Franco's Map

by Walter Ellis

  Bramall said nothing. Like everyone else in his compartment, he looked the other way, fanning himself with a copy of Arriba. When it came to his turn to show his papers, the British passport he displayed was picked over and examined with scrupulous dedication. Only the stamped laisser-passer from Serrano’s office convinced the sergeant that the foreigner should not join the others in the back of the police wagon parked in the station yard. Bramall caught his eyes and fixed him with what he hoped was a chilling look.

  The remainder of the journey, which included a change from the Malaga express to a local train at Bobadilla, took three long hours, during which the Andalucian heat continued to build. Bramall, seated next to the window, found it hard to keep awake. But the sleep he entered did not bring him rest. He was back on the banks of the Ebro. A group of dead soldiers, cut down by the German raider, stood gathered at the riverbank staring at the corpse of twenty-one-year-old Manuela Valdés. Manuela’s left hand was pointing across to the Nationalist forces lined up in ranks on the far side. No one spoke. Suddenly, as if in response to a military command, the soldiers shifted their glare to Bramall. “It’s not my fault,” he told them. “I loved her. I didn’t want her to die.” But the words that came out of his mouth made no sense and they ignored him. He returned his gaze to Manuela. She was naked now – he felt shame for her – and he saw the trail of bullet holes that ran in a diagonal from her waist to her shoulder. He bent down, needing to touch her, needing to confirm that she was dead. As he placed his fingers to her wounds, she shuddered and, in an obscene parody of arousal, twisted over onto her back. Now he could see her breasts, which flowed with thick, arterial blood. He tried to look away, but couldn’t. Slowly, deliberately, beneath his horrified gaze, the hand that had pointed across the river towards the Nationalist army rose up in an arc, shifting by degrees until – dear God! – it was pointing at him. He backed away hysterically, his boots scrabbling for purchase in the wet earth. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Then he looked at her again and it was her eyes that now caught his attention. There was nothing there, only empty sockets. He couldn’t bear it. That was when he heard the sound of boots stamping in the mud. Manuela’s dead comrades had formed up in a line and they, too, were pointing in his direction. It was as if he was the accused in a Greek classical drama, identified as the murderer by the omniscient chorus. Gibbering, he placed a hand to his mouth and burst into tears.

  “Tickets, please!”

  “What?”

  It was the train conductor.

  “Your ticket, Señor. I came aboard at Córdoba. This is a fresh check.”

  “Oh, right. One moment, please.” He fished out his ticket from his inside pocket, then rummaged for a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes, hoping that no one was looking at him.

  Another hour went by. By the time the Mediterranean came into view, the atmosphere in the railway carriage was almost unbearably pungent. Just getting off this damned train had become a major objective. When, at last, they pulled into Algeciras, Bramall stumbled onto the platform like a drowning man swept unexpectedly onto the beach. A taxi, at least 20 years-old, was waiting for him. The driver picked him out at once from the crowd, but let him carry his own bag. He didn’t object. The fact that there was a car at all was something. He’d supposed he’d have to walk. The taxi – some sort of Renault, painted canary yellow – was a mess, missing regularly on at least one cylinder, But it took him the five miles or so to the Gibraltar border crossing at La Linéa, where, after a further inspection of his travel documents by Spanish border guards, he was met in a Land Rover by a lieutenant with an eye patch.

  The Neutral Zone between the two jurisdictions was appropriately bleak, For 50 yards, a windswept swathe of asphalt, baked to an almost liquid consistency, was all that marked the transition from Spanish to colonial territory. But once behind the British Lines – a newly constructed network of anti-tank defences, backed up by razor wire and machine gun nests – Bramall was in no doubt that he had entered a war zone. A battery of howitzers, their muzzles jutting out from ramparts first built by the Moors, guarded the “Landport” approach. Larger, naval-style guns, anchored in embrasures in the Rock itself, hundreds of feet up, looked towards Algeciras and its hinterland.

