The Phoenix of Montjuic

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  It was evening when they were woken to leave the bus in Almeria port, and embark on the ferry. If any of the soldiers expected a luxury cruise across the Mediterranean, he was much disappointed. They were confronted by an old naval boat, a sad remnant of the depleted Spanish navy, crewed by a few dispirited sailors in dirty uniforms. The rusty old ship had few cabins, which were allocated to senior officers, and the bandsmen were given open decks with basic seating to endure the all-night crossing. After the grandeur of their mess, with their daily dinners in dress uniform, it was an unexpected hardship to spend the night in fatigues. Once the ship had left the harbour, the crew served an evening meal: first a tin mug with a strange red liquid which they called gazpacho, and then a bowl of rice with strange lumps in it. “Is this supposed to be paella?” said Eduard. “Even in the National Service, the food was better than this.”

  “We forget what life is like for regular soldiers,” said Digger, “and it’s obviously even worse for the navy.”

  “Don’t worry,” said the sailor dishing out the strange food. “Most of you will be throwing it over the side during the night.”

  Fishing around in his bowl, Eduard found a large rubbery nugget. “What’s this?” he asked as he spooned it out.

  “Keep quiet,” said the sailor, “or everybody will want one. It’s octopus.”

  Eduard put the hunk of fish into his mouth, chewed for a while, then spat it out. “That can definitely go back into the sea where it came from,” he laughed, and hurled the wedge of octopus over the rail. “It’s probably bouncing around on the bottom of the sea.”

  “You’ll not be laughing when we get out into the main channel,” said the sailor. “There’s some cheap red wine to wash it all down,” he continued, “but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “I wonder what the sergeant major’s getting,” said Digger.

  “It’s the same for everyone,” said the sailor. “We boys in the navy just love having you posh soldiers on board, see how the other half live. Get some sleep if you can – we’ll be in port at dawn.”

  It was hard to find anywhere to sleep: some of the bandsmen tried lying across the wooden benches, others tried to get comfortable on the floor, but wherever they were, the stale smells of food, the sea, and the rusty ship dominated their attempts to sleep. The Mediterranean was not particularly rough, but the constant rocking of the boat was difficult for men who had never been to sea. One by one, they groped their way to the rail in the darkness and vomited into the black water below. Eduard lay on the floor gripping a dirty pipe for as long as he could, but eventually joined his fellows at the rail, the contents of his stomach joining all the rest of the vomit.

  Digger appeared beside him. “I want to die,” said Digger.

  “So do I,” said Eduard. “How long are we on this tub?”

  “All night, God help us.”

  A sudden splash of sea water came over them, adding to their misery. “I’m going to try and lie down again,” said Eduard as he skidded on the wet deck. “I’m shutting my eyes until daylight, and just hoping I’ll still be alive when the sun rises.”

  When the boat docked in Melilla, the troupe of exhausted men who staggered down the gang plank did not look like Franco’s crack military band: and their sergeant major, who despite having a cabin, and having had an equally unpleasant night, refrained from issuing an order about looking alert or smart. The men were herded into a plain mess hall where breakfast was waiting: piles of flatbread with bowls of honey and jam, and bottles of olive oil to drizzle over the flatbread. Big kettles of sweetened mint tea were boiling on small stoves. Eduard thought at first that he could not eat anything, but after a while on dry land, his stomach stopped lurching, and he felt hungry.

  Like most of his comrades, he launched into the flatbreads with jam, and was very pleased to taste the scalding mint tea. Digger sat beside him. “Oh Eddie, I don’t know how you can eat breakfast,” he groaned. “I’m still going up and down from that filthy boat.”

  “Drink some of the mint tea,” suggested Eduard. “It will settle your stomach.”

  Digger sipped the hot liquid, and admitted it helped a little, but could not face eating anything. Soon the men were being ordered onto buses for the final stage of the journey. The army buses in Spain had seemed Spartan, but were luxurious compared to the Moroccan vehicles which were waiting for the bandsmen. Stinking diesel engines were ticking over noisily as they climbed on board, some of them still feeling unwell from the night on the boat, and they pulled away from the quayside and plunged through the narrow alleys of Melilla.

