Death in the Hills

By Charles Alan Green

1937 dawned over the golden sun kissed lands of Spain, upon a divided country and a vicious and bloody Civil War. The war had, originally, begun as a simple military coup, back in mid-July of the previous year. At first it looked as though it would carry the day, but due to the early up-rising in the Spanish protectorate of Morocco, the timing of the revolt on the mainland was thrown into disarray, and due to this certain areas didn’t commence their planned revolts at the designated time. In particular, the major cities of Barcelona and Madrid were both critically effected by the timing of these events, and the whole of the 18th July was spent in inactivity. It was this delay, to the originally planned timetable, that enabled the republican government, but more importantly, especially in Barcelona, the unions and other forces on the left, to organise some sort of resistance. It was this fact, which meant that they were able to defeat the rebellion in these, and several other vital towns and cities. By the end of the 20th July, after the first two days of the rebellion, and bitter fighting throughout the length and breadth of the country, the battle lines had been drawn, and Spain was a nation split into two basic zones. The areas that remained loyal, under the control of the government, and the rest of Spain, which was now under the command of the rebel’s or nationalist’s as they were to become known.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823082976

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2023 Charles Alan Green. 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.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/08/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8296-9 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8297-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023910762

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Cover Picture - : Republican T26 tank

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BRIGADISTA

Tirade of the Brigade

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The First Stand Against Fascism

DEDICATED TO

The Brave and Gallant men and women who left their home lands to fight for liberty and freedom in Spain.

Also to my wondrous Daughter and Granddaughter who are the light of my life.

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Hotel Voramar - Benicásim

Commandeered for the

International Brigades Hospital

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MAP OF SPAIN NOVEMBER 1937.

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Republican Controlled Areas = 43681.png

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TOM WINTRINGHAM –

BRITISH COMMANDER AT THE JARAMA

CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter 1 The Barrack Block

Chapter 2 Mola

Chapter 3 The International Brigade

Chapter 4 El Caudillo

Chapter 5 On The move Again

Chapter 6 The Destination

Chapter 7 Allies

Chapter 8 Recuperation

Chapter 9 The Jarama Valley

Chapter 10 The Fight for Malaga

Chapter 11 Command

Chapter 12 The Advance

Chapter 13 The Legionnaire

Chapter 14 Defend Those Bloody Hills

Chapter 15 Just Run Like Hell

Chapter 16 A Nervous Night

Chapter 17 AWOL

Chapter 18 One More Night

Chapter 19 Tank Attack

Chapter 20 Jimmy

Chapter 21 Scapegoat

Chapter 22 The Great Skedaddle

Chapter 23 Leave

Chapter 24 Court Martial

Chapter 25 BANG! ‘n’ he’s Gone

Chapter 26 Benicàssim

Chapter 27 Barcelona Burning

Chapter 28 Rocquea

Chapter 29 One More Night

Chapter 30 The Hero Returns

Chapter 31 To Fly Is To Die

Chapter 32 Brunette

Chapter 33 Atrocities

Chapter 34 The Love Affair

Epilogue

History

PREFACE

1937 dawned over the golden sun kissed lands of Spain, upon a divided country and a vicious and bloody Civil War. The war had, originally, begun as a simple military coup, back in mid-July of the previous year. At first it looked as though it would carry the day, but due to the early up-rising in the Spanish protectorate of Morocco, the timing of the revolt on the mainland was thrown into disarray, and due to this certain areas didn’t commence their planned revolts at the designated time. In particular, the major cities of Barcelona and Madrid were both critically effected by the timing of these events, and the whole of the 18th July was spent in inactivity. It was this delay, to the originally planned timetable, that enabled the republican government, but more importantly, especially in Barcelona, the unions and other forces on the left, to organise some sort of resistance. It was this fact, which meant that they were able to defeat the rebellion in these, and several other vital towns and cities. By the end of the 20th July, after the first two days of the rebellion, and bitter fighting throughout the length and breadth of the country, the battle lines had been drawn, and Spain was a nation split into two basic zones. The areas that remained loyal, under the control of the government, and the rest of Spain, which was now under the command of the rebel’s or nationalist’s as they were to become known.

