by Hugh Thomas
José Antonio was shot on 20 November in the prison yard in Alicante gaol, between two other falangists and two Carlists, who were also executed. His final request was that the patio in which he was to be shot should be wiped clean after his death ‘so that my brother Miguel will not have to walk in my blood’.2 At almost the same hour on the same day as José Antonio was shot, his contemporary, Durruti, was dying of wounds in the Ritz Hotel in Madrid. Two Spanish ‘heroes of their time’ died, leaving the way open to less generous successors. José Antonio left behind a will full of constructive ideas for a future Spain: it pleased Prieto but had no effect.
For a long time, this execution was not mentioned in the nationalist press. He was referred to as el ausente, the ‘absent one’. Since 1933, when names of falangist martyrs were read out at ceremonies, the Falange would cry Presente, ‘Present’, in imitation of a similar fascist rite. They would continue to call out ‘Present’ after the name of José Antonio, and many who knew that the jefe was dead acted as if they thought he was not.
One other notable occurrence straddling the battle lines was the change of attitude of the most prominent intellectuals of pre-war Spain. Most of these had found themselves in republican Spain at the time of the rising. They signed a manifesto pledging support of the republic. The signatures had included those of the physician and historian Dr Marañón; the ex-ambassador and novelist Pérez de Ayala; the historian Menéndez Pidal; and the prolific philosopher José Ortega y Gasset: friends, founders even, of the republic of 1931. But the atrocities and the increasing influence of the communists caused all these men to take what opportunity they could find to flee abroad. There, they repudiated their support of the republic.1
A different course was taken by the Basque philosopher Miguel de Unamuno, arch-priest of the Generation of ’98. As rector of the University of Salamanca, he had found himself at the start of the civil war in nationalist territory. The republic had disillusioned him, he had admired some of the young falangists, and he gave money to the rising. As late as 15 September, he was supporting the nationalist movement.2 But by 12 October his view had changed. He had become, as he said later, ‘terrified by the character that this civil war was taking, really horrible, due to a collective mental illness, an epidemic of madness, with a pathological substratum’.3 On that date, the anniversary of Columbus’s discovery of America, celebrated as the ‘Day of the Race’, a ceremony was held in the great hall (paraninfo) of the University of Salamanca. There was Dr Plá y Deniel, bishop of Salamanca;4 there was General Millán Astray, the founder of the Foreign Legion, at the time an important if unofficial adviser to Franco. His black eye-patch, his one arm, his mutilated fingers made him a hero of the moment; and, in the chair, there was Unamuno, rector of the university. The meeting occurred within a hundred yards of Franco’s headquarters, recently established in the bishop’s palace in Salamanca, on the prelate’s invitation. After the opening formalities, there were speeches by the Dominican Father Vicente Beltrán de Heredia, and the monarchist writer José María Pemán. Both delivered hot-tempered speeches. So did Professor Francisco Maldonado, who made a violent attack on Catalan and Basque nationalism, describing them as ‘cancers in the body of the nation’. Fascism, Spain’s ‘health-giver’, would know how to exterminate both, ‘cutting into the live healthy flesh like a resolute surgeon free from false sentimentality’. A man at the back of the hall cried the Foreign Legion’s motto: ‘¡Viva la Muerte!’ (Long live death!). Millán Astray then gave the now usual rabble-rousing slogans: ‘Spain!’ he cried. Automatically, a number of people shouted ‘One!’ ‘Spain!’ shouted Millán Astray again. ‘Great!’ replied the audience. To Millán Astray’s final cry of ‘Spain!’ his bodyguard gave the answer ‘Free!’ Several falangists, in their blue shirts, gave a fascist salute to the sepia photograph of Franco which hung on the wall over the dais. All the eyes were turned to Unamuno, who it was known disliked Millán Astray and who rose to close the meeting and said:1
All of you are hanging on my words. You all know me and are aware that I am unable to remain silent. At times to be silent is to lie. For silence can be interpreted as acquiescence. I want to comment on the speech—to give it that name—of Professor Maldonado. Let us waive the personal affront implied in the sudden outburst of vituperation against the Basques and Catalans. I was myself, of course, born in Bilbao. The bishop [here Unamuno indicated the quivering prelate sitting next to him], whether he likes it or not, is a Catalan, from Barcelona.
He paused. There was a fearful silence. No speech like this had been made in nationalist Spain. What would the rector say next?
Just now [Unamuno went on] I heard a necrophilistic and senseless cry: ‘Long live death’. And I, who have spent my life shaping paradoxes which have aroused the uncomprehending anger of others, I must tell you, as an expert authority, that this outlandish paradox is repellent to me. General Millán Astray is a cripple. Let it be said without any slighting undertone. He is a war invalid. So was Cervantes. Unfortunately there are all too many cripples in Spain just now. And soon there will be even more of them, if God does not come to our aid. It pains me to think that General Millán Astray should dictate the pattern of mass psychology. A cripple who lacks the spiritual greatness of a Cervantes is wont to seek ominous relief in causing mutilation around him.