  “We’re in Africa!” exclaimed Eduard.

  “I’d rather be at home,” groaned Digger.

  The road was tortuous and slow, and men knew they would be in the rattling bus for a long time. The road clung to the coast, twisting and turning from one tiny fishing hamlet to the next. Eduard had seen poverty in Barcelona, but from the bus he could see worse, and realised that the Moroccans had almost nothing, and were scraping a hand-to-mouth living. Coves with battered fishing boats pulled onto rough stony beaches, alternated with barren stretches of rugged hills. Some members of the band from towns in Southern Spain felt more at home, but for Eduard it was an alien and desolate landscape.

  “Ambros wrote a letter to me,” he said, “and said we’d see the Sahara Desert. It’s very barren, but it’s not what I thought a desert would look like. I expected sand dunes, not cliffs and rocky outcrops.”

  “Go to sleep,” said Digger, “and stop being so enthusiastic. The sea is the sea, the rocks are rocks, and this journey is a nightmare.”

  It was already dark when the convoy pulled into the barracks at Tetouan. The bruised and battered soldiers fell from the buses, and without noticing their surroundings, lurched into the mess. Some were hungry, many simply wanted to sleep, and it was not long before they were shown to a long sparse dormitory with camp beds placed close together. Most of the men, including Eduard, simply lay on the beds fully dressed, without even removing their boots, but after a while Eduard found he was intolerably hot, and got up to strip to his underwear.

  By dawn most of the soldiers had taken off their boots and shed their fatigues and were sleeping soundly, when an unfamiliar noise woke them. It was the Islamic call to prayer, the muezzin shouting loudly from a nearby minaret. They groaned and turned over, attempting to sleep some more, when another and even stranger noise, a kind of raucous wailing, woke them again, this time immediately below the open windows of the dormitory.

  “What now?” said Digger. “Will we never get some peace?”

  Eduard walked over to the window. “By the Virgin,” he said, “Digger look! You won’t believe this!”

  The others crowded round him. “Bagpipes and drums from Galicia!” said one. “They look very pleased with themselves.”

  “Look at the size of this parade ground,” said Digger. “It was too dark to see it last night.”

  A voice behind them made them all jump around. “If you are all awake and out of bed,” shouted the master sergeant sarcastically, “perhaps you’d like to dress and join your officers in the mess. The time for slumber is over.”

  After a breakfast of flatbread and honey, washed down with large amounts of sweet mint tea, the bandsmen collected their instruments and assembled on the parade ground. “We have one day to rehearse,” stated the sergeant major, “and tomorrow we perform for El Caudillo’s inspection of his North African troops. You will have noticed the Galician pipes and drums: they have an excellent marching drill, and it is essential that we outshine them. This regimental band is capable of the greatest precision of any in the Spanish army, and that is what we will see tomorrow, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir” chorused the band.

  After a long day of marching and playing, broken only by periods watching the Galicians, the men were given an hour to themselves. Mostly they lay in the shade of the few palm trees which grew to one side of the parade ground. Lying sleepily in their
underwear, they became aware of a distant buzzing, which grew louder as it grew closer. Suddenly the master sergeant leapt to his feet. “Attention, boys!” he called excitedly. The men jumped up as the group of aircraft passed over. First came three small fighters.

  “Sparrowhawks,” said Eduard. “We saw lots of them in Barcelona during the war, and that big crate following is a bomber called a ‘Veltro’. They did a lot of damage to the city.”

  “It’s not got bombs on board today,” shouted the master sergeant. “It’s got our glorious leader, El Caudillo himself, coming to inspect his troops.” With that, the master sergeant shot his arm up into the stiff Fascist salute, and the bandsmen copied. With his arm rigidly in the salute, Eduard looked up at the bomber. “Bastard, bastard, bastard!” he whispered to himself.

