No Pasarán!

by Pete Ayrton

  ‘Comrade Commander,’ they asked, ‘let us join the troops.’

  ‘But you know I have no rifles for you. How are you going to fight?’ answered the Commander.

  ‘It doesn’t matter; we will march behind the militiamen and pick up the rifles of those that fall.’

  Thus was organised a column intended to stop the advance of the Moors and Legionaries along the valley. Behind each man bearing a rifle there marched another man unarmed, who, with clenched fists, waited for the tragic opportunity of picking up a gun. History has seldom shown the spectacle of a people more determined than these to resist an invader. Moved by a ferocious hatred for their foes, these peasants of the heart of Castile, these shepherds and lumbermen of the Sierras of Gredos, marched side by side, breast forward, so as to form a living wall against the advance of the colonial troops.

  The heroic resistance collapsed with terrific slaughter, as it was foredoomed to do. Courage is not enough in modern warfare; efficient arms and iron discipline are main factors. The peasants were routed, but their stubborn resistance exasperated the enemy officers, who gave their men licence to ravage the valley, spreading a devastating torrent of death and desolation. Groups of peasants and villagers sought sanctuary in the tortuous paths and caves afforded by the mountains, but even there they were found by the invaders and killed without mercy. No prisoners were taken, and until well into the night the pine woods in the mountains near Montreal resounded with the pitiless volleys of execution squads.

  The officers of the victorious column began to concentrate on the principal square of the village. The last to arrive was the Caid. He was leading a small group of Moors with wide shining eyes and hanging jaws; their shoulders, bent under the weight of heavy burdens, indicated that they had been looting to their hearts’ content. Some had their naked arms covered as far as the elbow with wrist-watches taken from the dead militiamen, for the puerile and barbarous covetousness of the Moors was particularly attracted to timepieces of all kinds – a reaction, perhaps, to the undivided eternal flow of unreckoned hours in their desert camps and mountain solitudes.

  When the Caid approached the group of officers and stood to attention, giving the military salute with his right hand touching his fez, he saw the Foreign Legion officer who, the previous night, had offered to avenge the death of Mohamed. He advanced towards him with outstretched arms. The officer patted him gaily on the back and said:

  ‘Well done, Caid – you and your men have fought like true Berbers. Don’t think for a moment that I have forgotten to keep my promise. My men could not cut off the ears of the President of the Republic, at least not yet... but we got a good collection for you as a first instalment.’

  He called a batman who brought a bulging haversack which he took from him and threw at the feet of the Caid.

  ‘There you are!’ he laughed, ‘there is a good vengeance for the death of your “mejazni” ... A hundred ears of marxists!’

  On touching the ground the haversack fell half-open and out of it rolled some bloody unrecognisable lumps of human flesh.

  The soldiers soon established law and order in the valley. Their methods were simple and drastic. The peasants who had survived returned cowed to their usual work. There were no more strikes nor quarrels over wages. Work from dawn to sunset, the traditional custom in the country-side, was re-enforced. Instead of the clenched fists they gave the open fascist salute. The Civil Guard were once more masters of the country-side whilst the fascists reorganised all the villages that came within the iron girdle of their new discipline. The prisons that had been opened to incarcerate the reactionaries were now used by fascists to imprison the reds.

  After a few days the troops left that part of the country. The Caid and his men were sent to the Madrid front where they fought in the first line with the great courage, tenacity and resistance to the hardships of the campaign that made them the greatest asset of the rebel army. The Moors knew this and inwardly were very proud of it. Their vanity was satisfied. Spain, with her masses of ‘hebreos’ incapable of putting up a fight, was falling before them. The valiant Berbers! An old instinct like an ancestral voice, a vehement desire for revenge unsatisfied for generations, was now urging them on. The Arabs and Berbers, moved by these obscure impulses, charged in the open against the trenches of the reds and were happy. The mere fact that they could kill infidels and be praised for it by those hated Europeans who had subdued Islam, made risking their lives worthwhile and, in the bargain, they had the proud delight of seeing them run in panic before their overwhelming onslaughts.

