ADVENTURES IN WAR-TORN SPAIN
MONASTERY USED AS A BARRACK
Reds Orgy in A Chapel Shocks On Way to Front
"I SWORE TO DIE CLEANLY"

There was a war in Spain! Inactive, in the warlike sense, since the Chinese campaign of 1926, I decided to investigate Europe’s most complex fracas.

After studying the leading Press reports, like most people, I came to the conclusion that the Government forces were losing. This, then, was the side I should support. It was obvious the other could get on quite well without my services.

Not exactly the fervid motives of the average volunteering Galahad, but, as it was to be my fourth major campaign, I may be excused sentimentalism in choosing sides. I have found little sentiment in war.

MY RECEPTION IN PARIS

Armed with an introduction from the Communist Party of Great Britain, I proceeded to Paris in the beginning of September. Arriving at French headquarters on the Rue Lafayette, I pushed my letter of introduction through the steel wire meshes of the bomb proofed reception office. A surly attendant examined the note.

‘More damned English,’ he muttered courteously. ‘Just wait a minute.’

He disappeared up a caged-in staircase. In a few minutes the surly attendant returned, opened a steel door, and admitted me through the barricade.

Without interest, and certainly without any display of enthusiasm, he advised me to go to the ‘Place du Combat.’ He gave me a rough chart for street direction, and a slip on which was written: Comrade Garcia, Chief of the Bureau for Spanish Aid.

‘Why do they all come here! He whined as he ushered me out. I didn’t know, but I told him in good French that he was an unfriendly, stupid lout.

Credentials cause a Surprise

The initial reception was not inspiring, but in Soviet Russia I had experienced a liberal education in proletarian bog bureaucracy.

The ‘Place du Combat’ was a huge square surrounded by dilapidated, dirty buildings, covered in all kinds of flaring red placards, the Hammer and Sickle predominating. These buildings were the revolutionary headquarters in Paris.

In the middle of the Square stood a wooden shack surrounded by a nondescript mob of the proletariat. They eyed me curiously. Over the door of the shack was written the legend: BUREAU D’AIDE DE L’ESPAGNE I entered!

My credentials caused quite a flutter when I presented them. Comrade Garcia turned out to be a little Spanish Jew with Harold Lloyd spectacles and a huge portfolio. He was suspicious, as most communists are of anything beyond their ken.

‘You had better go to the Embassy. They can deal with your case. I know nothing about ships, ‘ he added, with a false smile.

‘Arms and Planes from USA’

‘And less about war,’ I thought, ‘but you are the makings of a successful Proletarian general.’ He then gave me a letter of introduction to the Spanish Embassy.

At the Spanish Embassy on the Avenue George V, after interminable conferences, I was definitely engaged to secure and bring arms and ’planes from the USA via Mexico. My experiences and knowledge of the Americas would be invaluable. There was an unlimited supply of gold, I was informed, and already 40 aero planes had been purchased. When, they were flown to Mexico, I should make arrangements to have them shipped to Spain.

I was highly interested in the project. It would be gunrunning extraordinary. But there is many a slip…. At the last minute all the plans were altered and I was advised to proceed to Madrid. I was astounded and disappointed but determined to see the thing through.

En Route For Marseilles

The following night I boarded the midnight express for Marseille. The Gare du Lyon was crowded with drunken candidates for the Spanish International Brigade, and the whole reminded me of a very sordid counterpart of Victoria or the Gare du Nord during the World War.

One group of about ten stood apart, looking stiff and out of place. They were Oxford and Cambridge ‘comrades’ out to save the world for democracy! I think they had all hoped to get good jobs in the Labour Party after they had all written books about their adventures. Poor chaps, few would survive!

As the train pulled out of the station the seven hundred volunteers for Spain lustily sang the ‘Internationale.’ The leaders expostulate, trying to maintain the farce of secrecy.

‘Silence!’ they shouted. ‘Discipline!’

But the drunken legionnaires only moved to a higher and more maudlin key as the train rolled though the suburbs of Paris.

In my compartment was a select group of French Foreign Legionnaires. There was an ample supply of wine, and they sang all through the night, or held heated harangues on Communism, Fascism, the Legion, and Spain. Hey reviled German and Italian intervention.