  That evening, after another poor meal, the bandsmen were asked to remain in the mess hall for a briefing. They had been eating alongside the Galicians, who seemed to be a very agreeable bunch, except for their strange regional accent. The sergeant major, with his Galacian counterpart, stepped onto a small dais and addressed the combined bands.

  “Gentlemen, we will be working together to provide the opening of tomorrow’s inspection. We start early in the morning, as the main ceremony is to be finished before the worst heat of the day. You will have seen the grandstand being built for the Generalissimo. Our leader will be accompanied by his wife, and the Grand Vizier of Morocco, so you will understand El Caudillo’s desire for absolute precision. When he takes his place, I will give the order to stand to attention, and the music will start. Staff Sergeant Bonet will play an introduction to ‘Face to the sun’ and you will all sing one verse. You then start to play the full song, as we have rehearsed it, and our Galician friends will march into the centre of the parade ground to go into their drill. At the end of their drill, they march smartly towards the Generalissimo, salute him, and then form up below the grandstand. Once they are stood down, and on my signal, the Madrid regiment will begin the drill routine, which, like the Galicians, will finish in front of the grandstand with a salute to our leader. As soon as you are ‘at ease’ the main march-past of the North African troops will begin. They have their own music, so you can be at ease and enjoy the spectacle. It will be hot and your challenge is to remain cool. I do not want to put any man on a charge for fainting.”

  There was a murmur from the men, and then the Galician sergeant major took over. “Tomorrow is an important day for the Generalissimo, and he expects a spectacular ceremony. I am sure that every man here will give of his best, and make El Caudillo proud of our two regimental bands. Gentlemen, you are now dismissed.”

  As soon as they could, Digger and the others crowded around Eduard. “Did you know that was coming?” they asked.

  “No,” said Eduard, “I am as surprised as you all. Thankfully it’s music I know really well, and I’ve played it with you many times.”

  The morning dawned with a brilliant sunrise: it was clearly going to be a very hot day. After a hurried breakfast, the band struggled into their dress uniforms. They were aware that their thick and bulky uniforms were not the best thing to wear on a hot day, but there was no alternative. The grandstand had been built at the Eastern end of the parade ground, so Franco would have his back to the sun to review his troops.

  The first part of the ceremony took place without a hitch. Eduard played the opening line, and the men were indeed facing the sun as they sang ‘Face to the Sun’, with arms stretched towards Franco in the Fascist salute. The Galicians performed their bagpipe routine, and retreated to the shade below Franco’s grandstand; and the Madrid regiment were magnificent with their precise and crisp drill. They took their places in the shadow of the grandstand, and stood at ease, trying to get a glimpse of Franco and the Grand Vizier above them, waiting for the parade of the African troops.

  From one corner of the parade ground, they heard the piercing squawk of the Spanish Legionnaires’ band. First into the arena was the band: a great mass of deafening drummers, and buglers. Their sound was harsh, and to the Madrid boys’ ears rather chaotic, but somehow it created an effective sound for the North African tribesmen. Walking with the band was its regimental mascot, a white goat with astonishingly long horns, decked in a red coat, and with little red leggings on its legs.

  Once the band was in place, a column of fierce soldiers mounted on lively Arab horses swept into the arena. Over their legionnaire uniforms they wore flowing red cloaks. As the mounted cavalcade drew near to the grandstand, they saluted with spears tipped with red tassels and small red flags. They moved off and formed up on the opposite side of the ground, spears lowered.

  Next they watched the arrival of the main body of the regiment. Unlike the Galicians or the Madrid band, their uniforms were more suitable for the North African sunshine. They wore tight green trousers tucked into their shiny army boots, with pale green shirts, sleeves cut off very short and tight over bulging triceps. The shirts were worn wide open at the neck to reveal very solid pectoral muscles. Tight black leather braces were decorated with regimental badges, and they wore forage caps with red tassels, similar to those worn by other regiments. Many had bushy black beards, and one carried a monkey in a matching uniform on his shoulder.

