrast, others denounced it as a Fascist plot against the workers of Spain. Frankly, he couldn’t understand how the British Government could tolerate the open views of Communism. ‘Surely,’ he concluded, ‘the English understand that the Communists are the enemies of democracy and business progress? Look what Stalin is doing to his people. He has wiped out seven million peasants, and these foolish English Communists are allowed to promote their views publically? The British are naïve or stupid or both!’

There were also several news reports on Professor Toynbee, who had met Hitler. Toynbee was impressed with his sincerity and endorsed Herr Hitler’s desire for limited expansionism to build a greater German nation and called for the cooperation and understanding of the British Government. ‘Surely, the British can see the benefits of that? After all, Hitler is the enemy of Communism?’

Five days later, Joshua telephoned. Mr de Tana, please take a taxi to Regents Park. It’s a fine day so go to the Rose garden. I will meet you at the boathouse cafe at 1100 hours. Take a secluded table, please. Once more, the phone clicked in his ear before he could respond. It unnerved him. Nevertheless, the early spring blooms in Queen Mary’s Garden were stunning and put him in a happier frame of mind.

He was sipping his coffee in the pleasant surroundings when Joshua appeared suddenly and abruptly sat at his table. De Tana’s coffee cup rattled on the saucer. He didn’t bother to shake hands. Please listen carefully, Mr de Tana, as I would prefer you didn’t take notes. He nodded and gulped. Please transfer ₤9,000 into this account. You will ask for and meet only the Manager, Mr Ashley Grant. No one else. He handed him a slip of paper with the details. Tana glanced briefly at the details. I have arranged a small aircraft to attract the least attention. The flight plan will be Santa Cruz de Tenerife – Agadir - Casablanca – Larache. There must not be more than two passengers due to the extra fuel and bulky radio equipment. They should dress in civilian clothes and disguise themselves as best as possible. The principal danger is the refuelling stops at Agadir and Casablanca. To masquerade the reason for the flight, we will have the company of two attractive ladies to distract any attention and give the impression of a pleasure flight of friends. Is that clear? Tana nodded. Joshua made him repeat it twice. Now, Mr de Tana, we know the risks involved. I am sure you understand we would be seeking certain return favours. Are you in any position to shed some light on this, or should it wait till we meet at Tenerife? 

He breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, Mr Joshua, I was warned to expect that question. The principal, as you call him, is a practical person.

Good. That’s settled, then. Please advise your passengers to stand by for a departure date to be advised via Senor de Ciera.

Thank you, Mr Joshua and good luck.

No, Mr de Tana; careful planning and absolute watertight secrecy will decide the outcome, not luck. Mr Joshua smiled and shook his hand warmly. Goodbye, Mr de Tana. We won’t meet again soon, but I hope for a fruitful future relationship. He disappeared amongst the surroundings as quickly as he had materialised earlier.

Just eighteen miles South of London is Biggin Hill RAF base. On a perfect summer’s day on the 11th of June, at 0715 hours, a twin-engine De Havilland Dragon Rapide was cleared for take-off. No flight plan had been lodged, and neither were any questions asked.

Only the occupants of G-ACYR knew that its destination was Tenerife in the Canary Islands.

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PART TWO

The Spanish Civil War

Two years, eight months, two weeks and one day.

They gave up everything; their loves, their countries, home and fortune, fathers, mothers, wives, brothers, sisters and children, and they came and said: We are here. Your cause, Spain’s cause, is ours. It is the cause of all advanced and progressive humankind.

Dolores Ibarruri - Better known as La Pasionaria (the passionflower), her Spanish Maquis name.

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I still think you are a bloody fool.

Thanks. You were a bloody fool once if I remember?

No. I was an experienced professional. You are a naive bloody surgeon with a month’s training. He swore at the dirty spray propelled by the tyres of a passing vehicle from the opposite direction and the wicked showers kicked up by lorries when overtaken.

Okay. I’m a fool. Now stop driving like a maniac, or you’ll get me killed even before starting. Now, what about the gear you have for me.

"In the dickie in an old kit bag. Several pairs of peasant shirts and pants. Tough, rough material from Spain. A woollen waistcoat and a woollen trench coat to keep you warm. There’s a pair of espartinak’s in there, which you will wear most of the time. The object is to blend in and not stand out. There are other bits and pieces, balaclava, a battered old woollen black beret, gloves, woollen scarf etc., plus the goodies for Esteban."