  So the Caid and his men advanced almost without resistance to the suburbs of Madrid. There they entrenched, ready for a last sally on the coveted capital. From the hill where they awaited the zero hour they could see the compact mass of buildings basking in the clear light so often painted by Velazquez. Madrid offered itself to their astonished eyes like a fantastic city of the Thousand and One Nights. When they looked at it through the veils of dusk and saw how that immense expanse resembled a starry sky with its myriads of lights, they revelled in the thought that the world of treasures within the city was at their mercy, as a well-deserved reward for their courage. A satanic pride filled the hearts of these warriors from the Rif Yebala and the Atlas, who had always been ready to kill or be killed for the mere conquest of a miserable ‘aduar,’ a meadow where their meagre cattle could graze, or for the trickle of water that sprang from an oasis of the Sahara. The conviction that they, the wretched Kabils who had been systematically humiliated and vanquished by the superior fire-arms of the Europeans, were now the deciding factor in the fate of that great city that was waiting to be stormed and plundered, increased their ardour and enthusiasm twofold.

  The first day of the storming of Madrid the Moors attacked with an overwhelming fury. Displayed in open formation, leaning forward and howling to kill, they advanced under an inferno of fire from the enemy. Twice they had to retreat under the hail of bullets from the red trenches, and each time they returned to the attack with more determination and rage. At last they reached the first-line trenches of the republican militiamen and there, for the first time, the barbaric African warriors found their foe standing ready to fight them in an epic hand-to-hand duel. There, also for the first time, the Berbers received what to them was an appalling surprise: the fighters of the proletariat of the great European city did not run away. That day the Moors learned, to their cost, that not all Spaniards were miserable ‘hebreos’ and that, in that Spain which in their haughty superiority as warriors they disdained, there existed a soul as hard as steel with a vital impetus that could be compared to the devastating hurricane of the Desert.

  During the storming of the trenches the Caid surprised a militiaman who, crouching behind some sand-bags near a breach in the trenches made by the explosion of a shell, was lying in ambush ready for the Moors who might try to invade the trenches by that breach. He was a tall strong fellow, dressed in the blue overalls of a mechanic, his shirt-sleeves rolled up baring brawny arms which had been made strong and muscular by the constant use of the forging hammer. Holding his rifle tightly by the barrel he wielded it with great force above his head. A radiant expression of mad joy was on his face and every time he brought down his rifle, like a mighty club, on the head of an unsuspecting Moor who tried to force his way into the trenches, he felt proud of his unerring adroitness. With every mortal blow he jumped for joy like a child and, with the fluent lingo of a true son of the lower quarters of Madrid, he let flow a torrent of words with which he urged himself on to his death-dealing job.

  ‘Ole! Viva! there goes another darkie,’ he shouted. ‘Another Moor for Allah’s Paradise. God-speed, my friend! That was a good one, eh?... Come on, damn you... I want more heads to smash... Come on, come on... Ole! Viva!... There it is... Smack... another one!!’

  The cunning Caid approached stealthily from behind and, when he was within striking distance, he charged and thrust his bayonet into the militiaman’s back, at the same t
ime as the latter raised the butt of his rifle to bring it down on another Berber’s head. Neither the Moor nor the militiaman missed. Another victim fell to the mighty club, but the militiaman was pierced by the Moor’s bayonet. As he toppled, his head fell against the chest of his victim and thus they fell together like skittles and lay on top of one another. The militiaman made a desperate effort to raise himself, but he fell back and this time his face was pressed against the face of the Moor. Their veiled eyes met and the look of terror and agony on the twisted features of the dying Moor inspired him to find strength to jeer his last defiant sarcasm:

  ‘Good gracious, if you are not an ugly son of a bitch!’ then resigning himself to die cheek to cheek with his enemy, he murmured without bitterness:

  ‘Well, we both got it this time, friend!... Bad luck old blackamoor, eh?’