  The lieutenant, heading in the direction of an opening in the fortifications marked Landport Tunnel 1729, halted at a set of flashing lights. Immediately ahead was the colony’s newly extended airstrip, running West to East across the littoral. An RAF Wellington bomber coming in from the Atlantic applied its brakes full-on upon landing to avoid getting its feet wet in the Mediterranean at the other side. While they waited for the Wellington to turn round and taxi back, Bramall shifted his gaze to the harbour. The ships of Force H, as well as a group of submarines and various supply vessels and freighters, rode at anchor in the lee of the Rock. He couldn’t help thinking, in spite of the impressive defensive capability on display, how vulnerable they would be in the event of a concerted enemy assault. An attacking force, German or Spanish or both, might not take the colony straight away. But it would almost certainly render it unviable for shipping and aircraft. The British garrison, in that event, would be forced either to beat a retreat or else to hunker down with no other objective than mere survival. And the big question, the one that he had first asked of Braithwaite, re-entered his head with all the force of the bomber that had just touched down on the exposed tarmac: how in Hell’s name was he supposed to prevent it?

  In the Abwehr observation post overlooking the neutral zone, a camera, connected to a motor drive, focused on the Naval officer and his guest. The zoom lens caught his features quite precisely.

  By now it was 6.30 in the evening and Bramall, after checking in to the Hotel Bristol on Cathedral Square, was invited to change and join the local SIS station chief, Alastair MacLeish, and Gibraltar’s head of naval intelligence, Commander John Garfield, for dinner at the Government House.

  “They normally sit down at 7.30,” the lieutenant advised, “but I expect they’ll be in the bar some while before that. Try and not be late.”

  Government House, formerly a Franciscan convent, was just around the corner from the Bristol. Beneath the lengthening shadows of the portico, Bramall showed his papers to the Marine guard and was taken directly to the bar. MacLeish, a ruddy-faced Scot, and Garfield, sporting a Navy-issue “full set,” were standing by a window overlooking the garden. There was no sign of Braithwaite.

  “Glad you could make it, laddie” said MacLeish in a restrained Highland brogue before introducing himself and his companion. “We’ve a lot to talk about.”

  “So I believe.”

  “Aye. And there’s someone I want you to meet …. But, speak of the devil, here he comes.”

  A tall, portly figure, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, aged somewhere in his late 50s, was shuffling towards them. MacLeish stepped forward and extended his hand. “Charles Bramall, Sir George Sharpe MP,” he announced. “Sent by the PM to make sure we’re all doing our jobs. Isn’t that right, Sir George?”

  The reply was slightly breathless. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

  “No. That would be why you’re the politician and I’m stuck in the back rooms.” Sharpe emitted a hoarse laugh, which caused his cheeks to wobble. He looked like a man who enjoyed a whisky and, sure enough, he immediately ordered a large Malt from the mess sergeant hovering discreetly in their midst.

  “Where’s Braithwaite?” Bramall asked, accepting a smaller version of the same.

  “Oh, sorry,” said MacLeish. “He sends his apologies. He only just got in. You probably saw his aircraft land. He’s with the Governor and Admiral Cunningham at the moment. They’ve a lot to get through, as you can imagine. But he’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  The meal, eaten beneath the turning blades of a ceiling fan, was dull even by the standa
rds of wartime Britain. Bramall wondered what damage the attack on the French at Oran had done to morale. Garfield forked an extra sliver of lamb onto his plate from the serving dish in the centre of the table and sucked in air through his teeth. “You can’t kill more than twelve hundred of your former allies one day and forget it the next,” he said, swamping the lamb in gravy. “It’s something we’ll all have to live with for a long time.” Bramall nodded and sipped at a glass of rough red wine.