The three major cities of Spain, Madrid, Barcelona and Valencia had all stayed loyal, and in government hands, whilst Seville and Zaragoza had been captured by the Nationalists. Catalonia, the Basque Country, and most of the eastern seaboard had remained republican, whilst all of Spanish Morocco, the Canary Islands, Andalusia, with the exception of the eastern coastal strip, and most of the agricultural areas of the central and northern Spain had been captured or had come over to the nationalist cause.

One of the major problems, which the nationalists had faced in the summer of 1936, had been how they were to bring the army of Morocco over the Straits of Gibraltar, to Spain. It was imperative to get these troops over to the mainland, to assist in the conquering of the areas, which had remained in government hands. The army in Africa was by far the most experienced and best equipped unit in the whole of the Spanish armed forces, and was commanded by a certain general Francisco Franco, who was destined to become the leader of the nationalist cause. The reason that getting the army across the straight’s was such a cause for concern, for the forces of the right, was simple. Despite the fact that the officers of the fleet had come out in favour of the rebellion, on the morning of the 17th, the crews had other ideas and had mutinied, overthrown their officers, and in certain cases they had actually thrown their officers overboard, and taken over command of the vessels of the fleet,. After gaining control of their ships, and in some cases murdering their commanding officers, the sailors had then proceeded to blockade the Straits of Gibraltar, which, in turn, made it virtually impossible for Franco to get his forces over to the mainland by sea. The only units of the fleet, that the nationalist’s had managed to capture where in Galicia on the northwest coast of Spain, which was miles away from where they were most needed, and furthermore most of these vessels were in no fit state to sail for weeks, if not months. So the only way to get the army across the water was by an airlift.

Almost immediately another problem became apparent, they only had a few aircraft at their disposal, most of which weren’t fit for transporting masses of troops. At best, they found that they were only able to ferry a couple of hundred, or so, of their troops over every day. This, state of affairs simply couldn’t be allowed to carry on, the rate they were going at that moment it would mean that it was likely take months to ferry anywhere near sufficient numbers of men over to the mainland, and of course they wouldn’t be able to carry any of the larger, or major items of equipment. This situation was something that the leaders of the rebellion, soon realised, they could simply not allow. If they weren’t able to get their troops across the straights quickly, and unimpeded, the rising would, in all likelihood, be doomed to failure. This particular sticky problem was solved by the intervention of the Italian and German governments, who supplied Franco with all the aircraft necessary to make it possible, for the first major airlift of troops in the history of warfare to be carried out. Once the airlift had started in earnest, the Italian SM-79 bombers, with the help of two German battle cruisers, which had been rushed to the area by the Kriegsmarine, had scoured the straights of the Republican fleet, which had beat a hasty retreat back to the port of Cartagena, further up the Mediterranean coast.

The help and assistance of these two right winged, fascist style, governments went further than just simply supplying transport aircraft, or sending part of their navies to the area. They both went on to supply the nationalists with arms, tanks, guns, trucks, bombers and fighters, all with the munitions and back up units that they needed to be effective. These weapons enabled the army under Franco to race up from the South of Spain right up to the very outskirts of the city of Madrid.

The amount of aid, that Franco received, was staggering. In all the Italians supplied a total of 130 aircraft, 2,500 tons of bombs, 500 cannons, 700 mortars, 12,000 machine-guns, 50 whippet (CV3-33) tankettes, and 3,800 motor vehicles. In December of ‘36 Benito Mussolini, the Italian dictator, began sending large numbers of his Black Shirts, (the Italian Fascist Militia), over to Spain. By the end of the year there were over 3,000 members of these Black Shirted battalions serving in Spain. Some of these Italian troops took part in the fighting around Madrid, and went on to perform the major role in the fall of Malaga, in February 1937. By this time the number, of Black Shirts serving in Spain, had risen to over 30,000, there were also approximately 20,000 members of the regular Italian Army, officially fighting as volunteers, in Spain. Most of these, so called volunteers, only realised that they were heading for Spain when the ships they were on docked at one of the Spanish ports, most had believed that they were bound for Africa.