They climbed aboard a grey-coloured motor launch at Portsmouth. It was a strange craft. It didn’t look like a fast boat until Gideon felt the power of the motor thrumming below deck as it pushed off. The motors roared to life as they cleared the harbour into the English Channel. It was exhilarating despite the cold wind and the mizzle of rain.

If you are picked up anywhere at any time, stick to your cover story that you are a freelance journalist for the Lancet. You have a so-called genuine Passport and ID Card from the Lancet in the name of Ken Frost. He was very cooperative in lending us his well-travelled Passport. Our chaps did the rest with your photo.

He continued earnestly, remember, Esteban has a practice that none of his group will be taken alive. It’s bloody barbaric, I know, but it’s the only way they can protect their hideouts in the forests and the mountains. If a man cannot ride out of a firefight because he is seriously wounded, his brains are blown out. They accept the conditions willingly because they know he will not shirk if it’s his turn.

I’ll remember not to get injured. 

"Okay, friend, so long as you understand it’s a very serious business. Your first contact is Marcel at Cherbourg. He has your rail tickets to La Rochelle. You will be met at the Rochelle rail station by Jillian. Don’t worry, she will recognise you. She will ask you the coded question: ‘How is Joshua’s limp?’ and your response is: He has no limp. Alf grinned again, then immediately returned to his earlier serious monologue. She will take care of you till she puts you on a coastal steamer bound for northern Spain. Get rid of your present clothes and change into the Spanish stuff on board. Your jump-off point is the Port of Santander or any nearby Port, and you make your way there by bus, thumb a lift or by whatever means.

From now on, it gets a little tricky. Always remember the whole of Spain is a bloody war zone. It may appear peaceful, but frigging fifth columnists are all over, including France, so even your contacts will be suspicious until they are sure you are not being followed or a Double Agent. He shrugged. Play it by ear Doc. You’ve had the training. Just don’t say or do anything to raise their suspicion. Okay? Your billet is the Posada Mies de Villa, Muelle del Rey in Somo. It’s about 15 miles around the bay from Santander, about 30 minutes by bus. You can catch the ferry service directly across the bay and hike it from there. It’s an isolated farm and farmhouse that doubles as an Inn. Your main contact is the innkeeper Antonio Ibaǹez who is our SOE Agent in Cantabria. You will tell him, Joshua has sent me, and nothing more until he asks you, How is Joshua’s limp and you know the answer. This exchange may take a few days until he is sure about you, and then take it from there. He’ll make the arrangements for you to meet Esteban. Hopefully, you won’t have to wait too long. He shrugged, but you never know with them. They are unpredictable. Alf suddenly laughed at a thought. Incidentally, keep your hands off Tony’s sister if she’s there. She is unquestionably a rare beauty.

Thanks for the advice. I’ll remember.

Now comes the real test Doc, harder than any you did in your training, and that’s the first meeting with Esteban. If he is not convinced, you can be useful or not fit his plans you are out. Understand?

"Well, I’ll just have to find another Spanish Maquis group if he rejects me, won't I."

Alfie sighed in the cold wind; don’t waste your time, Doc. The others are all small disparate groups between six and a dozen men, and most of them Communists or Anarchists to boot. You will never fit in with them, so don’t waste your time. Just ask Tony to arrange for your passage home.

No, Alf, as a last resort, I shall join the International Brigade somewhere.

Alf shook his head in dismay. Suit yourself, Doc, if you want to commit suicide, but you better understand you will be on your own. Anyway, back to Esteban. He has a very independent mind, and I can’t give you any tips there except to push the Doctor bit he may see as useful to him. He’s a brute of a man Doc and rules with an iron fist but bloody good and the best in the business. He’s just as capable of killing you or risking his life to save you. That’s how complicated a character he is. I got to like and respect the man despite his faults. And by the way, in case it grates on your sensibilities, Esteban swears a lot worse than some of your SOE instructors did. The blighter cannot speak a sentence without using the F word. I think it’s something to do with the soldering profession. They don’t mean it literally but as an expression or metaphor to strengthen their words. Does that make sense?

Oh, don’t worry, Padre Dawson, I even told your Major Bates, or whatever pseudonym he goes by, to get fucked.