  “Stupid buggers,” said Sharpe, running a knuckled finger back and forth across his nostrils, each of them big enough to hide a badger in. “Should have sailed with us to Gib.” He turned to face Bramall, staring at him across the top of his glasses. His eyes were pink-rimmed, surmounted by brows like twin thickets. “A bad business,” he growled. “But what did they expect? That we’d just leave ’em to be press-ganged by Mussolini? ’Fraid that’s not how things are done anymore – not since Winston. More to the point, what about Madrid? Things any better there now?” Bramall opened his mouth to speak, but Sharpe just ploughed on. “I remember I was there for three days in ’37. Place had taken quite a battering, but the people looked as if they’d rather die than give in to Franco. Couldn’t understand it m’self. Bloody Left had made a complete cock-up of everything. Along comes someone who at least knows his business, and what do they do? – man the barricades.”

  Bramall took in the sleek, well-fed politician, who looked as if he hadn’t gone hungry since the last time he’d thrown up at Oxford. “Since you ask,” he said, “I’d have to say that things are better now – but worse, too. A lot worse. Franco’s restored order on the streets – no problems there, so long as you’re on the right side, that is. The trams are running. Even the street lamps are coming back on, district by district. Trouble is, reconstruction is a painful business. Madrid won’t be rebuilt in a day. Meantime, there’s plenty of hungry people around, lots of beggars, women and children in rags. The way things are going, it’ll be 1950 or after before the Spanish economy gets back into any kind of shape.”

  Immediately, the MP’s mood lightened. “Excellent,” he said. “So they’ll not be voting to join the war, then?”

  “They’ll not be voting at all, Sir George. They do what they’re told.”

  Sharpe thought about this, then snuffled and sneezed into a large linen handkerchief. He seemed to be having trouble with his nose. MacLeish took the opportunity to turn to Garfield, the naval man, who up to now had concentrated on his dinner. “So what’s your view, Commander? Think Franco’s up to scratch?”

  Garfield, convinced that naval intelligence was the key to survival, was sweating profusely and picked at his teeth with a fingernail, rolling the results between finger and thumb. “You really want my opinion?.”

  “That’s why I asked?”

  “Well, fact of the matter is, chap’s not the devil incarnate. Wasn’t for him, Spain would be locked tight in the grip of international communism. He put a stop to all that. We should be grateful.”

  “True enough. And he’s made sure the navy’s run by its officers, not a bunch

  of mutineers.”

  “Exactly.”

  MacLeish’s reference was to the murder of a large proportion of the Spanish Navy’s officer class in the opening days of the civil war. Ratings opted, almost to a man, for the Republic, while their officers, from “traditional” families, were strongly sympathetic to the rebel cause. The mutiny horrified British naval officers in Gibraltar, most of them dyed-in-the-wool conservatives, confirming them in their belief that Franco’s arrival on the scene hadn’t come a moment too soon.

  As the coffee and digestifs arrived, Sharpe, who had climbed aboard Churchill’s band wagon the moment he was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty, returned to the fray. What sort of a cove was Franco? he wanted to know. What would it take to persuade him to stay out of the war? “The PM,” he revealed, “is not opposed to the fellow per se. Considers him a bit of a brute, but unavoidable in the current climate. He simply wants him to concentrate on the rebuilding of his country and avoid meddling in things that need not concern him.”

  Bramall couldn’t disagree with this. MacLeish asked him matter-of-factly if the Generalísimo and his comrades might not simply be “bought off.”

  “You mean bribed?”

  “Encouraged to do the right thing.”

  “Who knows? It’s been tried. I mean, isn’t that what economic warfare is all about? My guess is it’ll work well enough so long as too much isn’t expected from it. Most of Franco’s inner circle have got access to as much power and show as they can handle right now. They eat well, they’ve commandeered the finest real estate and they have power of life and death over millions. As for Franco himself, I wouldn’t want to be the one to offer him a bribe. Last time someone questioned his honour, he drew his revolver and shot him.”

  MacLeish took a moment to absorb the significance of this brief character study, twisting his tumbler of Famous Grouse back and forth in his hands. “It’s just that Sir George here seems to feel that larger funds could be made available.”

