by Hugh Thomas
The proposed junta was formed, and composed almost all of young men. Though proportionate, as stipulated, to the governmental parties, as in the pueblos of the first days of the war, power remained with the strongest groups—in these circumstances, the socialist-communist youth and the communist party. The Pravda correspondent, Koltsov, busied himself with organizing and choosing commissars, animating the ministry of war, attending meetings of the communist party central committee. General Goriev and the other Russian advisers also established themselves firmly, while the head of their mission, General Berzin, left for Valencia. A Russian tone came over republican propaganda as Mundo Obrero told its readers to ‘emulate Petrograd’.1
A new general staff was also set up in Madrid. Rojo, able, educated, cultivated, but pessimistic and with no popular touch, the officer who had visited the Alcázar during its siege, became chief of staff. A number of other young staff officers (Matallana, Estrada, Casado) were equally anxious to take advantage of an exciting opportunity to make their reputations.2 All the commanders, and then the trade-union leaders in Madrid, were summoned to the war ministry. Miaja spoke to them in heroic terms, not concealing the gravity of the situation, and demanding that 50,000 more trade unionists be mobilized for the front. The chief of staff was, meanwhile, helped by luck: an Italian tank was blown up; in the pocket of a dead Spanish officer within was found Varela’s battle plan for the next day.3 The commanders returned to their men heartened, knowing at least that Madrid would not fall without a fight. The first meeting of the junta of defence of Madrid occurred in the ministry of war: a group of enthusiastic young men, as eager to win glory as the officers. At their head, however, was the incongruous figure of Miaja, certainly surprised to find himself among them.4 ‘Loquacious, anecdotal, jumping from one subject to another’,1 he is not easy to judge. He was sympathetic, calm, easygoing, and lucky; but he was also incompetent and vain. He was short, resembled an amiable Franciscan priest in looks and had been as ambiguous in Madrid in July as he had been unsuccessful in Córdoba in August.
Koltsov apparently took upon himself the dispatch away from Madrid of the more important political prisoners in the Model Prison (the total numbered over 1,000). Nearly all of these were butchered by their guards, officially while being ‘transferred to a new prison’, just short of the village of Paracuellos de Jarama, a few miles beyond Barajas airport. During the following days many other executions occurred, in that same bleak spot, at San Fernando de Henares nearby, and at Torrejón de Ardoz. The responsibility for these ‘sacas’ from the prisons would seem to be with the communists in Madrid, principally Segundo Serrano Poncela, delegate of public order (not Santiago Carrillo) and perhaps Koltsov. The Russian General Berzin was probably also concerned.2 It was left to an anarchist director of prisons, Melchor Rodríguez, subsequently appointed, to try and halt the disgraceful actions. Rodríguez was so positively humane that the prisoners referred to him as the “red angel” (Ángel Rojo).
The cabinet narrowly escaped a similar fate. On the road to Valencia, several ministers were held up at Tarancón by the local anarchist committee. The local responsable, the anarchist Villanueva, had had orders from his comrades in Madrid to prevent all flight from the capital. ‘You are cowards. Return to Madrid,’ he said, ‘at least leave your arms here.’ They only secured passage with a written order from the CNT in the capital.1 Such was the decay of the government at the moment when the Army of Africa was at the gates of Madrid.