At this, Millán Astray was unable to restrain himself any longer. ‘Death to Intellectuals!’ ‘¡Mueran los intelectuales!’ he shouted. ‘Long live death.’ There was a clamour of support for this remark from the falangists, with whom the simple, soldierly Millán Astray had actually little in common. ‘Down with false intellectuals! Traitors!’ shouted José María Pemán, anxious to paper over the cracks in the nationalist front. But Unamuno went on:
This is the temple of the intellect. And I am its high priest. It is you who profane its sacred precincts. You will win, because you have more than enough brute force. But you will not convince. For to convince, you need to persuade. And in order to persuade you would need what you lack: reason and right in the struggle. I consider it futile to exhort you to think of Spain. I have done.
There was a long pause. Some of the legionaries around Millán Astray began to close in on the platform menacingly. Millán Astray’s bodyguard pointed his machine-gun at Unamuno. Franco’s wife, Doña Carmen, came up to Unamuno and Millán Astray and insisted that the rector give his arm to her. He did so and the two slowly left together. But this was Unamuno’s last public address. That night, Unamuno went to the club in Salamanca, of which he was president. As the members, somewhat intimidated by these events, saw the rector’s venerable figure ascending the stairs, some shouted out: ‘Out with him! He is a red, not a Spaniard! Red, traitor!’ Unamuno continued and sat down, to be told by a certain Tomás Marcos Escribano, ‘You ought not to have come here, Don Miguel, we are sorry for what happened today in the University but all the same you ought not to have come.’ Unamuno left, accompanied by his son, the shouts of ‘traitor’ accompanying him. One minor writer, Mariano de Santiago, alone went with them. Thereafter, the rector rarely went out, and the armed guard that followed him were perhaps necessary to ensure his safety. The senate of the university ‘demanded’ and obtained his dismissal from the rectorship. He died broken-hearted on the last day of 1936.1 The tragedy of his last months was a natural expression of the tragedy of Spain, where culture, eloquence and creativity were giving way to militarism, propaganda, and death. Before long, there was even a concentration camp called ‘Unamuno’ for republican prisoners.1
Salamanca was now the centre of power in nationalist Spain. Franco slept, received and dined on the first floor of the episcopal palace and he worked with his staff on the second floor. The diplomatic secretariat headed by José Antonio Sangroniz, and the press and propaganda department, headed first by Juan Pujol, then by Millán Astray2, were on the ground floor, while a radio telegraphic service was established on the top floor. The simplicity of this organization rendered it efficient. Apart f
rom Franco himself, the important men were his chief of staff, Colonel Martín Moreno; his brother Nicolás, who acted as political secretary; the legal adviser, Colonel Martínez Fusset; and one or two staff officers, such as Colonel Juan Vigón, a pro-German monarchist, and Major Antonio Barroso, the ex–military attaché in Paris. Influential also were Kindelán, the commander of the air force, and Admiral Juan Cervera, the 66-year-old sailor of experience, who became chief of staff of the navy. All these officers saw Franco daily—or rather, nightly, since Franco held a tertulia in his apartments most nights to discuss the war, usually with a general from the front also present: Varela, Yagüe, or some other Africanista.3 Also in Salamanca, there were the German and Italian diplomatic representatives, the headquarters of the Falange and some, though not all, of the government offices; the treasury, the new Bank of Spain, the ministries of justice and labour were in Burgos. Salamanca was, however, the nerve centre of the nationalist rebellion: to that city came the reports of the few diplomats which nationalist Spain as yet had officially (only the Marqués de Magaz in Berlin, García Conde in Rome), the private agents (Juan de la Cierva or the Marqués de Portago in London) and secret intelligence reports (particularly about ship movements and republican arms purchases) from the ex-monarchist ambassador in Paris, Quiñones de León, as well as such information as there was from spies in the ‘red zone’.1 The centralization of the nationalist command, and the concentration of power, in the willing hands of Franco became daily more striking, given the divisions in the republican zone. Loyal but unobtrusive generals such as Orgaz and Dávila played at least as great a part as more flamboyant and better-known officers such as Varela, while the role of Admiral Cervera was considerable. Nephew of the unfortunate admiral who lost the Spanish fleet in the Spanish American War, older than any of Franco’s other intimates, he was strong enough in character to insist on the importance of the sea in the conflict, and to ensure the purchase of naval supplies, such as mines (from Germany), or launches (from Italy), as well as money to set up new schools for naval technicians.
By the spring of 1937, the balance of power at sea lay with the nationalists, due chiefly to the neglect of this side of the matter by their opponents; and this, as much as military organization, was a determining element. The republican fleet based in Cartagena never sallied out into the Atlantic again after the end of September, leaving the Cantabrian coast ill defended; a victory for the nationalists as great, if not so noticeable, as the advance of the Army of Africa to Madrid.