Meanwhile the German’s originally sent 26 fighter aircraft and 30 Junkers 52s transport/bombers from Berlin. The later aircraft were to prove vital to Franco, making it possible for him to ferry his army over to the mainland in sufficient quantity. Hitler was later to give his permission for the formation of the now infamous ‘Condor Legion’ to be formed. The initial force, of the Legion, consisted of a Bomber Group, containing three squadrons of Ju-52 bombers; a Fighter Group with three squadrons of He-51 fighters; a Reconnaissance Group with two squadrons of He-99 and He-70 reconnaissance bombers; and a Seaplane Squadron of He-59 and He-60 floatplanes. The Condor Legion, was put under the command of General Hugo Sperrle, and was an autonomous unit responsible only to Franco. The legion would eventually grow to total nearly 12,000 men. General Sperrle demanded higher performance aircraft from Germany as it soon became clear that the Russian Chato (pug-nosed) Polikarpov I-15 and Mosca (fly) Polikarpov I-16 Fighters, which the Soviet Union had been supplying the republic with, were of a much higher quality and performance, particularly the I-16 Mosca, than the He-51’s originally supplied by the Luftwaffe. The legion was to eventually receive the new Heinkel He111, Junkers Ju87 Stuka dive bomber, as well as the excellent Messerschmitt Bf109 fighter, by far the best machine to serve in the peninsula, on either side.

This assistance, which Franco, who by the end of September had become the undisputed leader of the nationalist cause, received, was a major factor in the early successes of the nationalist forces. It wasn’t until Russian aid, supplied by Stalin in response to Hitler and Mussolini’s continued assistance of Franco, arrived in quantity, that the republic was able to compete on anywhere near equal terms, and stop the nationalists at the outskirts of Madrid, in December of 1936.

That support from Russia, and Mexico, plus the introduction of what were to become known as the famous International Brigades, was a major factor in the stalemate at Madrid. These foreign volunteers helped to bolster the moral, and efficiency, of the republican civilians and forces, in its hour of need. The failure by the nationalists to capture Madrid, and the timely arrival of aid from the Soviet Union, meant that the civil war would drag on and cause far more damage, and suffering, and cost many more lives. It was estimated by the German attaché that the Soviet Union supplied at least 242 aircraft, over 700 artillery pieces of various calibres, 731 tanks, which were the best armoured vehicles in the Peninsula, by far. 300 armoured cars, nearly 1400 trucks, 15,000 heavy machine guns, 30,000 sub-machine guns and over 500,000 rifles plus tons of ammunition and advisers/volunteers to help them use all this equipment.

With the amount of military aid and assistance flooding into the Iberian Peninsula, on both sides, it should be no surprise that a kind of impasse ensued, at the end of 36, in and around Madrid and the rest of Spain. The early part of 37 would see several attempts to break this stalemate, particularly in and around Madrid, and some of the most vicious fighting since the dreadful losses in the trench warfare of the First World War, would ensue, in the hills and valleys surrounding the capitol.

This novel is the story of the second year of that bloody and tragic conflict, and the battles, which ensued in and around Madrid as Franco once again tried to subjugate the city. The trials and tribulations, of a country at war with itself events which would rip the country apart and terrorise her people. Paul and his friends, from Britain, would find themselves thrust into the savage fighting around the capital, once more, but this time instead of fighting from within the university buildings as they had done the previous November, they would be fighting in the hills and fields of the Jarama Valley, as part of the British Battalion of the famous XV International Brigade. The republic, and our friends, had also to contend with the tragic and catastrophic counter revolution, which swept the republican zone in the spring of 1937, as the communists tried to take total control of the whole republican zone, and assert their dominance on the government.

The International Brigades ultimately became a sort of international extension of the Red Army, and any Anarchists, POUM, or members of any other of the Militia units that sprang up in the great revolutionary summer of ’36, found themselves under suspicion, and in some cases incarcerated, or even executed, all because they joined another group other than the communists, this tragic turn of events was the

TIRADE OF THE BRIGADE

CHAPTER ONE

THE BARRACK BLOCK

When we assumed the Soldier, we did not lay aside the Citizen.

