Looking for Trouble, page 11
The scene was incongruous. While the press officers were opening their potato omelettes and gulping down their wine, the guns shuddered and split the air, coughing out blue fire as the shells went moaning across the countryside. It took the explosives twenty-five seconds to reach the Republican stronghold, a mountain-top about two miles away; then there was a muffled crash and shrapnel rained down upon the hill like black soot. Each time the guns fired, the mules brayed hysterically, but no one seemed to mind the noise. The soldiers went on sleeping and the press officers went on drinking their wine and chaffing each other about the fun they would have in Paris when the war was over.
As I sat there in the sunshine I had a feeling of revulsion; when the gunner pulled the lanyard I automatically counted twenty-five and wondered for whom the sands were running out. According to one of the officers there were about a thousand men on the hill. Their ammunition had given out several days before, and it was only a question of time before they surrendered—if there were any left to surrender.
The inequality of the two armies was striking. Besides being better equipped, Franco’s troops were better organized and disciplined. Of the Republic’s six hundred thousand soldiers, there were probably less than four thousand who had ever had any previous military experience. The majority of the twenty thousand international volunteers were not trained soldiers but ordinary working-class men recruited by the Communist parties of the world. The Russians were estimated at about two thousand, consisting of air pilots, staff officers, gunners and technicians. To me, it seemed extraordinary that they had been able to hold out as long as they had against the Nationalists’ trained forces.
Aside from Franco’s civilian conscription, he had eighty thousand Italians, which included three regular army divisions; he had an experienced Foreign Legion, hard-fighting Moorish regiments, the Guardia Civil, the regular Spanish Army, and ten thousand German “technicians” and pilots.
As I sat on the hill, I wondered what Spaniards thought of foreigners slaughtering their countrymen. The officer in charge of the batteries was an Italian. He was smartly dressed in a turtle-necked sweater and high polished boots, and each time he gave the signal to fire he lifted his cane gracefully as though he were conducting a symphony orchestra. He came over to talk to us and commented on the enemy, saying: “Stubborn devils! They don’t know when they are beaten.”
“Of course not,” retorted Major Lombarri proudly. “They’re Spaniards.” Somehow it all seemed slightly confusing.
Suddenly we saw a long line of men with picks and shovels come around a bend in the distance. Captain Aguilera interrupted us excitedly: “Red prisoners, captured at Santander. I hear they built one of the mountain roads in eight days. Not much chance for sleep, eh? That’s the way to treat them. If we didn’t need roads I would like to borrow a rifle and pick off a couple.”
Lunch was finally over. Major Lombarri collected the picnic-boxes and threw them down the far side of the slope, then said he would take us to where the Commandant was directing operations. He shepherded Captain Aguilera, Dick Sheepshanks and me into his car and drove us over a road that spiralled for several miles through the mountains. At the bends the chauffeur honked the horn loudly, but jammed on his brakes when he was suddenly confronted by a large Italian truck. Everyone got out and argued as to whether or not there was room to pass. The Italians said it was easy, but when they pulled past they hit one of our mudguards. We were on the outside and our rear right-hand wheel tilted over the edge. The driver accelerated loudly and, fortunately, the car leapt back on the road. The Major was furious and shouted after the Italians: “Try killing the enemy for a change.”
We left the car in a clearing and went the rest of the way on foot. Hundreds of soldiers were sprawled on the ground on either side of the narrow path. Some of the men were repairing machine guns, some brushing down mules, and others just sleeping. When we reached the top of the hill we found the Commandant having lunch in a small dug-out with two officers. He was a plump, middle-aged man who greeted us warmly and insisted that we all crowd into the tiny space. Although we told him we had finished lunch, he produced a bottle of Malaga wine, some chocolate cookies and a plate of tinned American pineapple. He winked and said he was sympathetic to Americans because he was not one to forget that America had quite a slice of Spain. His name was Pablo, or Paul, he said, and what was mine? When he heard it was Virginia, he was delighted. “Paul and Virginia,” he repeated. And had I read the book?
Just then one of the soldiers came in and said a message had been received that a squadron of airplanes was on its way to machine-gun the enemy positions. We went outside and soon we saw six small specks swoop down over the hill like birds of prey. They went backwards and forwards for nearly an hour, and occasionally, when the wind was right, we could hear the far-away rattle of bullets.
At last we started home. As we threaded our way down the hill past men, mules and machine-guns, I asked Major Lombarri what the ordinary soldier would say if he were asked why he was fighting. “Oh, they know all right,” he said. “We will stop and ask one.”
We questioned a boy of about nineteen who was lying in the grass gnawing a piece of bread and cheese. He was a peasant from Seville, and when the Major put my question to him, he replied: “We are fighting the Reds.” I asked what he meant by the Reds, and he said: “The people who have been misled by Moscow.” Why did he think they had been misled? And he answered: “They are very poor. In Spain it is easy to be misled.”
Captain Aguilera, who had been standing next to me, interrupted. “So you think people aren’t satisfied?”
The boy looked frightened. “I didn’t say that, Señor.”
“You said they were poor. It sounds to me as though you are filled with Red ideas yourself.”
