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Our house was a rather primitive, one-story affair built on the beach facing the small island of Cabrera; lately taken by the Reds. The vivid description of the conquest of this island as told over Radio-Barcelona had cheered us for days. If all of the red 'conquests' were like this one, we felt we had little to worry about. According to their reports, after forcing the submission of the garrison they had marched in triumph from village-to-village where they were acclaimed with feverish enthusiasm by the inhabitants, flags, flying, bands playing. Apart from the lighthouse-keeper, there were held a dozen carabineros with their wives and children who lived in the few houses on the tiny port. Such was the garrison they had so valiantly acquired. The only other inhabitants consisted of a number of wild goats and a fair amount of rabbits. There were no villages on the island. As it was without provisions of any kind it's only possible use was as a temporary base in the event they contemplated the invasion of Mallorca.
Island of Cabrera
It was for the preparation against just this invasion that all our efforts were now being centered. My husband was away most of the day and night preparing and supervising the vigilance of the coast. Trucks laden with soldiers passed to and fro. As night I could hear the heavy guns rumble by as they were taken to their hidden positions. The nights were filled with activity.
The days were sleepy and quiet; our only diversion was to watch the planes as they passed overhead on their way to the bombing of Palma, plus an occasional glimpse of an aggravating submarine that hovered about Cabrera. But our peace was not for long; the proud owner of an old avionetta, whose sole ambition, it appeared, was to bomb and sink the red submarine. On the second day this impatiently-awaited opportunity arrived. At once he was off, with the entire village running to the beach to watch the fun.
The submarine was passing slowly between two islands when it first sighted the small plane. It quickened its speed and started to zig-zag crazily. Crespi circled, straightened, then swooped. We held our breath as we watched his first bomb drop slightly ahead into the sea and heard the pup-pup-pup of the protesting defense guns. He mounted and circled again. Another bomb, then another. One fell very near the mark
.
We shrieked our enthusiasm as we saw him returning his small supply of ammunition, we thought having come to an end. We watched our hero proudly as he circled the sandy stretch which served as a landing field. His maneuvers were repeated several times before we realized something was wrong. Suddenly the motor stopped and to our horror we saw the plane dive-crash on its nose and turn slowly on its back.
Before anyone could reach him he had crawled out from under, intact and still holding in his hand a live bomb. Why the bomb had not exploded, our hero been blown to atoms was a mystery that remained unsolved. Providence works in strange ways! The following morning we were again quietly contemplating the red planes' pass when to our surprise they turned and started to circle. We were going to be bombed! A retaliation, obviously, for our attack on their submarine the day before!
The plane was now overhead as we watched it in fascination The first bomb fell with a deafening report not twenty metres away on the beach. The astonished and terrified villagers scuttled indoors, hysterical with fright. I made for the thickest wall I could find, collecting a sobbing old woman and a young girl on the way. We flattened ourselves against the wall and waited. Crash! Another fell on the other side of the house. We could hear shrapnel hit the walls, one hit splintered the shutters on the window. For more than half an hour bombs rained around us.
When at last the planes departed, a demented rush to evacuate began. Women and children ran screaming through the streets. Laden carts, wagons and old cars pilled with bundles of hastily accumulated belongings dashed past, driven madly by shouting men. In less than an hour not a soul remained; except for an occasional soldier, a few stray chickens and dogs forgotten in the panic; the streets were empty.
There had been but two casualties. Providence had gain taken a hand. One bomb had fallen close to a house, blowing in the door and seriously wounding two of the inhabitants huddled within. Strangely, both were reds from a neighboring village. Before they could be lifted into the cart that was to take them to the nearest hospital, Civil Guards arrived with the warrant for their arrest. They were suspected of attempting to spy out the positions of our hidden game.
When discussing this coincidence, I was told of another, even more strange. When the red planes had bombed the village of Inca, there had been but one casualty, also a communist. When he had seen the red planes overhead he had dashed into the street waving his clenched fists in their comrade's salute and crying, "Viva, Russia!" Before the shouted acclaim had died on his lips, he was blown to atoms by a falling bomb. "This is a sign of God's vengeance," was the awed opinions whispered by the devout villagers.
Undoubtedly, we owed the attack to Crespi's little plane which still lay a gleaming target on the sandy stretch in back of the scattered houses of our one main street. As it had been righted the enemy was ignorant of the fact that it was not a useless wreck their attack but a waste of ammunition. That night our soldiers moved it to an isolated field where it was left, only slightly hidden, as a bait to detract any future planes from the houses and barracks.