The nationalists were, however, adversely affected by other technical factors: namely, that the international telephone was controlled throughout the war by the republic. They had also only one of Spain’s three cableheads at the beginning: that at Vigo, whereas both those at Málaga and Bilbao were in republican hands. Communications from Salamanca to Vigo were bad. This meant that the nationalists’ links with the outside world were less satisfactory than those of the republic. Journalists with the republican press were thus usually first with the news.1
Franco had now no rivals among his fellow generals and neither the falangists nor the Carlists were in a position to make any effective challenge to him, much less the old political parties. The falangists, the few ‘old shirts’ and the vast number of new ones, were still trying to find their political bearing. Few political parties, after all, have ever grown so fast as they—not even the communist party in the republic. From 75,000 as a maximum in July, they had, from whatever origin, nearly a million members at the end of the year. New falangist newspapers had sprung up everywhere. Hedilla, the new if temporary national jefe, worked hard to make of the vastly expanded movement a genuine party, but the demands of war prevented him from meeting with much success. The new junta of the Falange did found two small ‘military schools’ for militia officers at Salamanca and Seville but these were not successful. Their best units were taken over by the army proper. At the end of 1936, the movement claimed that it had sent 50,000 men to the front, with 30,000 in the rear—though those figures may have been exaggerated.2 Actually, the Falange had more difficulties in their own ranks than they had with Franco. Some falangists were looking to Franco as a potential leader of a fascist Spain, and some hoped for much more from Hedilla. Others conspired with the Germans and Italians. Meantime, much the most remarkable falangist institution was the Auxilio de Invierno (Winter Help) founded in Valladolid by the dynamic, and energetic, Mercedes Sanz Bachiller, the widow of Onésimo Redondo. It began in October in a single room in Valladolid as a centre for orphan children. Within a few months, it had branches throughout nationalist Spain and Mercedes Sanz Bachiller was competing with Pilar Primo de Rivera, the founder’s sister, as the dominant female leader.3 Since its title seemed too close to that of a similar Nazi body in Germany, it changed its name to Auxilio Social (Social Help). Some of the staff of this organization were trained in Germany. One dour task was to look after the children of dead republicans or ‘Marxists’. (‘First the fathers are shot, then the children get charity’ was a cynical comment.) These improvised social centres were nevertheless lively places, run by the wives and daughters of the rich, a little patronizingly perhaps, but with a dedication that, had it been geared to society before the war, might have rendered the war unnecessary.1 Other bodies grew out of Auxilio Social. These included the Cocinas de Hermandad (‘Brotherhood Kitchens’), organizations for making clothes for the destitute, and maternity homes. The ‘Margaritas’, the Carlist women’s organization, also did much social work.
General Franco’s only serious difficulties in the winter of 1936–7 were with the Carlists. On 8 December, the Carlist high command set up a ‘Royal Military Academy’ for the training of young officers in both military and ideological matters. Mola gave his approval. The Falange, after all, had two such centres of the military arts. But the initiators had not consulted Franco, who told General Dávila to inform the Conde de Rodezno that the creation of the Military Academy could only be considered an attempt at a coup d’état. Fal Conde, the Carlist supreme leader, the inspiration of the plan for the Academy, was ordered by Dávila to leave the country within forty-eight hours, unless he wished to appear before a war tribunal. The Carlist war junta considered this peremptory instruction on 20 December. They decided to agree, under protest, in order to prove their innocence of any attempt at a coup; and Fal Conde left for Lisbon, the favourite resort of right-wing exiles from Spain. Franco followed this with a decree uniting all the militias—Carlist, falangist and CEDA—and placing them all under an orthodox military authority.2 Franco later told the German ambassador that he would have had Fal Conde shot had he not feared for the effects upon Carlist morale at the front.3 The fighting spirit of the Carlists, indeed, could not be gainsaid. One requeté was apparently asked who should be told if he were to die. ‘My father, José María de Hernandorena, of the Montejurra militia, aged sixty-five.’ ‘And if he should be killed too?’ ‘My son, José María de Hernandorena, of the Montejurra militia, aged fifteen.’1 The Carlist movement, meantime, had expanded almost as much as the Falange and, since October, had been launching initiatives to influence the development of the nationalist state.
By January, the number of Peninsular volunteer battalions must have been a hundred. Many young middle-class Spaniards and ex-rankers were under training at the twenty-two officers’ schools, all aged between eighteen and thirty, all with a bachillerato, all with two months’ experience of war and directed by General Orgaz, with the help of German instructors. These ‘provisional officers’ (alféreces provisionales), who had twenty-four days of training, would be the core of the future nationalist army, despite their high death rate: ‘provisional officer, certain corpse’ was one macabre joke current in Burgos. Some 3,000 or 4,000 officers had been provided by Orgaz by the end of the winter of 1936–7.2
The commanders preferred to organize their recruits, as at the beginning of the war, in columns, not brigades, so that, in that way, they remained more old-fashioned than the republic
ans. During the spring, nevertheless, the first mixed brigades of the nationalist army, with ordnance, machine-gun and technical arms combined, began to be formed. By then, over 200,000 men were under arms in nationalist Spain: the Army of Africa reached 60,000, the requetés and falangists together numbered 120,000; and there were 25,000 cavalry, artillery, engineers and other services. Soon this army began to be composed of divisions, with territorial names.
