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Editors’s Note: Michael Colhaze’s articles reminds us once again that the Spanish Civil War represents one possible scenario of the future. Previously on TOO, Jonas De Geer recounted this “successful nationalist revolution,” noting that
the standard narrative has long been that of a military coup against a democratic government and the noble Spanish people, supported by foreign idealists, heroically fighting evil “fascists.” This is a grotesque distortion of the truth, and stands as one of the most flagrant examples of how propaganda has been uncritically accepted as official history.
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Not Hell! Purgatory. That’s the price men like me have to pay for keeping the world a sane place!
General Mas y Redondo The Crimson Goddess
Strange tidings bounce now and then through the Web. An attentive observer noticed recently during President Obama’s inauguration celebrations that his Marine Guard of Honour carried rifleswhose firing pins had been removed, an unprecedented precaution in the annals of this particular festivity.
The same thing happened not long ago in France when the newly elected socialist honcho Francois Hollande was to review the 12th Cuirassier Regiment on its Toulouse parade grounds. Clearly not trusting their military hosts anymore, his gorillas ordered the soldiers to remove firing pins and magazines from their weapons, confiscated and kept them in sealed bags during the procedures, and only handed them back after the commander-in-chief had safely departed. A measure the last time employed some sixty years ago when, during the Algeria crisis, parts of the armed forces threatened to assassinate General de Gaulle. It seems as if the country’s present ruler, of Bilderberg provenience like most EU and US pundits, fears that there are patriots among his generals and soldiers who seriously begin to dislike Globalism, NATO membership and its illegal wars, the loss of sovereignty towards virtually uncontrollable Brussels gnomes, and the frightful economic, social and moral decline of La Grande Nation. Or, most humiliating, playing errand boys for the Rothschild clan by protecting its goldmines in Mali.
The above might ring a bell for anybody who remembers the words of US General Martin Dempsey, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, when he rather casually remarked last August in London: ‘I don’t want to be complicit if Israel chooses to attack Iran!’
Now complicit derives, needless to say, from the noun complicity, defined in the Concise Oxford Dictionary rather unequivocally as partnership in an evil action.
The statement, strangely enough, didn’t elicit more than a hiccup among the assorted mass media, AIPAC or the US’ most reliable ally in the Middle East. What is more, the General is still in charge, and there lingers a persistent rumour that someone didn’t risk to sack him.
If seen within a larger historical context, these are particulars that may call to mind the fateful summer morning nearly eighty years ago when, on July 11th 1936, a de Havilland Dragon Rapide with the registration G-ACYR took off from London’s Croydon Aerodrome.
The twin engine biplane, constructed largely from plywood and impregnated heavy textile as was customary in those days of early aviation, could accommodate up to eight passengers. But on this flight it carried only four, pilot and radio operator apart. The pilot, an adventurously inclined professional called Captain Cecil Bebb, had been told that the purpose of the journey was to fly an insurgent Rif chieftain into Spanish Morocco. As to the radio operator, he is not known by name. Found dead drunk in Casablanca’s Kasbah during a stop-over, he was abandoned without any replacement.
The privately chartered journey had been paid for by Luis Bolín, London correspondent of the conservative Spanish newspaper ABC, on behalf of its publisher, the Marqués Luca de Tena. Who ordered Bolin to fly to Las Palmas on the Canary Islands and there wait for further instructions, but return to London on the 31st of July if none came forward.
The passengers, Bolin apart, were one Major Hugh Pollard, his teenage daughter Diana and her girlfriend Dorothy Watson. The girls are recorded to have been pretty, sassy and very blond.
Pollard was a member of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, known also as MI5, and there is no doubt that the Service was aware of the expedition and its intent. Pollard had been involved in various undercover roles, including some unsavoury activities in Dublin during the War of Irish Independence. The two young girls were a cover, intended to support the improbable story that this was a private vacation trip. Pollard is said to have told his wife that they were going to Oslo. Whereas in fact their destination was entirely into the opposite direction.
After the Dragon reached France and stopped at Bordeaux to refuel, it left the coast, but for unclear reasons returned to Biaritz. From there it skipped across Spanish territory and landed in Portugal, first in Oporto and then in Lisbon. Here Bolin met with the exiled General José Sanjurjo, famous Lion of the Rif, and it seems the news he received was encouraging enough to move on. Thus the Dragon set course for Casablanca, then Cape Yubi, and finally touched down at Gando airport in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria.
The cover as English tourists worked satisfactorily, and Pollard and the two girls went on to Santa Cruz de Tenerife, there to meet a certain Doctor Gabarda in the Clinica Costa. Pollard said only one sentence: Galicia saluda a Francia! When the doctor looked at the three visitors in astonishment, Pollard repeated the sentence and added that he and his companions would be in the Hotel Pino de Oro. Captain Bebb meanwhile had remained in Las Palmas. While still in his hotel, he was approached by a visitor who introduced himself as Captain Lucena. And who wanted to know why and for whom the Englishman had come to Gran Canaria, who were his passengers, and when he intended to leave again. Bebb, not trusting the man, answered evasively. The officer took him to a villa in the mountains, and there he underwent again a cross-examination, this time by one General Orgaz and his interpreter. When the encounter did not yield anything of interest either, Bebb found himself dismissed with the stern warning to forget everything he had heard.