Um, yes, he did tell me, but no hard feelings. He’s the consummate professional and knew what he put you through at SOE.

Well, maybe I’ll pick up the swearing habit too.

You will.

Three hours later, the boat approached the Cherbourg peninsula and headed for a tiny sheltered cove with towering dunes concealing its disposition. Alf scanned the dunes with binoculars, then pointed and exchanged words with the Captain and helmsman. He cut the roar of the engines to a gentle thrum and glided the launch into the shallows to come to a crunching stop at the pebbled beach.

He noticed a man descending the dunes as he and Alf waded ashore with his gear. Alf embraced the man and introduced him to Gideon as Marcel. Marcel hefted his kit-bag and battered leather instrument carry bag and went back up the dune. Alfie’s parting advice was: Listen to me, Doc, it’s a Civil War, so they are all the same, driven by hate and a lust for violence on both sides. Don’t try to moralise or rationalise their actions. Just remember, it's their war, not yours. Try not to be judgemental. Okay? They shook hands, and Alf looked at the overcast, gloomy weather. Should be warmer where you’re going, and remember to win the duel with Esteban. He then turned on his heel and walked away without glancing back. His boots crunching on the pebbles before reaching the water’s edge seemed absurdly loud as he stood alone on the beach, watching Alfie retreating back. Like his boss Gubbins, he did not wish Gideon ‘good luck’. They all had the same ideology ‘training and preparedness was the best survival insurance.’

He hefted the waterproofed radio, slung it across his shoulders, plodded up to the man waiting at the dune, and then went down to a battered old truck on the track below. Despite its appearance, the engine ran surprisingly well. Marcel handed him a grimy envelope. There are three Rail tickets for you, Monsieur Ken. You will please change trains at Le Mans, Tours and finally at Poitiers for La Rochelle. Gideon thanked him and said no more.

Though uneventful, the rail journey took twenty hours, most of which was spent waiting on railway platforms for the connecting trains. He listened happily to the various French opinions, sometimes joining in briefly when included in a conversation. The talk of war was everywhere, more so in France than England. A grizzled veteran of the 1st WW spoke passionately: Germany should have been brought to its knees on the battlefield messieurs and forced to surrender before the Armistice. Only two men knew this, the American Perishing forecast that we would be at war with Germany again, and the even more prescient Foch’s had predicted when. The last war was bad. This one will be worse. He tried to allay his fears by telling him the Civil War in Spain would cure any thoughts of another European War. The old fellow shook his head. It is only a forerunner, Monsieur; the opportunity for the Bosch to flex some muscle, eh? Then shrugged in resignation, sure of his convictions.

The train pulled in at La Rochelle. He chose an inconspicuous bench and read a local newspaper somebody had discarded. The platform was almost empty of passengers when a petite young lady hurried toward him, smiling. Monsieur Ken? he looked at her coolly with a half-smile. I am your cousin, Jillian.How is Joshua’s limp?" He smiled genuinely this time as they exchanged codes quickly. He bent down and gave her the traditional kiss on both cheeks.

She insisted on helping him with his kit, so he gave her the Radio to carry. She confided as they walked toward the exit that it was appropriate to show some affection toward each other since they were cousins. In that case, Mademoiselle, I suggest we hold hands. They laughed happily together as they left the station. Instead of the farm truck, there was a pony trap. She took the reins, and they set off down the street. I live in the town with my Aunty, she said, it is not far from here. My parents live on the farm just ten kilometres from La Rochelle with my two brothers. I am a school teacher, and you, Monsieur?

We are cousins remember Jillian, so it is Ken, she laughed. Rather prettily, thought Gideon. I am a freelance reporter for a Medical magazine called the Lancet, and he went on to practice his cover story.

Not unexpectedly, the Aunt looked like the traditional French battle-axe, and Gideon suspected she was a spinster. Unaware of her Niece’s undercover activity, she viewed him, a Britisher, with outright suspicion. But she was a good cook, and after a glass or two of good wine and his fluent Parisian French, she relented. Your boat leaves tomorrow afternoon, Ken. One hopes it sails on time, but I will, of course, take you. After the tiring journey and a good home-cooked meal, Gideon slept soundly.

The next afternoon she took him to the Freight Docks. The uniformed Customs at the checkpoints barely noticed him as they chatted amiably with Jillian, and then he was waved through with a friendly ‘bonne chance’.

Also, your cousins? he joked.