Back in the capital, volunteers rallied to the defence because of the demands made for them by loudspeaker. Many of them were refugees from other parts of Spain. The mobilized carabineers, regular soldiers and militiamen, given extra fire by pamphlets, speeches, and poems proclaiming that those who did not believe in victory were cowards, carried out almost to the letter their orders not to retreat an inch. A sailor, Antonio Coll, earned fame by single-handedly destroying two tanks in the Usera suburb.2 In the Casa de Campo, the nationalist advance which was planned to reach the Montaña barracks only reached the high ground known as Mount Garabitas. From thence a magnificent view, and also an artillery firing-point, can be gained across the valley to Madrid. All the time, the republican commanders sent back appeals for more ammunition, or news that half their men had fallen. All the time, Miaja replied that reinforcements had been sent. But much of the organization of resistance, emanating from his cellar headquarters in the ministry of finance, derived less from Miaja than from the Russian General Goriev, whose office was a few doors away. Quite how much is a matter of speculation: each general has his friends among historians, as they had them among contemporaries.3 It does seem, however, that another Russian, Major Voronov, was the inspiration in the artillery headquarters rather than the inspector-general of artillery, Colonel José Luis Fuentes, his Spanish chief.1
It was at this critical moment that the first units of the International Brigade marched along the Gran Via towards the front. The first of these was a battalion of Germans, with a section of British machine-gunners, including the poet John Cornford. The battalion was first named after its leader, an ex-Prussian officer, Hans Kahle, now a communist, but its name was then changed to the ‘Edgar André’ Battalion, in honour of a German communist, of Belgian origin, of that name, beheaded on 4 November by the Nazis.
Secondly, there was the ‘Commune de Paris’ Battalion, composed of French and Belgians, under Colonel Jules Dumont, a French ex-regular officer but a long-standing communist who had been in Abyssinia and was known for his lectures on that theme.2 Pierre Rébière was the commissar. The third battalion was the ‘Dombrowski’ Battalion, under a Pole, Boleslav Ulanovski, chiefly composed of socialist or communist Polish miners recently living in France and Belgium. All three groups included some survivors of those Germans, Frenchmen, and Poles who had fought in Aragon and in the Tagus valley. The entire Brigade (known as the 11th Brigade, since ten other new ‘mixed brigades’ had by then been formed in the republican army) was commanded by the Hungarian ‘Kléber’. It had arrived after being cheered across La Mancha by peasants shouting ‘no pasarán’ and ‘salud’, to which its members had replied with a cry of ‘Rot front’ and ‘Les soviets partout’. Now these apparently disciplined men, in corduroy uniforms and steel helmets, followed by two squadrons of French cavalry, greatly impressed the natives of Madrid, who had supposed the capital lost. Many thought that Russia was at last intervening. So the cry of ‘Long live the Russians’ rang from the balconies of the Gran Via.
By the evening of 8 November, the Brigade was in position.1 The Edgar André and Commune de Paris Battalions were sent to the Casa de Campo. The Dombrowsky Battalion went to join Lister and the Fifth Regiment at Villaverde.
It has been argued that the International Brigades saved Madrid. The British ambassador, Sir Henry Chilton, even assured his American colleague at St Jean de Luz that there were ‘no Spaniards in the defending army of Madrid’.2 This 11th International Brigade, however, comprised only about 1,900 men.3 The 12th International Brigade, which arrived on the Madrid front on 13 November, comprised about 1,550.4 These units were too small to have turned the day by numbers alone. Furthermore, the republican army had checked Varela on 7 November, before the arrival of the Brigade. It was Colonel Galán and Colonel Romero who held, with the 3rd and 4th Mixed Brigades, the rebels from crossing the Manzanares (ex-carabineers being important in the 3rd Brigade). The bravery and experience of the Brigades was, however, crucial in several later battles. The example of the International Brigades fired the populace of the capital with the feeling that they were not alone, that there was some substance for the stirring utterances of, say, Fernando Valera, sub-secretary of communications, a republican deputy who, during the night of 8 November, proclaimed on Madrid Radio:
Here in Madrid is the universal frontier that separates liberty and slavery. It is here in Madrid that two incompatible civilizations undertake their great struggle: love against hate, peace against war, the fraternity of Christ against the tyranny of the church �
�� This is Madrid. It is fighting for Spain, for humanity, for justice, and, with the mantle of its blood, it shelters all human beings! Madrid! Madrid!5
Most of the world, nevertheless, accepted the dispatches of the eminent journalists, such as Sefton Delmer, Henry Buckley, and Vincent Sheean, quartered in the Gran Via or the Florida Hotels, who reported Madrid likely to fall.