'Wait until I turn this loose,' said Souchez - a tough looking hombre just home from China after completing 12 years in the Legion. He patted with his foot a long, heavy package which protruded from under the seat.

'Rat-a-tat-tat!' he further emphasized and then burst into a North African Legionnaires marching song.

By Liner to Spain

Arriving in Marseilles, we repaired in groups to various friendly Communist cafés to await orders. As I was to assist the captain of the transport, I was immediately driven to the docks, where I boarded the luxurious liner Cuidad de Barcelona.

The Captain explained that in the event of the ship being chased off her course and out of sight of land by the enemy I was to take command.

'I have only sailed on the coast,' he explained. 'I don't understand navigation.'

That evening and all the next day the departing legion thundered down to the ship in a fleet of taxis. No one took any notice, though it was quite evident we were a Spanish ship, and bound for Spain. There was no passport control - nothing. A couple of Gendarme patrolled the dock, and no one was allowed to go on shore. At the same time we loaded an assorted cargo classified on the manifest as 'general.' Then, at dusk on evening in late September, we sailed for Barcelona.

Off the Chateau d'If (famous fortress of 'the Count of Monte Cristo'), as we sailed south-west, the crew painted over the ship's name and port of registration 'Cuidad de Barcelona, Palma, Majorca,' also the red bands on the funnel. At night all lights were switched off, and the 2,000 Legionnaires squatted all over the ship, the political leaders, of course, annexing the cabins-de-lux.

No Irish in first Detachment

I was assigned a luxurious stateroom, with bath, in accordance with my rank. I felt self-conscious at this mark of esteem, and gladly allowed two Yugoslavs and two Czechs, all of whom spoke a smattering of Russian, to share the cabin. The British minority slept, or, at least, lay down in a forward alleyway. From first to last this forlorn contingent led a lonely existence in the Brigade. The barrier of language kept them apart. There were not enough of them to form a separate contingent, so they were shuffled back and forth. None of the other national groups would have the, - until on the final day, when they attached themselves to a French company and entrained for the front.

There were no Irish in this first detachment of the International Brigade with the exception of myself. I stood alone at all times, and had the distinction of having served in more campaigns than any other member. Bill Scott, the only member of the Irish Communist Party, arrived in Albacete, the base for Madrid, six weeks later. He had been jettisoned in Barcelona, and was on the point of returning home when he was moved frontwards.

We Arrive in Alicante

Six hours out from Marseilles we received radio instructions to proceed to Alicante, a port on the south Spanish coast. The passage was uneventful. Off Barcelona we spotted two Italian cruisers, but they paid no heed to our passing. Our great risk lay in approaching Alicante, where insurgent battleships were reported active. As we approached the entrance at day break we steamed slowly past German, Italian, French and British war vessels, but not a sign of the enemy, for which I was devoutly grateful.

Without the cup of coffee which had been our breakfast since sailing, we disembarked in Alicante in the group formation leaving Paris. A brass band led us through the beautiful city now draped with red banners and slogans.

An Oxford-Cambridge Yell

It has been the communist policy to make the Spaniards believe that Russia was helping with men and munitions, when the truth is that French Anarcho-Communism is the power behind the Red Government - even the well-bred and out-of-place Oxford-Cambridge contingent gave a college yell: 'Red Front! Red Front! Red United Fighting Front!' Their clear and superior enunciation fell on desert ears. They only yodelled once.

Our First Meal in Spain

Late in the afternoon we were issued tinned fish, dry bread, and a mug of wine - not so good for the first day in Spain! In the evening we fell in and marched back to the City Hall. Two hours of standing in the Square listening to the same prattle and we marched off to the railway station en route to Madrid, or so we thought.

The railway journey into the interior was a masterpiece of triumphal propaganda. Every railway station was festooned with flowers and red banners. The platforms were thronged with wildly cheering citizens shouting 'viva Russia!' Brass bands played the 'Internationale' and the 'Red Flag.'

The now partially revived foreign brigadiers entered anew into the spirit of the Russian hoax and sang in languages any one of which was Russian to the simple peasantry. Gifts of fruit and wine made us all fell better, and many of us drunk.

I was still with the French group of legionnaires, and benefited from their skilful foraging. At the beginning of our journey one untoward incident was typical of the type. Four British 'comrades' tried to hog a whole compartment by putting out the light, pulling down the blinds, and strewing the seats with baggage - and this on a train packed to suffocation.