She was equal to it. Better than that, Cousin Ken, she laughed; they are the parents of my school children, and they, in turn, were probably students of my Aunty. She was the Headmistress when they were boys in her school.

He traded affectionate goodbye kisses with Jillian on the docks and went on board the coastal tramp steamer bound, he was assured, for the Northern coast of Spain. A polite enquiry of the ship’s Captain concerning the sailing time and duration was met with an eloquent shrug as only the French can produce. It is their unique trait. He decided to rough it on deck under the tarpaulin awnings rather than take the one ‘state cabin’ on offer. A brief look at its cramped, dirty interior was enough. The food was terrible though still edible, and he put it down as a hardening-up process for the experiences to come. He had no delusions about that.

It should have been a short journey of two days, even at the pedestrian pace of the steamer, but it took much longer as it plodded its way toward its furthest Port. What astonished him was the polyglot of nationalities amongst the thirty men of assorted ages headed for the ‘adventure’ in Spain. He shouldn’t have been surprised, for Alf had briefed him, but coming face to face with the certainty was something else again. There was a mix of young and middle-aged men, all passionate and all naïve. Even though Gideon was hardly older, he was better briefed and expertly trained. He quietly told them it was a somewhat murky Civil War, not a romantic adventure. No one scoffed, but he wasn’t sure anyone believed him either. He pondered this almost bizarre brashness.‘Surely they know they could be killed or wounded, and here they are laughing and joking as if going on a bloody Scout camp.’

They were all bound for Albacete; they confided and wanted to know if he was going there. No, my friends, he told them, as you know, I am a Journalist, not a soldier. I am bound for another destination. He did not confide where. Alf’s advice ...‘never volunteer information to anyone, at any time, anywhere.’ He felt slightly deceitful now that he was quizzed. The tramp finally docked at the Port of Corunna, and they all boisterously got off, waving and yelling back: Good luck, Bon Voyage. He stood at the rails and waved back. They still had a long overland journey to Albacete. He wondered, sadly, not for the first or last time, how many would survive, how many would end up in some hospital and how many would come back as innocent and unsullied as they were now. He sighed and wondered about his future. The steamer started working in the right direction for him, stopping at all the ports to unload and load cargo. The stops helped diminish the melancholy of isolation created by the departure of the recent vibrant, boisterous and energetic company.

It docked finally at Santander, and Gideon de Boyne, a.k.a. Ken Frost, got off without regret and immediately felt the return of a deep visceral conviction for his mission.

The Republican forces had thwarted the early gains of the Nationalist rebellion. Arms and ammunition, albeit of questionable vintage, were pouring in from the Mexicans and Russians that armed the Government Army, the polyglot of Political wings, and brave foreign International Brigades.

Meanwhile, it was a balmy late July night in the ancient town of Bayreuth in Northern Bavaria and the middle of its famous Bayreuth Wagner Festival, honouring its favourite son Richard Wagner, the composer. Two men in the large Orchestra exchanged glances as the Chancellor of Germany and his entourage took their seats in the special box of the splendid Festspielhaus. They recognized that there were two strangers in Hitler’s entourage. They were Langenheim and Bernhardt, both German residents of Spanish Morocco and friends of Franco. They asked themselves: ‘What are they doing so far away in Germany and fraternizing at the highest level?’

This small piece of intelligence was on Gubbins’s desk within twenty-four hours.

Tonight’s performance was Siegfried, the third of the four Operas that constitute his Ring of the Nibelung, inspired by the legend of the Norse mythological hero Sigurd. Hitler was in an expansive mood after listening to the stirring Wagnerian performance of Siegfried. After midnight, Franco’s two emissaries sat with him and Goering, Chief of the Luftwaffe. Hitler drank peppermint Tea while his guests helped themselves to Schnapps and beer.

He looked over the rim of his cup and asked the elderly Langenheim. So, my friends, you are not here by accident, so what is it to be this time?

If Franco is to have a quick victory, my Fuhrer, he needs to transfer his loyal troops of the Moroccan Garrison to the mainland.

The Fuhrer’s response was clipped and abrupt. But I was assured of a quick victory over three months ago, Herr Langenheim.

Langenheim fidgeted and then played his trump card. True, my Fuhrer, but the intervention by Stalin has stalled the advance.

"Communist das schwein, he exploded, and the teacup rattled in his hand. What does the General need."