The bit worked. At six the next morning, we were favored with another visit at which at least twenty bombs were sacrificed on our tempting wreck Their submarine was obviously undesirous of another bombing; they were taking no chances. Every night the poor remains were carefully removed - an apparent attempt made to hide them - every day the red planes returned intent on their work of destruction. Our men were in high glee over the success of their strategy. In the end it cost the enemy well over a hundred bombs, a pilot and a good plane.
We were also deluged with all propaganda leaflets calling on all workers to rebel against the Military Fascists and join the liberating forces that in a short time will come to save you! Soldiers: rebel and kill your leaders. You do not have to obey their orders! Join the loyal forces! These inflammatory epistles of the "legal" government were signed by representatives of the General Union of Workers, the Socialist Party and the United Youths.
During the first attack, our men were ordered not to fire, to give no sign of life. Without opposition the red pilot became more and more bold descending within a few hundred feet to drop his bombs. Suddenly we retaliated with fire from two hidden machine guns. Our strategy was again successful; he departed hurriedly leaving a trail of smoke behind Watching we saw him make for Cabrera. Our bullets must have hit a vital spot as he was forced into the sea between the two islands. Later, the crippled plane was towed into port by the submarine.
The following day we were shelled in retaliation; the shells falling on an isolated stretch of beach. No damage was done. An order was now issued notitifying the villagers to return; life must continue normally; all shops and cafés must reopen. Anyone not complying within three days would have their property confiscated. Slowly and fearfully they returned. A semblance of calm was restored; for the first time in many days we had fresh cream and milk, vegetables and meat were again to be had. During the interval we had lived on a diet of deserted chickens, supplemented by the contents of old tins.
When a plane was now heard, the men rushed for refuge to the small caves and crevices that honey-combed the beach, the women and children were herded into an ancient underground oven. And though between times life continued almost normally, I made the unpleasant personal discovery that eight days of continuous bomb-dodging had had their effect on my nerves.
But our renewed calm was not for long; news of the red conquest of our sister island of Ibiza, with grim details of more atrocities, again there the villagers into a state of panic and despair. Remembering the lying descriptions given over the radio of the bombing of Palma, the exaggerations of their occupation of Cabrera, we refused to believe these latest reports without reliable confirmation.
Unfortunately, we were to receive tragic confirmation from four eye-witnesses who had escaped on a small fishing boat; four horrible days spent in the blazing sun without food or water. Amongst the survivors was the manor of an Ibithian village. One of the refugees died from the results of exposure shortly after reaching our port of Andraitx. We now knew the invitation of our own island was imminent.
As there was but a narrow stretch of water between us and their base at Cabrera it was thought possible that we might be favored with the brunt of the disembarkment. In the event of a night-landing the houses on the beach would be between two fires, Our own guns in back, the landing reds in front. In consequence the village was again evacuated.
I was ordered back to Palma.
To my surprise I found Palma very changed in the short time I had been away. On the surface everything was normal; the city went with calm determination about its daily business. Only when sirens screamed their warning of the approach of enemy planes was there a rush for doorways marked REFUGIO. In a few moments the streets were emptied. Only with the second safety siren did the people emerge again from the cellars to go quietly on, seemingly oblivious to the interruption.
Along one street, I noticed a long, patiently waiting queue, three or four abreast. When I inquired to what they waiting for, I was told the Military Commander of the Island had issued an appeal for gold. Completely cut off from the mainland our supplies must be bought from foreign nations. With the present devalued currency we should have to pay in gold. I was witnessing the response to his appeal. My throat tightened with emotions as I noticed the quantity of peasants, the tranquil resignation on their weather-worn faces; for the salvation of the country they had come to offer their few gold pieces, the gold buttons from the sleeve of their regional costumes, the trinkets that had been treasured and handed down for generations, the gold that represented the dowries of the daughters. Looking at the preponderance of the peasantry in the waiting line, I wondered if the wealthier classes would respond with equal sacrifice.
Partial gold collection taken by residents for the good of the cause
But calm was only on the surface. Underneath, I found the motions of the people keyed to the snapping point. Unspent passion would flare up on the unexcepted faces. Every tongue carried tales of horrors they were powerless to avenge. Every foreign warship that entered the harbor brought new evidence of atrocities being perpetuated by the reds. Newspapers were scanned for new causes of indignation and rage. Resentment was being stirred to dangerous hatred against certain foreign powers that still stupidly prattled of the necessity of upholding the "legal" government of Spain - A "legal" government of Spain that was Russian - a government whose apparent idea of law and order was to allow and encourage senseless slaughter the burning alive of priests and helpless nuns, the violation of women ,the mutilation of innocent children and the destruction of priceless treasures of history and art.