An 'Attack' on British 'Comrades'

I led the French attack, talking easily understandable English. We soon ousted the cultured Communists. They were wroth to leave, and said: 'No true Communist gets drunk. You are breaking 'pawty' rules , and you are lowering British communism in the eyes of foreign comrades.'

'That's too bad,' I answered, as I chose a corner seat. 'I am not a Communist. Even worse, I suppose, as far as you Drawing Room Reds are concerned, I am an Irishman, and none too fond of Britishers of your type.'

Only fifty percent of the French in the Brigade are Communist: the other fifty are just plain unemployed ex-soldiers. As results have shown, the soap-box soldier is the first to fall; a good soldier can generally get cover if any at all is available. The death rate in the international brigade is high as a result of politics over military skill. Few professional Communists are good soldiers.

About 3 a.m. we came to a stop in a brilliantly lighted station, where we left the train. Lined up in straggling formation we marched off behind a band, accompanied by the curious townsfolk. No one knew the name of the town; some thought it was Madrid. We marched though stately streets until we came to a smaller one.

'Right turn!' we marched into our latest barracks.

A Monastery as a Barracks

Once inside I realized that I was in a religious building - a monastery or convent, perhaps. A huge statue of Our Lord lay broken in the patio. Altar candelabra was strewn everywhere - surely a strange setting for a military barracks.

The patio was surrounded on all four sides by a two-storied building, situated between two streets. One side, formerly a school, was now converted into a huge dining hall, wooden tables running its full length. On these were strewn tin dishes our second meal in Spain - a piece of pork fat, a chunk of dry bread, and a mug of strong wine.

In spite of our hunger few made a hearty meal. Sleeping quarters were provided in a cellar underneath and in the violated chapel adjoining and at right angles to the dining room.

Loath to sleep in either, with a French chap, who was as much disgusted as myself, I found a small nook on the top floor. There we spent the night n anything but comfort.

Revolting Scenes in Violated Chapel

In the morning we descended to wash to find the troops up and about exploring the monastery and having a rare orgy of blasphemy. We had to pass through the chapel to get outside. Here a most astounding tableau met our gaze.

A group of Poles and Italians were marching round the church attired in sacred vestments. A group of Jew boys were swinging incense burners. On the altar another group were mimicking the Mass. Up in the organ gallery a Frenchman was playing the 'Internationale' in slow time. All were chanting an accompaniment.

In niches in the chapel wall stood bold Hebrew legionnaires attired in clerical robes. The displaced statues lay broken on the floor beneath.

Near where I entered, close to the dismantled altar, a depraved-looking Slav was in the act of breaking the cover off the Mass Book, laughing like an idiot the while.

I pushed him to one side. 'You swine,' I said, 'I hope you will be as tough when you get to the front and your opponent tougher.'

Latrines Draped with Vestments

To cover up my effrontery, which might easily have meant death amongst such depravees, I spoke sharply in Russian: 'Don't you know, you fool, that looting merit's the death sentence on active service? I shall report all this to Brigade Headquarters.'

Other decent chaps were also showing signs of disgust, but they were easily in the minority. Later on in the day I spoke with a Spanish Miliciano who informed me that but a week prior to our arrival 40 priests, nuns and lay brothers had been executed in the Patio where lay the broken statue of Our Saviour.

Housing such a crowd, the Chapel barracks soon became intolerable. A faint trickle of water from one surviving spigot was the sole source of drinking water. Vandalism had destroyed the entire plumbing system. Latrines were erected in the square, huge wooden tubs, guarded by a wooden railing on which were draped altar cloths and vestments.

Sleeping accommodation was of the foulest. Imagine 200 men of all nations laying on the stone floor of one damp cellar on dirty pallets of straw. Imagine them eternally coughing and spitting, wrangling and sweating, discussing the virtues of Communism, cursing fascism, until daylight steamed in through the barred windows.

One such night and I swore to die cleanly rather than undergo another period of such degradation. There was, and is, no medical supervision in the brigade. There is only room for Communist propaganda. Many suffered from pernicious and contagious maladies. Sleeping on stone or tiled floors (wood is scarce in Spain) soon left its mark.

Spanish Civil War posters source:  Burn Project, UCSD.