The next day, 9 November, Varela, checked in the Casa de Campo, mounted a new attack, no longer a feint, in the Carabanchel sector. But the street-fighting baffled the Moroccans, who made no progress. They were excellent fighters in the desert or in the open country, but less resourceful in the unfamiliar city. With the militiamen, the opposite was true: indeed, the republic’s failure hitherto may be attributed to the unfamiliarity of the urban militiamen with the countryside. The republican artillery, moreover, numbered sixty pieces in Madrid and were well directed, the Telefónica building being an excellent observation post for Major Alejandro Zamarro, and his Russian adviser, Major Voronov.1 In the Casa de Campo, Kléber assembled the International Brigade. In the misty evening, they launched an attack. ‘For the revolution and liberty—forward!’2 Among the ilex and gum trees, the battle lasted all night and into the morning of 10 November. By then, only Mount Garabitas in the Casa de Campo was left to the nationalists. But one-third of the first International Brigade was dead. Varela abandoned the direct attack on Madrid through the Casa de Campo. A sanguinary battle, however, continued in Carabanchel. Hand-to-hand fighting occurred in the old Military Hospital. The bombing of the capital, which had been continuing intermittently since the start of the assault, was increased. Incendiaries particularly were used, since fire was considered to be the best means of spreading panic. The government’s bombers, meantime, had a success on the 11th in destroying part of Lieutenant Eberhard’s Junkers and Heinkel squadron on the ground on the airfield at Avila.3
On 12 November, the continuing battle in Carabanchel convinced Goriev, Rojo, and Miaja that the next attack would be against the Madrid-Valencia highway. They accordingly sent to that sector of the front the new 12th International Brigade, comprising the Thaelmann, André Marty, and Garibaldi Battalions of Germans, ‘Franco-Belges’, and Italians. This Brigade was commanded by General ‘Lukács’, who was, in reality, the Hungarian novelist Mata Zalka. Like Kléber, he was an officer who had served in the Austrian army in the First World War, had been captured by the Russians, had joined the Red Army, and had been by now a revolutionary longer than he had been a novelist. He had a Russian military adviser in Colonel Batov. The accomplished German communist writer Gustav Regler, handsome as Siegfried, was commissar of the Brigade, though Longo, the Italian communist, held this post to begin with. Lukács also had two Bulgarian staff officers, Lukanov (‘Belov’) and Kozovski (‘Petrov’).1 In this Brigade, the Thaelmann Battalion of Germans was led by the novelist Ludwig Renn, celebrated for his pacifist novel Krieg based on his experiences in the First World War. The Bavarian communist and ex-deputy Hans Beimler was his commissar. Attached to the battalion were eighteen Englishmen, including Esmond Romilly, an anarchic nephew of Winston Churchill. The Garibaldi Battalion of the Italians was led by the republican Randolfo Pacciardi.2 The socialist ex-comrade of Mussolini, Pietro Nenni, was for a time a company commander, while seventeen nationalities in all were represented.