Langenheim fidgeted again until the younger Bernhardt interjected, "ten transport aircraft Mein Fuhrer."

There was just the slightest murmur of dissent from Goring that immediately changed when Hitler said, "you shall have twenty. Eliminate every last one of the Kommunistischen schweine. He got up abruptly. Convey my best wishes to General Franco." The interview was over.

Within the month, Franco received twenty Lufthansa Ju52 Airliners modified into transports, plus six He51 biplane fighters with air and ground support crews. Within three months, the Moroccan troops were ferried to Southern Spain. This was the beginning of Nazi support that clinched the formation of the German Condor Legion in Spain to support the Nationalist uprising.

The Franco, Mussolini, and Hitler axis were sealed.

These events caused a growing concern at SOE. Major-General Sir Colin McVean Gubbins wrote a personal note to the Minister of Economic Warfare spelling out what was happening in Spain. His handwritten message concluded:

Conventional opinion has it that Germany is using the Civil War as a testing and training ground for certain elements of its armed forces. I believe the secret Nazi War Cabinet has a far more strategic vision of this conflict. A view that a National victory in Spain (which I continue to advise is all but probable if not inevitable in time) will establish a military threat on the flank of our ally France, aside from the threat to our road of life- Gibraltar and opening up sea ports on the Atlantic. With respect Minister, I feel that we are being distracted from the real aims of the German Government. They are preparing for all-out war.

Gubbins signed it with the simple letter C in green ink, a tradition inherited from the first Director of the Secret Intelligence Service, Sir George Mansfield Cumming. Gubbins’s blunt warning fell on deaf ears, at least for now, while the Civil War in Spain continued to rage.

Neither Gubbins nor Alfie told Gideon that SOE had a foot in both camps. That was ultra-secret, so secret that even His Majesty’s Government was unaware that SOE had secretly ferried Franco from the Canary Islands to Morocco.

Cantabria is on the North coast of Spain. It borders the Principado de Asturias in the west, Vizcaya in the east and Palencia and Burgos in the south. It is blessed with a consistent rainfall that, over the centuries, has paved its landscape with lush greenery and thick forest. This apparent abundance belies its contrary nature. About one hundred and fifty million years ago, nature decided to redesign the landscape of the Iberian Peninsula. It forced its way through the earth’s crust to create the one-hundred-and-eighty-mile Cantabrian Mountain chain. Nature gave the chain a unique presence, a manifestly pugnacious bearing, and a perverse character.

Fractures within the Cantabrian sharply distinguish the coastal range in the north from the Castilian plateau in the south, yet the eastern and western confines are strangely indistinguishable. Then just south of Cantabria, it rises abruptly from low foothills into gigantic limestone mountains of the Europa Peaks. Some peaks with jagged spines tower over 8,500 feet and look down disdainfully at the lesser elevations of 6,000 feet. Its central spine drives westwards with purpose in its east-west course before abruptly changing its mind west of the Narcea River valley, now to continue with obdurate single-minded tenacity in a north-to-south direction.  Despite its almost eccentric rugged physical character, the Cordillera Cantábrica mountain chain has a wild beauty attached to its ranges. It boasts a mantle of forests along the lower reaches that contain Holm Oaks, ancient Maritime Pines, lofty European Beech, and the hardy fauna that inhabits its slopes provides the tasty edible seed of the Sweet Chestnut and Hazel Nut. The forested regions are not dissimilar to their neighbouring counterpart, the Pyrenees, though it is a far more formidable obstacle than its companion.

Again, to show its independence from its cousin, the Pyrenees, the Cordillera Cantábrica mountain chain's forests have a blend and a unique mix of animals. The fierce  Iberian Wolf, the unique Iberian Lynx, the large Cantabrian brown bear, the tusked Wild Boar, the ubiquitous Cantabrian Chamois, the massive antlered Red Deer, the Spanish Ibex with its beautiful chestnut brown coat and striking backward-arching horns which are incredibly long, that cast a perfect silhouette against its rocky habitat. And again, in this diverse animal kingdom, the Spanish Wild Goat seemingly scorns the so-called lower, softer forested areas in preference for the rocky cliffs and ledges. With a total disregard for vertigo, they leap and ramble about their precarious habitat on hooves that have evolved over centuries for traction.