Dick and I walked away and Captain Aguilera and the Major came after us. “That’s the sort of thing we must stamp out,” said Aguilera.
“Oh, well,” sighed the Major, “it is all very confusing. When the war is over, I’m going back to Vogue.”
* * *
—
I decided that I had had enough of Spain. I asked Major Lombarri for a car to return to Salamanca, but he said there wouldn’t be one available for several days. In the meantime, he suggested that I take a trip to Oviedo, a town in Asturias that had been captured by General Franco in the early days of the war. The mountains surrounding it were still held by the Republicans, and for over a year it had been subjected to constant artillery and aerial bombardment.
I was anxious to compare it with Madrid, but when I heard that the party (which consisted of two German and Russian photographers) was to be conducted by Captain Aguilera, I hesitated. Ever since my unfortunate remark about the Republicans blowing up the bridges not merely for the joy of destruction but to slow down the enemy advance, Aguilera had regarded me as Red, and our relationship was far from friendly. Nevertheless, I finally decided it was foolish to let personal animosity stand in the way and agreed to go, determined to get on with him as best I could. Before the trip was over I realized I had made a mistake.
It took about five or six hours to get to Oviedo, as most of the drive was through the mountains. The road leading down to the old town, which lay in a valley, was under continuous shell-fire; as it was the only road open, food-trucks and official cars were forced to run the gauntlet daily. The driver accelerated and we made a hectic dash down the hill—to my way of thinking much more in danger of breaking an axle on the shell-holes in the road than from receiving a hit. From the top of the hill Oviedo had presented an ordinary appearance, but when we drove into it, it was hard to believe anyone could still be living there. It looked as though it had been struck by a hurricane. Not a single building or house had escaped damage; some of them looked like stage sets with the walls pulled off; others like birthday cakes with holes scooped out of the center.
Although the normal population of thirty thousand people had been evacuated, there were about fifteen hundred civilians who still clung to their homes. Most of them lived in the basements of ruined buildings, scurrying in and out of their retreats as though they had been accustomed to it all their lives. The main café was open, but as the window-glass had long ago been shattered, the wind whistled through the room, and customers sat drinking their coffee with coat-collars wrapped tightly round their necks.
All day long there was the dull thud of shells dropping sporadically into the town, but no one seemed to mind: bands of ragged children played games in the middle of the street, a bootblack stood on the curb shouting for customers, and at the corner an old lady argued with the butcher over a cut of beef.
The hotel I slept in (a hotel in the main street, the name of which I have forgotten) had been hit by shells sixteen times. There were only three rooms left, but the proprietor was still doing business. He was an agreeable little man who insisted that “the lady must have the best room.” He led me into it, apologizing for the jagged shell-hole over the bed. There was no electricity, so he left the candle and said that if the bombardment got bad in the night to come down to the cellar. He added that when the war was over he had plans for a better hotel; he hadn’t the money to build it, of course, but that would have to take care of itself. With peace, he said, everything would come.
I was learning that to the civilian population of a country, war was seldom interpreted in terms of military strategy and high-sounding “isms.” War meant soaring prices, lack of food, and houses with bomb-holes in them. Their opinions were influenced largely by the effect it had on their personal lives. Government officials answered you in terms of politics, soldiers in terms of strategy, and civilians in terms of domestic upheaval.
We spent only one night in Oviedo. Captain Aguilera took us to dinner with the Colonel, and the room we dined in had a gaping shell-hole, covered by strips of brown paper, in the wall. The blinds were tightly drawn and two candles flickering on the table provided the only light. I don’t remember much about the evening except that the Colonel seemed pleased to have visitors and gave us a surprisingly elaborate dinner. I talked to one of the officers, who said the war would soon be over and prophesied that Franco would spend Easter in Barcelona. As we sat there we heard the sound of explosions outside; the wind moaned eerily through the gap in the wall and it all seemed like a strange dream.
Aguilera and I had not had any conversation since the trip began, but the following morning I received a message telling me to be ready to leave at eight-thirty. After a breakfast of coffee and dry bread we got into the car and drove to the outskirts of the city. The chauffeur pulled up at the corner of a small shopping street, not far from where the communication trenches started which marked the beginning of the Nationalist trenches. Aguilera conferred with the photographers in German, then turned to me and said they wanted to take some pictures and would return in ten minutes. They disappeared round the corner and came back two hours later. The street was almost deserted save for an empty grocer’s shop and a small pâtisserie which did not seem to be doing much of a business. All morning long there was the crash of shells falling into the town. No one stayed in the open more than they could help, and people scurried along the streets, every now and then darting into doorways for cover. As the minutes turned into hours I suspected that Aguilera had left me in the car on purpose; as, I suppose, a form of reprisal. When he came back he didn’t apologize, but said: “Now we will say goodbye to the Colonel and return to León.” We drew up before the Colonel’s house, but I told Aguilera he would have to pay my respects for me. He received this indignantly, as it was obviously to his advantage to present a genial and smiling party to his superior officer. I refused to go in with him, however, and when he came out his face was still red with anger. “You have insulted the Nationalist cause,” he said. “You will hear more of this later.”