  Over their dead bodies the Moors entered the trench, while the Caid kept the opening clear. The trench was speedily evacuated by the reds who were once more on the run. The Berbers had won another victory.

  But the stout resistance of the militiamen had only failed on that spot where the Moors had attacked in force. The rest of the republican lines withstood the advance and the Foreign Legionaries, the Phalangists and the Requetes forming the rest of Franco’s army failed to break the spirit of Madrid’s defenders. The advance made by the Moors formed a dangerous salient and there was the possibility of their being cut off at any moment. The commanding officer of that sector, trusting to the courage and resourcefulness of the Moors, neglected to rectify the line in that direction and they were left for the night in possession of the trench they had captured.

  But the reds gave them no peace and kept firing at them all night. At dawn the Government artillery found the range and opened a terrific and relentless fire on the Moors who, seeing that they were being killed like flies, tried to advance and were mown down from the enemy trenches which they tried vainly to reach. No reinforcements came to their aid, and the Caid gave the order to retreat.

  It was too late, however. The Moors had been caught in the pincers of two simultaneous and well-directed flank attacks, and the survivors were forced to surrender. The group now consisted of some thirty men and they swarmed round the Caid while the reds continued killing them off, one after another. They had no more resistance left in them and the Caid, realising this, tried once more to force a way. He urged his men forward but he was the only one with enough courage to advance towards what was certain death. Suddenly from the red trenches came the order ‘Cease fire!’ Only a stray shot here and there was heard and a militiaman jumped out of the trench and, covering the Caid with his pistol, shouted:

  ‘Give yourself up or I shoot!’

  The Caid, with the fatalism of his race, believed this moment was ordained and, throwing down his rifle, put up his arms and went forward towards the enemy trench, still covered from behind by the militiaman’s pistol.

  To capture the rest of the group of Moors was easy enough. They were surrounded by militiamen and driven like dejected cattle into the trench. Their morale had failed them all of a sudden. Their eyes, so fierce and proud before, looked at their captors with the same sad and beaten look of wild animals caught in a trap.

  One of the Moors, in order to spare himself any more nasty jabs with a rifle-butt, lifted his left fist and gave the red salute, shouting at the same time:

  ‘Long live Republica... Me red, me your side!’

  ‘Moros estar reds, we all be reds!’ shouted the other Moors, hoping thus to save their skins. The militiamen found it a great source of entertainment to see these African warriors declaring themselves reds and lifting their clenched fists above their heads and shouting, in the only Pidgin-Spanish they knew, that they were the most devoted of all republicans.

  One militiaman, with a face as hard as a hatchet and wings of grey hair on his temples, approached the Caid, who had not spoken a word nor clenched his fist, and asked him:

  ‘And you?... You “estar rojo” also ... One of us, eh?’

  The Caid fixed his clear eyes on him and answered:

  ‘No, me estar a Moor.’

  ‘Kill him! Let us shoot the swine!’ shouted the militiamen around him. One of them pressed the muzzle of his rifle against the Caid’s breast, but the grey-headed veteran pushed the weapon away:

  ‘Why are you going to kill him?... Are you going to murder him because he at least is honest?’

  ‘I will kill him just because I want to,’ answered a militiaman in a fury – ‘And I will kill you too, if you are not careful.’

  At this moment the old man went for the other, pistol in hand, and a nasty quarrel ensued between those who sided with him and those who backed his opponent. The trouble was only ended by the swift intervention of the more level-headed and it was decided to take the prisoners to the nearest commanding officer, but it was hard work to prevent them being killed on the way. At the commanding officer’s post they were submitted to a severe questioning and later on it was decided that they should be taken to Madrid in a lorry.

  Amongst the militiamen sent to guard the Moors was the veteran who had saved the Caid from certain death. He was a man of about fifty years of age, tall, lean and well-built. During the weeks he had been in the trenches he had grown a beard which, together with his bronzed skin, gave him a certain physical similarity to the Caid. Seated next to each other in the lorry one would have said that both belonged to the same race. It was as though the intervening eight hundred years had been wiped away – here was a man obviously descended from the time when the Moor was all-powerful and ruled over the Iberian Peninsula.