George Washington

T he room was dark, and dank, with the rank musty odour of stale sweat, of men who had been thrust together, hanging in the pungent air. The room in question was nothing more than a large wooden shack, which doubled as a makeshift barrack block. It was surrounded by a 6ft fence, resembling a prison cell rather than a barrack block. It was positioned on the outskirts of the village of Madrigueras, in the Castile-La Mancha region of Spain. The little village lay approximately 170 miles south east of the Spanish capital Madrid.

The occupants in the room, of which there were five in total, were all sat around an up turned packing case, which was doubling as a kind of makeshift table, at the far end of the block. These, somewhat, wretched forms of humanity were all huddled around an old black steel stove that was acting as an inefficient heater, absorbed in a game of cards. Each of the Five had a bottle, in his hands, of the local brew, which was made from the locally grown rice, and was quite potent, indeed it left you with severe pains at the rear of your eyes in the morning, if you were foolish enough to drink too much of the sour liquid. The door of the block was suddenly flung open, and a blast of freezing, frigid air raced through the shack, and swirled amongst the rafters, the flames in the oil lamp, on the packing case, flickered in protest, as the blast made it dance in its gust. The card players all looked up from their game, towards the door to see who had disturbed their evening. As they did so they saw four figures, wrapped up against the bitter cold, enter the cabin. The newcomers flung their kit down on the first available bunks as they, thankfully, slammed the door shut behind them, to once again block out the frosty air, which it didn’t totally manage to do due to the many gaps in the timber boards that formed the walls of the dismal block.

One of the five card players smiled to himself, turned towards the four wretched forms, and said. ‘Where the bloody hell have you lot been?’ He threw his cards down on the packing case that they was doubling as their table, and stood to greet the newcomers. He was only too glad to throw his cards down, because the hand he had been dealt was dreadful, and the distraction meant that he could get away without losing anymore of his money, so far he had had a bad night. He walked towards the four as they started to store their kit in the lockers provided. ‘I was told that you reprobates would have been here a couple of days back. I suppose you got waylaid in some brothel or something.’

‘Piss off you tosser,’ one of the four responded, smiling from ear to ear, and threw his arms around the card player slapping him affectionately on the back.

The four newcomers knew the card player well, his name was Steve, he was of average height, quite athletic in stature, and came from the East End of London. The last time the four had seen of him, was when they had seen him off to hospital back on the Aragon Front, at the end of last October. Steve had, unfortunately, been wounded in the arm during a trench raid they had all taken part in. At the time they had all been fighting on the Aragon front as part of the now famous Durruti Column, an anarchist militia unit that had its origins in the summer of 1936 in the city of Barcelona.

The four reprobates, as Steve so poetically put it, were Paul, Andy, Mark and Chris, and together with Steve, the card player, they were all English athletes, who had arrived in Barcelona way back in July of the previous year, to take part in what was to be called the Peoples Olympiad. The Olympiad was an event organised by the republican government of Spain, as a sort of left wing alternative to the official Olympic Games, which were being held that year, by the Nazis, in Berlin. Unfortunately for them, and Spain, the rebellion had broken out just as the games were due to start, so instead of athletic glory, they had all found themselves instead being embroiled in the vicious street fighting, which had broken out in several places throughout Barcelona. That was where they had met Buenaventura Durruti, the infamous anarchist leader, and they had, in fact, eventually been enlisted into his group. Apart from the Street fighting in Barcelona, and trench fighting on the Aragon front, where Steve had picked up his wound, the remainder had gone on, without him, to Madrid. There they had been involved in the brutal block to block fighting within the University City area of the city. The fighting, which they had taken part in there had eventually stopped the nationalists advance on the city. Unfortunately, however, Durruti had been killed in somewhat suspicious circumstances that were still a major talking point in republican Spain. After his death his brigade had been broken up, and spread out amongst the various units of the republican army. As they were British, they had been sent off to the International Brigades, and that was why they were here in this bleak and cold barrack block, in the village of Madrigueras, just to the north of the city of Albacete, where the headquarters of the International Brigade was located.