  Most platoons were heavily armed with rifles on their shoulders, and pistols on their belts, but one platoon also carried highly polished steel shovels on their backs. To the men from Madrid, the uniform did not look very different from their daily fatigues, just much tighter and cleaner, but the distinguishing touch which gave them a dress uniform appearance were red leather gauntlets on their lower arms, emblazoned with their regimental badge.

  “I remember these men from the victory parade in Barcelona,” thought Eduard, “but I had forgotten how fierce and strong they are. Franco brought them from Morocco during the war, and it’s easy to see what a formidable force they were.” Eduard shook his head; he dare not share his thoughts with any of the men standing around him.

  One by one, the ‘Tercios’ of Legionnaires formed up in front of the grandstand, each with its own battalion colours, leaving a large space in the centre for the final group. The band continued its ear-splitting noise as the final platoon entered the area. In their full uniforms, but without guns, the final platoon carried an enormous crucifix. Despite their strength, they were staggering under the weight of the cross, and when they reached their allotted space they set it up into a prepared hole in the ground. It was the biggest crucifix Eduard had ever seen, and he gasped at the huge emaciated figure of Christ portrayed in his final agonies of death.

  For a moment, Eduard wondered how these fiery warriors with their intense Muslim religion, viewed the graphic image of Christianity, but his thoughts were interrupted by the guttural speech coming from the Grand Vizier. The men looked at one another, and one whispered, “I think that’s Arabic, but I’m not sure.” They shrugged unable to understand a word.

  This was followed by the Legionnaires’ band playing a slow march, and each of the Tercio colours were paraded in front of Franco, and then returned to their battalions. Eduard noticed the great variety of flags, with fringes and tassels, and bright colours that seemed a characteristic of the people of this arid land.

  There was a moment of silence, then El Caudillo stepped up to the microphone. His high-pitched voice seemed inadequate within the grandeur of the event, but all were delighted to be greeted by their leader. “Salutations to all our warriors,” his voice echoed around the parade ground. “You who ensured our glorious victory in the war, and who guarantee the continued triumph of our regime; you who bring peace and prosperity to Spain, and before whom all bow down, greetings from your Captain General and Supreme Commander. As Royal Regent for the monarchy of Spain, I name you Royal Spanish Legionnaires, and in recognition of your prowess, strength and loyalty, I deem you to be the elite of the Spanish army. May God continue to be proud of you, and may you long continue to do his glorious work. Amen.”

  Eduard’s s
ergeant major had stepped smartly in front of the band during the Vizier’s incomprehensible speech, and now signalled to the men to be ready. “Attention!” he barked, then raised his baton. Once more Eduard played the introduction to Face to the Sun, and as the band, including all the Galacian bagpipes and drums, thundered into the first verse, the entire parade ground raised its collective bass voice in lusty song.

  Eduard was incredulous watching thousands of soldiers give the Fascist salute as they sang, and he wondered if he was the only one on the parade ground thinking “Bastard, bastard, bastard.”

  The Legionnaires’ band began a long series of marching tunes as Franco and his guests left the grandstand for a lunch which the bandsmen knew would be sumptuous, and one by one the Tercio platoons marched out of the parade ground. As the last group left, followed by the band and their very tired-looking goat, Digger said in a loud stage whisper, “I can’t last any longer. That mint tea, I wish I’d not drunk so much!” And he turned to the wall below the grandstand, opened his flies, and let a fierce gush explode from his body. A few of the bandsmen laughed, but many others joined Digger. The sergeant major looked alarmed for a moment, but when he looked around and saw the Galicians doing the same, and Franco safely out of sight, he joined in the laughter.

  After a moment, he ordered, “Attention, and please gentlemen adjust your dress. We will march away with as much dignity as we can muster.”

  The bandsmen marched towards the dormitory and pulled open their sweat drenched jackets. The parade ground fell silent. Eduard looked out of the window at the wide expanse of the parade ground and the crucifix and its statue of Christ. Once more he shook his head. This man, this leader, responsible for torture, death and concentration camps in Spain, was a devout Catholic. How did he reconcile his religion and his worship of the God of Love with his cruelty?