  When the lorry entered the main Madrid streets the astonished Moors got up to stare at the big city. The Caid, who had dreamt of entering Madrid in triumph, did not move and hardly looked about him. But he took the opportunity, while he was sure that his men would not notice the gesture, to catch hold of the militiaman’s hand and say to him:

  ‘Moor be thankful.’

  The militiaman, deeply touched, tried to appear indifferent and avoided the Caid’s eyes.

  ‘They will kill you, Moor. Do not hope for mercy.’

  The militiaman tried to make his meaning clear by drawing one of his fingers across his throat. The Caid remained impassible and answered:

  ‘Never mind, Moor be thankful to you.’

  The lorry with its load of prisoners had arrived at its destination in the centre of Madrid. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and at that time the central streets were filled with the usual animated and noisy crowds in spite of the enemy at the very gates. The Moors, who stood in a compact group in the lorry, made an unexpected side-show for the crowd. Soon the lorry was surrounded by people of all kinds. The Madrid street urchins and hooligans passed amusing and caustic remarks about their personal appearance. When the lorry stopped at last in the Gran Via, a sea of humanity surged round the prisoners eager to see them, to touch them, to say something to them.

  They had arrived in the nick of time to uplift the morale of the people. Someone ordered the driver of the lorry to drive round the streets and stop at certain places, and everywhere the Moors went they were surrounded by crowds who rejoiced to see the prisoners lifting their clenched fists to give the red salute.

  ‘These are only a sample of what we took,’ said a typical braggart. ‘We have captured more than ten thousand of them!’

  ‘They have revolted against Franco,’ said another Madrileño. ‘They have cut Franco’s throat, you know, and joined us.’

  ‘Of course, the Moors are a lot of bolsheviks ... Is that not so, Mustafa?’ said a ‘chula’ – a woman of the people – smiling in a friendly way at the prisoners who, by this time, were rather confused in their minds at the unexpected reception they were getting. They thought that all they had to do was to shout still louder:

  ‘Viva Republica!’ ‘Vivan rojos!’

  There were some in the crowd, however, who were less friendly. Some grumbling old woman with a good g
rowth of hair on her upper lip, or some sullen-faced militiaman, said, on seeing the Moors:

  ‘The thing to do with that crowd of murderers is to shoot them in the back.’

  To this there was always someone who replied:

  ‘Those who brought them to Spain are the ones who ought to be shot like dogs. The fascists, those are the real murderers.’

  The fact was that the Moors did not provoke a great deal of exasperation in the people of Madrid. All the good-natured Madrileños saw were unwilling instruments used by the fascists. They did not realise how the Moors would have killed and looted without mercy; they looked so quiet and docile. They looked down on them as though they were poor beasts enticed from their own country on a fool’s errand. They felt a kind of commiseration for them and when they saw the prisoners lifting their clenched arms in a tragic-comic gesture, they offered them peanuts as if they were monkeys in the cages in the Madrid zoo.

  Knowing very little of the truth, as is always the case with the masses, they would willingly have let the Moors go free. But war has its inflexible laws and the Spanish Civil War had reached a terrible pinnacle of cruelty. The death of the Moors had been decreed in the name of the people, whose opinion was not asked. When night began to fall and the streets were deserted by the swarming day-time crowds, the Moors were taken to a lonely spot in the Madrid country-side. The exhibition for propaganda purposes had come to an end and the moment had arrived to get rid of that useless load of unwanted humanity.

  The Caid, who had remained all the time seated near the red veteran who was guarding him, caught his hand again and asked him:

  ‘Now they kill Moors, eh?’

  The militiaman assented, nodding his head gravely.

  ‘Allah is good and Mahomet is his prophet,’ was the only comment made by the Moor.