‘Where’s Dave?’ Steve enquired, looking round the group to make sure he hadn’t missed his entrance.

‘You mean you don’t know,’ Andy asked, looking a little astounded at that realisation, ‘has no one here told you!’

‘What the hell are you on about? No one’s told me anything,’ Steve replied a little nonplussed.

‘Surely when they told you that we were being posted here, they must have told you what had happened?’ Paul added ‘I mean it’s weeks ago now, they must of told you.’

‘No’ Steve admitted ‘I told you, no one’s told me nothing apart from the fact that you lot were coming here.’ Steve said, looking a little mystified and confused. ‘Why what’s up?’ He asked, suddenly fearing the worst.

‘After you left we went on to Madrid,’ Paul explained, ‘and ended up taking part in the defence of the university area there.’

‘Ye I know, I read about it whilst in hospital,’ Steve confirmed, ‘do you know, they had English papers, you know shipped over from London, you’d think they would have had far more important things to do then import bloody newspapers.’

‘Have you finished,’ Chris patiently asked, ‘or don’t you want to hear about what happened to poor old Dave.’

‘Ye sorry mate, so go on then, what did happen? I mean he’s alright ain’t he?’ Steve enquired, becoming even more concerned about Dave’s safety.

‘No he isn’t, as I was trying to tell you, the Durruti Brigade disintegrated in its first attack on the fascists lines’ Paul continued his story. ‘This lot weren’t anything like the ones we came up against on the Aragon front, or in Barcelona for that matter. These were Moroccans, and real bastards they were too, they just kept coming at us no matter how many casualties they took. Well as I was saying the brigade just couldn’t take it, they just turned and fled, ‘n’ we ended up inside one of the university buildings fighting alongside the International Brigade, there were even several Brits amongst ‘em.’

‘But what the hell happened to Dave?’ Steve impatiently wanted to know.

‘I was just coming to that,’ Paul irritably replied. ‘As I was saying, we ended up being forced out of the building we occupied, and as we retreated down the fire escape at the back of the block, it being our only way out, Dave was shot in the leg. It was a bad un too. A machine gun burst almost took his leg clean off. We got to him and carried him to the field hospital but they couldn’t save his leg, he should by now be back in Barcelona awaiting passage back home.’

‘Thank God for that,’ Steve commented with some relief, the others looked at him in astonishment, to which he quickly added. ‘I didn’t mean it like that! It’s just that I thought he had been killed or summat. So it’s a bit of a relief to hear that he is still alive, if you know what I mean.’

‘Ye well, we do, I think,’ Mark responded, ‘but somehow I don’t think Dave feels he’s so lucky.’

They then filled Steve in with all the other news, about the fighting in and around Madrid, and the eventual stalemate that had ended the attack on the city. They also told him about the indiscriminate shelling and aerial bombing of the city, and the death of Durruti. He in turn told them about his wound, and the treatment he received, the hospital, and of course the nurses, especially the nurses. It was after a while that Steve finally recovered his manners, and eventually turned to introduce his four friends to the rest of the card players, who were still massed around the stove at the far end of the block looking on in some amusement.

‘Lads,’ he started, looking at the other card players, ‘this awful looking bunch of misfits and bandits, are my friends and comrades, you know the ones I warned you about.’

One of the Card players stood and moved across to the four newcomers, and held out his hand in greeting, Paul who at 5’-11" was a good four inches taller than the trooper with the outstretched hand, eagerly grasped it and shook it enthusiastically.

‘Hi I’m Rodger,’ the trooper stated, ‘and these are Mick, Alf, and last but not least Henry,’ the card player explained, as each of the other players stood and shook hands with the four newcomers.