The next morning, July 18th, Captain Bebb was woken by a Spanish officer and his men who took him rather unceremoniously to military headquarters. After waiting idly until noon, he was finally told to get ready. Outside General Orgaz and his interpreter were expecting him. A military escort brought them to Gando airport where the Dragon Rapide was standing in the middle of the runway, ready to take off. The passengers appeared, three in total, all Spanish officers. One of them, a smallish man in his mid-forties with a calm but powerful air about him, walked up to Bebb and said simply: ‘I am General Franco’.
What happened next is the stuff of many tales. Captain Bebb took his illustrious passenger safely to Tetuan in Spanish Morocco, and thus was unwittingly instrumental in unleashing the Spanish Civil War. Which, once it had run its terrible course, invested General Franco as the undisputed ruler of Spain for nearly forty years. An epoch of peace and prosperity, as even his most vicious detractors are forced to admit, and the longest ever experienced in the modern history of this volatile country.
It is of interest to know what made the General, a man of impeccable discipline and loyalty, revoke the oath of allegiance he had once pledged to the legally elected government of his native country.
Let us take a brief glance at the years leading up to the revolt.
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In 1808, the weak and inconsequential King Carlos IV surrendered his country to Napoleon’s armies. After the resulting War of Independence, assisted by Britain’s Duke of Wellington, royal absolutism was discarded and a constitutional monarchy established instead. Whereupon Spain, after three hundred years of relative peace helped along by mountains of gold looted from its American colonies, stumbled into an era of continuous unrest. The next hundred years witnessed four bloody civil wars, thirteen partial changes of constitution and forty-odd revolutions of various kinds, which in turn produced one hundred and nine successive governments.
Spain’s society remained relatively unchanged until the turn of the century. Based on three pillars, namely a wealthy but callous bourgeoisie, a rigorously traditionalist church and the proud military, it lacked a sturdy middle class that might have bridged the vast distance between rich and poor. Thus when industrialism made its entry, a new class of workers emerged that were more astute and self-assured than the masses of miserable day labourers who toiled against a pittance for the rich land owners. New and dangerous ideologies made the round, workers unions were established, political parties of every leaning mushroomed, and on the fringes arose social offal like anarchists or communists who lived up to their vows, and often murderously so. In 1931, after the benign dictator General Primo de Rivera had lost the support of army and King Alfonso XIII alike, and once the latter went into exile, the Second Republic saw the light of day. Founded on a multitude of parties who were secretly or openly at war with each other and thus difficult to tame into a responsible and effective government, its eventual collapse came as no surprise to the astute observer. Thus when the elections ended in a victory of the United Left, the resulting regime was largely unable and unwilling to control its fanatical elements.
Perhaps due to a certain non-Christian component in the Spanish bloodstream, as the illustrious Carl Jacob Burckhardt has termed it so elegantly, and which may still account for abominations like the barbarous bullfight, political differences were settled with particular ferocity. Assassinations, robberies and church burnings became rampant, and the embattled bourgeoisie longed quite openly for a military coup. The latter was avoided by the elections of 1933, when Spain’s conservative forces won the day and managed to restore some order.
Meanwhile concealed strategies made themselves felt. At the 4th Congress of the Communist International in Moscow, Spain had been already earmarked for a Bolshevik revolution. The principal Comintern official in Western Europe, Jules Humbert-Droz, began as early as 1922 to supervise the organization of a small and only slowly growing Spanish Communist Party. Money and weapons were clandestinely brought in from abroad, and party cadres began to burrow their way into the deeper folds of the working class. In doing so, they competed with other leftist movements, be it Socialists, Anarchists, Trotskyists, or similar groups of the same hue unable to craft a united front. Which finally went as far as murdering each other in cold blood and, on a general note, constituted the decisive factor why the Second Republic lost out against the numerically much inferior forces of the rebels.
The first serious indication of what could be in store for Spain’s conservative populace was the rising in 1934 of the miners in Asturias. Often described by politically correct historiographers as miserable suffering sods, they were in fact among the best paid workers in all of Spain. Thus when their ringleaders used the inclusion of the far-right Catholic CEDA into the government as political pretext to proclaim nothing less than a national revolution, they did so in the knowledge that they were well-armed with guns and dynamite. Thus forty thousand dedicated men, properly fired with socialist and communist catchphrases, wreaked havoc in Spain’s northern province. Pillage and other violence abounded. The bishopric palace in Oviedo and its university, including the priceless library, were destroyed. Businessmen and priests were arbitrarily shot. And when a unit of Civil Guards finally surrendered, many of its members were shot as well.