Nations, many of whose representative papers still persisted in describing as "rebels" and "insurgents" the men who were giving their lives to save not only their own country but the civilization from the contagion of class hatred, turned to madness from an epidemic of such insidiously aroused brutality and cruelty that is made the most hideous episodes of the French and Russian revolutions pale in comparison.
Daily we listened to harrowing descriptions of eye-witnesses of such viciousness as the murder of the Naval officers in Cartagena bound and thrown into the sea with weights tied to their feet, of the murder of the hostages of the prison ships in Barcelona who to save ammunition had been drowned n the same inexcusable way.
From an officer on a British warship I heard the following details of their rescues of sixty nuns. The necessary permission to evacuate had been applied for to the committee - the representatives of the anarchist F.A.I., the C.N.T., the U.G.T., the P.O.U.M, etc. - but had been refused. Permission was only grudgingly given for the three of four English nuns numbered amongst the sixty; who stubbornly refused to leave without their sisters.
Persistently hoping to be able to wangle more favorable replies. The officers of the ship invited the different representatives on board one evening for drinks. After several hours of flattering attentions and freely circulating cocktails, the mess room rang with loud protestations of friendship, the atmosphere became matey. In a rash burst of geniality one of the committee asked what they in turn could do to show their appreciation of such hospitality.
The hoped-for moment had arrived - he was asked for the lives of the sixty nuns. There was an awkward silence broken at last by a welcome, "Carumba!" Yes, why not, after all what were sixty miserable nuns in return for such hospitality, nothing must be allowed to stand in the way of their friendship! Without delay the nuns were fetched and put on board before the committee with more sober daylight could repent of their generosity.
In spite of the incomprehensible attitude of the British government - under the influence of their Soviet-minded Mr. Eden - too much praise cannot be awarded to the British Navy for their ceaseless humanitarian efforts which have resulted in the rescue, from worse than death, of thousands of innocent victims.
I asked one officer how, after having seen with his own eyes, the horrors committed by the Communists in Spain, he could account for the seeming blindness of the British opinion, as voiced by articles in the 'London Times' to the effect that no illusions must be made, the British public prefers Communism to Fascism. He could only answer that, being a sailor, he did not pretend to fathom the intricacies of politics, he only regretted that more influential men could not have witnessed personally a few of the horrors he had had the misfortune of seeing.
~~~~~
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avionetta: You read where Natacha used this term in the above portion of the essay. I'm no better versed in planes than I am in cars, so I had no idea what this was. Upon looking it up, I learned it is a small plane; a 'puddle-jumper.' I guess every island had one.
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Crespi: Natacha really never goes into detail as to who this is, but I happen to know that Crespi was the pilot of the little plane that that crashed and served as the decoy for a few bombings from the enemy so they could waste a few resources.
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Gold donations: When this little essay of Natacha's is over, I plan to do a blog post about exactly what happened to that gold taken from the Spaniards. The gold they thought was going to benefit them and save their lives. You never know what you will find when you get into the research.
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F.A.I. (Federación Anarquista Ibérica - Iberian Anarchist Federation).The FAI was a group of twentieth-century Spanish militants dedicated to keeping Spain’s largest labor union, the CNT, on a revolutionary, anarcho-syndicalist path. That effort has garnered both praise and criticism within and outside the anarchist movement.
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C.N.T. (Confederación National del Trabajo - National Confederation of Labor). This is a Spanish confederation of Fanarcha0syndicalist labor unions, which was long affiliated with the International Workers' Association (A.I.T.)
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U.G.T. (The Union General de Trabajadores - General Union of Workers). This is a major Spanish trade union which is historically affiliated with the Spanish Socialist Workers Party (P.S.O.E.)
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P.O.U.M. (Partido Obrero de Unificación Marxista - The Workers' Party of Marxist Unification) was a Spanish communist party formed during the Second Republic and mainly active around the Spanish Civil War.
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Mr. Eden: Natacha refers to 'Mr. Eden' when speaking to the British officer. Anthony Eden (June 12, 1897 - January 14, 1977, was the British foreign secretary from 1935 to 1938.
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I think this blog post says it all, really. What Natacha went through during her life with Rudy pales in comparison to THIS life, and it is only going to get more traumatic.
Darkmum
THANK YOU FOR READING DARKMUM'S MUSINGS. I ALWAYS WELCOME NEW SUBSCRIBERS!