Rodger turned out to be in his late Twenties and from Portsmouth, he had previously been a leading seaman aboard HMS Barham one of the big battle wagons of the Royal Navies Battle Fleet. He was a sturdy well-built man with dark wavy hair and dark deep-set eyes, as for his companions, Mick was from County Cork in Southern Ireland, and had a healthy dislike for anything English, which fortunately did not extend to his companions. Of the others were Alf, who was tall at about 6’ 2" and slightly overweight what you would have termed chubby rather than fat, with a happy looking face. He was to Paul’s and Mark’s surprise also from the Lancashire, the town of Burnley to be precise, which was just up the road from Bolton, where both Paul and Andy came from, and was even closer to Bury, which was Marks home town.

Mark shook the offered hand then said, ‘so you are an inbred then, are you?’ That was what the people from Burnley were known as, because they were up in the hills. Well actually that term was more reserved for those from Rossendale really, but Mark decided that it was also appropriate for those from Burnley too.

‘That’s rich coming from a vampire,’ Damon laughed. That was a dig at the fact that Burys claim to fame is it’s world famous black puddings who’s main ingredient is blood.

The last member of the card playing quartet was Henry, he was a Geordie from Middlesbrough although they were to learn in time not to call him a Geordie as he would give them a lecture about the geography of the north east whenever they did so. They ended up just calling him smoggy that was apparently a local term for the people of Middlesbrough, because of the industrial nature of the town.

The four card players, had all made their own way to Spain where upon arrival in Barcelona they had enrolled in one of the many militia units that had sprung up there. The one that they had all chosen was called the POUM (Partido Obrero de Unificaciónón Marxist), and had then found themselves shunted off to the Aragon front until they had decided to enlist in the recently formed International Brigades back in December. They had then found themselves transferred to the Village of Madrigueras where they now found themselves, in this old ramshackle cabin.

CHAPTER TWO

MOLA

I like whiskey. I always did, and that is why I never drink it.

Robert E Lee

G eneral Emilio Mola Vidal, was once again back in the grand old city of Pamplona, the home of the famous running of the bulls, known locally as the San Fermín. He was actually back in his old office within the town hall. It was from this very office that he had issued the original orders and instructions, which had put the rebellion into being, way back in July of last year; it all seemed a life time ago now. As he eased back in to the chair and studied the old familiar surroundings, so much had happened and so many good friends and colleagues were now no longer with him. Mola was one of the originators of the rebellion, indeed the main protagonist in those early days, and it was from this very same office within the Ayuntamiento (Town Hall) of Pamplona that he had planned and issued the final orders which had put the wheels into motion, that had led to those historic events, which had eventually led to this protracted and bloody civil war, that was now ripping Spain apart. Mola loved Spain, the fatherland, it was after all a country that he had served to the best of his abilities all his adult life, and to see the hurt and adversity that had befallen her now was like a dagger to his heart, but he knew that it was an ill that she simply had to endure. The republican government and the leftist scum, which had attached themselves to it, had to be stopped at all costs, and unfortunately the cleansing of that disease, which was now taking place, was a necessary evil to save Spain in the long run and scour her of the communist filth that was corrupting her.

It was also in this office, that he had last seen his younger brother, Ramon, and it was here that he had told him to go back to Barcelona, and if need be die like a man. Well from all the information, which he had been able to piece together, from the various informants, and prisoners captured, on the Aragon front, it appears that his little brother had indeed died like a man. He had, from all the accounts that he had gathered, fought bravely all day in the street fighting in Barcelona, and in defence of the Dependencias Militares Building, which is situated on the opposite side of the street from the Atarazanas Barracks. The building had eventually been captured, after the disastrous radio broadcast by the now hated traitor general Goded, which had sapped the moral and the will to resist of the defenders, and had led to them to surrender the building to the mob. Ramon apparently, had found an office on one of the upper floors, from where he had shot himself rather than fall into the hands of the communists filth.

It had certainly been a very brave deed by his brother, and something that Mola didn’t believe him capable of. He had previously always thought of Ramon as somewhat of a week willed individual, who had made his way in the army on the back of Mola’s successes and reputation, but now he had a totally different opinion of him. The only trouble was, he now would not be able to tell him how proud of him he was.