As if in keeping with the Cantabrian chain’s penchant for contrary behaviour, its rivers are just as rebellious. They run ferociously from their mountain fortress to carve deep valleys of rushing torrents in the northern reaches. Then in its contradictory nature, its rivers flow gently in the southern plains fed by over two hundred tributaries. Five springs at Fontibre in the Cantabrian give life to the largest river in Spain. It plunges through the mountain range by a series of deep gorges and defiles on its five hundred-and-sixty-five-mile journey to the sea, tamed by the tributaries from its gentler cousin, the Pyrenees. This wild river, with its life-giving water, is the Ebro.

Therefore, it is only natural that this harsh mountain region breeds a particular kind of human inhabitant. Whilst those from the coast and plains would readily perish in this harsh environment, these mountain peoples cling like Wild Goats to their particular region. Their hamlets were sited in hidden valleys from Roman times, their access protected by treacherous trails from the interloper and challenging to spy from the air because of the steepness of the surrounding cliffs and the fluky upward draughts of dangerous winds. They know the sheltered valleys, trails, passes, caves and river fords and share this information with no other than their own.

These people are the fiercely independent Cordillera Cantabria mountain people, who, as a tribe, valued freedom. They chose as one to fight Fascism, not necessarily with a political motive but with a passion for freedom from oppression and a desire for autonomy from a central source. And it was from this rugged, untamed beauty that the Spanish Maquis operated.

It was the sanctuary and fortress of Esteban or el Lobo.

Gideon de Boyne, now Ken Frost, the Lancet Journalist, hefted his gear and made his way along the Santander quay to the Port exit and the Ferry Terminal. If there were any Customs on duty, there were none to be seen today. The next ferry was due in half an hour; he was told when he bought his ticket. He joined the other waiting passengers. It was so peaceful it was hard to imagine he was in a country engaged in civil war, other than the posters urging the people to join the fight against Fascism. He looked around at the other waiting people, and if this was a sample of the nation’s population, it looked like all the younger men had already vanished to join the conflict. He shrugged mentally. ‘Who knows, it may be just the time of day or just returning old farmers from Somo across the bay.’ It was nearing siesta time!

Shunning the waiting knot of passengers in animated conversation, no doubt about their Civil war, he settled down instead on the stone quay, his back to a stout wooden bollard. The sun was pleasantly warm as it had been at sea, and the long days of sunbathing on the deck had knocked the distinct whiteness from his skin. He could do with a lot more. The better to blend in.

The Ferry ride was pleasant, and no one attempted to strike up a conversation, unlike his fellow passengers on the trains in France. The civil war had already taught them to leave strangers alone. Suspicion, he deduced, had already subliminally become part of the Spaniard's psyche. However, his quietly roving eyes had picked out one abnormality. A young man, or boy, had mingled with the other travellers. It was hard to tell his age. While waiting for the ferry, Gideon had not seen him, so he must have slipped aboard at the last minute. He stood out for one reason. There were no other young men or boys around.

He mentally gave himself a tick for observation. Basil would be proud of him and to pass the time mused at the SOE Observation Course. His Instructor screamed at him, Concentrate, you Halfwit; you missed the fucking blind man with a cane in the group. You can take his bleeding place. Concentrate, and so it went on at different times of the evening sessions.

He exited the small quay at Sumo and climbed through the steep streets. He deliberately dropped something on the ground and picked it up without turning. He walked a few steps and turned to check if he had dropped something else. He spotted the young man, who stepped out and hurriedly ducked back into a doorway.

Gideon continued until he reached the country lane leading to the Posada Mies. He stopped briefly in the front garden to admire the typical old Cantabrian farmhouse with its Arab-tiled roof and thick stone walls. Neither was he disappointed inside as he went through the stout wooden door marked Entrar that creaked on its ancient hinges. Looking around in the cool, dim interior, he took in its robust stone arches and solid oak beams that reflected the strength and durability of the construction. It would last a few more centuries, he mused. He rang a small bell on the counter and heard a voice call out, un momento por favor. A strapping man soon followed the voice, and he briefly wondered why he had not answered the strident call of the Posters; until he saw that most of his left palm had been removed surgically or blown off. He knew this was Antonio Ibaǹez that Alf had described.

Joshua sent me.

Antonio shrugged as he opened a register and turned it toward Gideon to enter his details. "My name is Antonio, or Tony for short,