  Bramall turned to the MP. “It’s up to you how you spend taxpayers’ money. That’s your job. That’s why you’re in Parliament. All I’m saying is that there are issues at stake here which go far beyond money. Blood and honour, for a start.”

  Sharpe’s face creased into an amused contempt. “I must say, Bramall,” he said, “you take too lofty a view of our Spanish friends. Must be the Irish in you. Never forget, every man has his price – especially the dago.”

  Bramall bristled.” Wasn’t it an English politician said that? And I think he was talking about the House of Commons. So what would your price be, Sir George? A thousand pounds? Ten thousand? Where would I have to start?”

  The insult hit home like a slap in the face. The MP looked as if he might actually explode. “Cheeky young pup. What are you implying? How dare you?”

  “Well, you did say every man, Sir George. Wouldn’t that include you?”

  Sharpe’s cheeks, which started out a pale pink, were now a vivid purple. His eyebrows, dripping with perspiration, congealed into the consistency of a small hedge. For a moment, Bramall feared that he might be about to have a heart attack. Instead, he picked up his table napkin and drew it slowly across his brow so that the linen changed at once from crisp white to dirty grey.

  “It’s the heat, Mr Bramall,” he said at last. “Gets to all of us. Something we need to watch. So incentives are out, is that it? And I thought power corrupted.” He blew his nose noisily into the napkin. “I don’t suppose you’d go along with assassination either.

  ”Previously, Bramall was surprised. Now he was bewildered. “Is this a joke?”

  “Just something someone mentioned the other day.”

  “And who did this someone have in mind?”

  “Who do you think? If you want to kill the snake, go for its head.”

  “Of course.” Bramall looked around the table. Neither MacLeish not Garfield spoke, but both looked at him with interest. “But even if you took Franco out of the picture, you’d still be left with a bunch of highly motivated Fascists – only now they’d be very angry Fascists, spoiling for a fight.”

  Sharpe seemed suddenly to have tired of the exchange. “Look,” he said, “the two of us could probably carry on like this all night. But where would it get us?” He pushed his chair back from the table and rose slowly to his feet. “Right now, what I need is a good night’s sleep. I’ll say goodnight to you, gentlemen. It has been a most instructive evening. And Mr Bramall, I shall look out for your reports.”

  “Do that, Sir George. And safe journey.”

  As soon as the dining room door closed behind the MP’s retreating figure, MacLeish offered Bramall a cigarette. “Well,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket for his lighter, “that certainly live
ned things up.”

  Bramall looked sheepish. He tapped his cigarette on the table top before putting the end in his mouth. “Yes,” he said, “sorry about that. Got a bit carried away.”

  The SIS station chief smiled and rubbed his thumb against the flint wheel of his Dunhill lighter. “You don’t have to apologise. Man’s a windbag at the best of times. Did you know he commanded one of the firing squads in Dublin after 1916? ”

  Bramall sat up. “Really?”

  “Proud of it. For King and Country,” he said.

  “Is that right? I hadn’t realised he was that much of a shit. But then, Empire does that – gives third rate people the chance to lead second rate lives.”

  “Aye, well I’ll not argue with on that point. But he’s not stupid. Not entirely. If it got through to him that we’re on a hiding to nothing here, maybe we’ll come through this crisis after all.”

  “You don’t sound too hopeful.”

  The Scot looked at his younger companion, deadly serious. “I’d like to tell you we don’t rely on miracles. But, after Dunkirk, that would be naive. Gibraltar’s on a war-footing like never before. There are guns on every street corner. The Rock itself is so honeycombed with tunnels, it’s a wonder it’s still standing. Whole damned place is an arsenal. If it comes to a fight, you can be damned sure the garrison will give as good as it gets. But we can’t put the Navy underground. We can’t stop ships at anchor from being blown out of the water by guns 10 miles away. We saw that at Oran. And at the end of the day, if Britain loses Gib, she loses the war.”