Mola himself was a tall elegant middle aged man, he still had a full head of dark hair, without too much grey showing, despite all the stress he had been under during the planning and running of the rebellion. His hair was slicked back tight to his scalp and he wore rounded spectacles upon his nose, he was also clean shaven, which was somewhat unusual for a senior officer in the Spanish Armed Forces, as they all seemed to prefer some form of facial hair. Mola had always prided himself on his appearance, and no matter how long a day he had worked, at the office, issuing orders and gathering intelligence and the sort, he had always maintained a certain code of dress. He had made sure that he always had a newly laundered, and immaculately pressed uniform each and every morning. If he had a failing at all it was his fear of flying, he hated it, and even though he always managed to keep his fears under control, so anyone else on the flight he was travelling on would never have known, he was truly petrified of it. Whenever he was forced into taking a dreaded flight, he always flew with his shoes off. The reason for this strange behaviour was because when he had been younger a gypsy lady had once told him that he would die with his boots on.

Mola had moved his office from Pamplona, last July just a couple of days, or so, into the uprising, to the much more appropriate nationalist city of Burgess, the old capitol of the medieval kingdom of Castile. From there had set up the offices in charge of the nationalist army of the north, from what was after all the most nationalist of Spanish cities. It was only supposed to be a temporary placement for him to be in charge, he was due to hand over command, of not only the northern sector, but the whole of nationalist Spain to general José Sanjurjo (the lion of the Rif), but that hadn’t been possible. The reason why was because the aircraft, which he himself had organised to bring the general back to Spain from his exile in Portugal, had crashed on take-off, and had then burst into flames, which had unfortunately killed the luckless general. He had been trapped in his seat after the crash and despite several gallant attempts by the pilot, Juan Antonio Ansaldo, who had been thrown clear in the initial crash, to rescue him, he had ultimately succumbed to the flames. All of which had only helped emphasise to Mola that all his fears of flight were justified. The thing with this unfortunate crash; was that it meant that it had ended up leaving him in charge of the whole rebellion.

That state of affairs, however, hadn’t lasted too long, because just after a couple of months, and once Franco had managed to ferry himself and his army of Africa over the Straits of Gibraltar, to commence his inexorable march on Madrid, which united the two halves of nationalist territory, at the end of September Franco had been elected as leader of nationalist Spain, which had taken much of the immediate stress off Mola’s shoulders.

Mola had to admit that Franco had been like a breath of fresh air blowing through the higher echelons of the nationalist leadership. He had truly been a whirlwind, raging through the ranks and the various entities on the right wing of Spanish society. Within days of his assumption of power in the nationalist zone, he had called all the leaders of the various factions together in Burgos and had persuaded, cajoled, threatened, and bullied them into aligning themselves with the cause, a cause that had him at its head. The Carlists, Falange, Royalists, Politicians, and Church leaders, had all come into line with the Army under one united banner, Franco’s.

Mola had been impressed, he had always known that Franco was an excellent officer whose record spoke for itself, but the way he had completely dominated the nationalist zone, since he had taken command, proved that he was a very special, and driven man indeed. Mola had originally organised the rebellion so that general Sanjurjo who had organised and led a failed coup back in 32, and was at the time of Mola’s uprising in exile on the Algarve in Portugal, would come back and take overall command. That didn’t quite go has planned because of the plane crash, in which he had been unfortunately killed, which had left a power vacuum in the nationalist area, a vacuum that Franco had filled with professionalism and proficiency.

With events in the major cities of Barcelona and Madrid not going the way he had planned, and the dreadful news of the crash in Portugal, Mola had started to have serious doubts as to the eventual outcome of the rebellion. It was Franco who had phoned him and steadied his nerves, with the solid advice of the pragmatist. He had also given him orders to set in motion the advance, which had eventually taken the towns of Irun and San Sebastian, and thus isolated the Basque country from France. He had then set in motion the drive, which eventually liberated the besieged colonel Antonio Aranda and his garrison over in Oviedo.

Mola realised that it was that particular phone call from Franco, was perhaps the moment when Franco finally believed that he could become overall commander of the nationalists, and from then on he started to issue orders and commands to everyone. He also put into motion the moves, which would eventually, and after the death of Sanjurjo almost inevitably lead to him becoming what was now called the Caudillo, (leader the equivalent to Führer in Nazi Germany, or il Duce in fascist Italy), of nationalist Spain.