I realized that our feud had reached a climax and knew that he was not an enemy to take lightly. However, as I was planning to return to France, I wasn’t particularly worried until I reached Salamanca and went in to see Pablo Merry del Val. When I told him I wanted to leave Spain and asked for the necessary travelling permits, he replied coldly that no press cars were available and it was impossible to grant me permission to travel by train. “You will remain here,” he said, “until you hear further from us.”
I guessed that Aguilera had already sent in a report against me. I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to launch any accusation that suited him, however serious. As two American correspondents, H. R. Knickerbocker and Webb Miller (not to mention several English journalists), had already seen the inside of a Spanish jail, I knew my passport would be of little use if the authorities pointed out that I had been on the Republican side and chose to launch a spy charge against me.
I realized it was dangerous to remain in Salamanca and decided to try and make my own way to Burgos, then on to San Sebastian. As it was impossible to travel in Nationalist territory without a government authorization, I was at a loss as to how to go about it. Luckily I ran into the Duc de Montellano, a friend of Rupert Bellville, whom I had met in San Sebastian; when I told him I wanted to go to Burgos, he replied that his wife and sister-in-law were leaving by car in an hour and would take me with them.
The Duchess was an amiable little woman; she told me that before the war her house in Madrid had been leased to the American Ambassador, Claud Bowers. Although none of the diplomats were there it was still used as an Embassy, and she was delighted to hear that her paintings and furniture were safe. We were stopped several times along the road by sentries, but they were satisfied with the car permits and waved us on. We reached Burgos in the afternoon and I said goodbye to them in the Hotel Norte y Grande. I remember the hotel well, for on the wall was a large poster advertising a bull-fight. It pictured Domingo Ortego, the famous matador, killing a particularly gory bull. Beneath was the sentence: “For the benefit of the Red Cross.”
I discovered that the city was overflowing and not a room to be had anywhere. There was no American or British Consulate and I had neither friends nor acquaintances to go to. I went to a café to think out a plan; in the back of my mind I remembered someone remarking vaguely that Count Cosme Churrucca, a Spaniard whom I had met in the Philippines several years before, was on the general staff in Burgos. I wrote him a note and sent the hotel porter over to the War Ministry with it. I didn’t expect any results. I felt it would be too good a stroke of luck to find him there, and was racking my brain for an alternative when to my astonishment he came through the door wreathed in smiles. I explained I was stranded and he told me he was going to San Sebastian in the morning and would take me with him. For the night he offered me a room in his sister-in-law’s flat.
So far I had been incredibly lucky, but I realized even in San Sebastian the difficulties would be only half over. I sent Tommy Thompson a telegram suggesting lunch, hoping he would take the hint and come across the frontier to meet me.
When I had last known Cosme Churrucca he was an amiable, care-free man who lived a pleasant life in Manila. Now I found he had been transformed into an excitable Fascist. He talked heatedly about the decadence of the democracies and asserted fiercely that when the war was over, Germany, Italy and Spain would fall on France and divide her into three parts: the north for Germany, the Riviera for Italy and the Basque coast for Spain. Leaving Paris for the French, he added, because they ran it so well.
On arriving at San Sebastian I went directly to the Maria Cristina Hotel. I had the good fortune to run into Eddie Neil of the Associated Press (who was killed at the front a few weeks later with Dick Sheepshanks when a shell hit their car), who took me to Chicote’s bar for a cocktail. It was noisy and gay and seemed so far removed from the bitterness of war I was beginning to wonder whether perhaps I hadn’t imagined the trouble in Salamanca, when a Dutch journalist came up to me and said: “What a surprise! I thought you were in jail.” He explained he had heard a rumor in Saint Jean-de-Luz that I had been arrested.
This didn’t indicate a very friendly atmosphere and that night I slept uneasily, half expecting to hear footsteps along the corridor, a knock on the door, and the voice of the police. The morning came with no such spectacular developments and, to my great relief, about twelve-thirty I had a message that Tommy was downstairs. He, too, had heard from Philby of The Times the rumor of my arrest. When he got my telegram, he called at the office of the Military Governor at Irun and was told that I could leave Spain if I had a permit from GHQ. That, of course, was the hitch! He thought that to ask for one would probably only serve to call official attention to the fact I was in San Sebastian without authority. Once again the frontier was closed, and after discussing the situation for some time, he decided the only solution was to take a chance and to drive out in his car in the hope that the sentries would let us go through without trouble.
I shall never forget approaching the International Bridge. The Union Jack was fluttering bravely from the radiator cap, and when the Spanish guards stopped us, Tommy handed them his salvo conducto. They inspected it carefully and I waited for the terrible moment when they would turn to me. It never came; they nodded with a satisfied air, handed back the paper and saluted. The barriers rose slowly, Tommy stepped on the gas, and we dashed across the bridge to freedom. I have never been back to Nationalist Spain since, and have often wondered whether Pablo Merry del Val was surprised by my strange disappearance. Whether or not I really escaped from the clutches of the police, I have never discovered. But I certainly enjoyed my cocktail at the Bar Basque.