Duly upset, the right-wing press portrayed the rebels as lackeys of a foreign Jewish-Bolshevik conspiracy, a rather appropriate term if one remembers that only two years later Stalin’s envoy to Madrid, Moses ‘Marcel’ Rosenberg, and his communist brethren controlled the socialist regime of Largo Caballero almost entirely, while disseminating death and destruction among whoever was still deemed conservative.
As to the Asturias uprising, it was finally quenched by General Franco. Instead of relying on inexperienced conscripts, he brought in his battle-hardened Foreign Legion who, often fighting from house to house, finally overwhelmed the miners. Retaliation was nearly as harsh as the excesses of the rebels, and the gruesome affair only deepened the cleavages in an already profoundly divided society. Thereafter Spain disintegrated ever more, with one governmental crisis chasing the next, until the president of the republic, Alcalà Zamora, decreed on 7th January 1936 the dissolution of parliament. Thus for the third time in less than five years the people were called upon to vote, this time in an atmosphere of intense distrust and anxiety.
For a change the Spanish Left, whom Gil Robles of the CEDA called the ones who prefer Moscow to Spain, managed to unite and thus carry the elections. Vaguely labelling itself Popular Front, it gained an ample majority in the Cortes, or parliament. But those who had hoped for a betterment of the general situation, however slight, were bitterly disappointed. Social conflicts and criminal attacks increased. A wildly exuberant proletariat, encouraged by highly inflammatory editorials of the leftist press, went on a rampage while seeking revenge for real or imagined slights of the bourgeoisie. Unable to stand up to its coalition partners, the socialist regime was unwilling to halt the transgressions of the erratic Anarchists or the well organized and highly effective crimes of the Communists.
Between February and June 1936 a total of 160 churches were burnt down, 269 persons assassinated, 1287 wounded, innumerable burglaries and robberies committed, 138 armed assaults staged and 146 bombs and other devices exploded. In the same time the country was shaken by 113 general strikes and 228 partial strikes. Madrid lived from the middle of May to the outbreak of the Civil War in a state of chaos. The workers took their meals in the city’s restaurants without paying, threatening the owners with guns and knives if they objected. Massacres of persons belonging to the Right became rampant. Priests were killed by the hundreds. A young Frenchwoman, schoolmistress to a wealthy family, was murdered in a most horrendous manner.
The bloodiest blows and greatest refinements of cruelty were nearly always reserved for Catholics. Like the priest of Los Navalmorales who was stripped, crowned with thorns and subjected to a parody of Crucifixion. Forced to drink vinegar, he still had the strength to bless his killers before expiring. Or the monks of Cervera whose rosary beads were knocked into their eardrums. Or a young man from Alcazar de San Juan, known for his religious fervour, who had his eyes dug out. Or countless nuns beaten, raped and murdered.
The list is endless, and it bespeaks superficially a kind of collective bloodlust that took hold of the proletarian masses. But hiding behind it lurks the clear attempt to destroy Spain’s conservative class and its elite once and for all.
Thus when, on 13 July 1936, the leader of Spain’s parliamentary opposition, José Calvo Sotelo, 1st Duke of Calvo Sotelo, was arrested with a fake warrant by government Assault Guards, Young Socialists and a captain of the Civil Guard, then shot dead by the latter in a police van, it was the last straw for those who had long since planned to rise in rebellion.
General Franco finally made up his mind, and the die was cast.
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The Spanish Civil War seems to hold a particular fascination for professionals and amateurs alike. Much has been written about its cause, left-leaning, right-leaning, or fairly objective. My first paperback on the matter, a 1976 Penguin edition, is a reasonably impartial account, but its cover reflects already the future and brazenly subjective, if not downright dim-witted, representations of bootlicking historians in league with our hostile elites.
One of the more acceptable reports is Hugh Thomas’ exhaustive tome, though unfortunately a small but interesting item is missing. Namely the Caudillo’s official proclamation a few hours before leaving the Canary Islands in Captain Bebb’s Dragon Rapide.
To all those who feel a sacred love for Spain! To all those who have sworn to defend it against its enemies! The Nation calls out for help. The situation is becoming more critical every day. Anarchy reigns in the majority of towns and villages. Officials appointed by the government preside over – if they do not actually ferment – social disorder. With revolvers and machine guns citizens are cowardly and treacherously assassinated, while government authorities do nothing to impose peace and justice. Revolutionary strikes of all kinds paralyse the life of the Nation! Can we cowardly and traitorously abandon Spain to the enemies of the Fatherland without resistance and without a fight? No! Traitors may do so, but we who have sworn to defend the Nation shall not! We offer you justice and equality before the law, peace and love among the Spaniards, liberty and fraternity free from libertinism and tyranny!
Long live Spain!