Looking back on events now, with the benefit of hindsight, Mola knew that after the tragic loss of general Sanjurjo, Franco had been the right and probably the only choice to take command of the cause. He was the best man to lead them in the war, particularly as he was the only person who had the confidence of the Italians and especially the Germans. Whether he was the best person to lead the country in the piece time, after they had defeated the left wing scum remained to be seen.

In the meantime, Mola had a job to do; he had to at first contain and then systematically reduce the Basque Country. He had several of the major units of the fleet to assist him in his quest, but it was the land forces who would have to complete the defeat of the Basques, and he knew that he had insufficient troops to accomplish that particular task. He needed more troops, but not just quantity, what he really needed was quality. The troops under his command in the north were in the most part conscripts, who had only just begun their basic training when the rebellion had erupted. Mola also knew that if not all, then certainly a high percentage of them if given the option, or the chance, would certainly far sooner be serving for the other side, most of the conscripts came from peasant stock, or working the classes.

All the most efficient troops in the northern sector had followed him on his march on Madrid, as part of Franco’s plan to invest the city from two sides. The problem was that these troops had quite rightly stayed in the vicinity of Madrid, even after he had been recalled to the north. Equipment was as big a problem as troops were, all the major equipment such as tanks, artillery pieces and vehicles were also still at Madrid. All he had on the Basque front were a few of the lesser styled armoured cars, and one or two vintage guns, and with these meagre resources Franco expected him to conquer the whole of the Basque region? He knew that he would be lucky if he could contain them in their own region, and he hoped and prayed that they did not launch a determined offensive of their own, as he would be hard pushed to stop it, if they did. In fact the best he thought that he could achieve, in those circumstances, would be a fighting withdrawal, and to try to buy time for reinforcements to be rushed up to assist him. He could alter this affair if he wanted to, he in theory, controlled the forces surrounding the north of Madrid and therefore he could transfer men and equipment over to the Basque front, if he so wished. He knew, however, that the real battles, which would decide the destiny of Spain, would be fought in and around the major cities, and central areas of Spain, not in the relative back water of the Basque Country, so he would simply have to make do with the forces at hand as best he could.

CHAPTER THREE

THE INTERNATIONAL BRIGADE

The International Brigades and the British volunteers were, numerically, only a small part of the Republican forces, but nearly all had accepted the need for organization and order in civilian life.

Bill Alexander

(Commander of the British Brigade 1938-9)

M adrigueras was a relatively small village, of only about three hundred or so inhabitants who lived in the rather squalid looking sand stoned coloured blocks, which served as houses. These houses, where strung out along the tight little lanes that meandered off the rather drab and dreary looking main street, at the end of which stood the shell of the now burnt out and abandoned village church.

Paul and his companions had been in Spain long enough now to have grown accustomed to the desecration of churches, by the republicans. They had seen enough of this sort of thing whilst in Barcelona the previous summer. No matter how often they had witnessed these acts of wanton destruction, to Paul’s mind at least, it still made him feel ill at ease whenever and wherever they came across the evidence of such acts committed against the church. They had arrived in the village during the period between Christmas and New Year, and had found themselves isolated from the rest of the brigade, in the old frigid cabin up the road, which served them as a barrack block on the edge of the village.

Indeed the whole experience which they had endured since the breakup of the Durruti column back in Madrid, at the end of last November, was rather disturbing, and in their opinion totally unwarranted, and had left a bad taste in the mouth. They had been shipped out of Madrid on the evening of the 16th December and it had taken them the best part of a week to get to the regional city of Albacete, the city that served as the head quarters for the International Brigades. Once they had arrived in Albacete they had been billeted in, of all places, the former local Civil Guards station, which was situated a few streets away from the rather splendid looking ‘Gran Hotel’ building, which was being used as the headquarters for the brigades. The old civil guards building was being used as a billet for the new arrivals, who had come to join the international brigades,