This force, despite its galaxy of talent, was less well-prepared for war than the 11th Brigade had been. When the Brigade entered battle, commands were confused, since the problem of language presented difficulties in giving orders. (Lukács was a less good linguist, as well as a less able commander, than was Kléber.) The Brigade had to fight when weary. The artillery support was inadequate. Certain companies got lost. Once again, the Russian tank detachment failed to make adequate contact with infantry. Fighting went on all day; but the object of the attack, the hill in the geographical centre of Spain known as Cerro de los Angeles, remained impregnable. The counter-attack thus failed. Similarly, a major air onslaught by the Russians on 13 November failed to drive the slower rebel aircraft from the skies.1
At the same time as the 12th International Brigade, Durruti also arrived in Madrid, with 4,000 volunteer anarchists, having been persuaded to leave Aragon by Federica Montseny.2 He and García Oliver, minister of justice, desired an independent sector of the front on which to operate, and also new weapons; both requests were granted, after a fashion, though the rifles were Swiss 1886 models bought by Russia on the free arms market. Miaja agreed to allot to the anarchists the Casa de Campo. Durruti received orders to attack on 15 November, with all the republican artillery and aircraft in support. The orders given to him were confused, but they implied a frontal attack on the enemy: ‘an imbecility,’ thought another anarchist leader; ‘they are looking for a defeat to discredit us … the communists cannot permit Durruti to be the saviour of the capital’.3 At all events, when the hour came, the machine-guns of the Moroccans—which they had, of course, not met before—so terrified the anarchists that they refused to fight. Durruti, furious, promised a new attack the next day. Varela chose this moment to advance once again, being covered by the German Condor Legion for the first time.4 Three times the van of Asensio’s column reached the Manzanares, and three times it was driven back. Eventually, Asensio gained a foothold on the edge of the river beneath the Palacete de la Moncloa. After a heavy artillery and aerial bombardment, two Moroccan tabors and one bandera of legionaries charged across. They found that the column ahead of them (the Libertad column of Catalan socialists) had suddenly been withdrawn. But their replacements were not there. The nationalists’ way up to the University City was almost clear. The heights were swiftly scaled. The School of Architecture and other neighbouring buildings were captured. The 11th International Brigade was sent from the Casa de Campo to defend the Hall of Philosophy and Letters. But more and more of the Army of Africa, including men from the columns of Delgado Serrano and Barrón, crossed the river.1
A bloody battle began in the University City. The babel of tongues, the frequent multilingual singing of the ‘International’, the insults exchanged between the nationalists and republicans, added to the macabre confusion. The marching songs of the German communists brought to the crumbling masonry of the laboratories and lecture halls a Teutonic sadness. Anarchists fraternized with men from the Brigade. Muffled commands sounded in the darkness addressed to men who had never seen the city which they had come to defend: ‘Bataillon Thaelmann, fertig machen!’ ‘Bataillon André Marty, descendez vite!’ ‘Garibaldi, avanti!’2 Hours of artillery and aerial bombardment, in which neither side gave way, were succeeded by hand-to-hand battles for single rooms or floors of buildings. In the still unfinished Clinical Hospital, the Thaelmann Battalion placed bombs in lifts to be sent up to explode in the faces of the Moroccans on the next floor; and, in that building, the Moroccans suffered losses by eating inoculated animals kept for experimental purposes. Great courage was shown on both sides. A company of Poles from the Dombrowsky Battalion resisted in the French Institute’s Casa de Velázquez to the last man. An advance guard of Moroccans drove back Durruti’s anarchists once again at the Plaza de la Moncloa, the first square inside Madrid proper, and began to fight their way along the Calle de la Princesa. Some even drove down the Paseo de Rosales to reach the Plaza de España. All were killed. But the rumour that ‘the Moors are in the Plaza de España’ was not easy to staunch. Miaja appeared on the battle-line to re-establish the courage of the militia. ‘Cowards!’ he cried, ‘die in your trenches! Die with your General Miaja!’3
On 19 November, while the battle was still raging, Durruti was mortally wounded in front of the Model Prison. He died the next day in the Ritz Hotel, converted into a hospital for the Catalan militia. His death was said to have been caused by a stray bullet from the University City. It may also be that he shot himself by accident with his own rifle while getting out of his car. It was rumoured too that he was killed by one of his own men, an ‘uncontrollable’, who resented the new anarchi
st policy (‘the discipline of indiscipline’, since August advocated by Durruti) of participation in government, but of that there is no proof, nor is it likely.1 Durruti’s funeral in Barcelona was an extraordinary occasion. All day long, a procession eight to a hundred people broad marched down the Diagonal, the widest street in the city. In the evening, a crowd of 200,000 pledged themselves to carry out the dead man’s principles. But the death of Durruti, at the age of forty, marked the end of the classic age of Spanish anarchism. An anarchist poet proclaimed that Durruti’s nobility while living would cause ‘a legion of Durrutis’ to spring up behind him. He was wrong.
In the meantime, Franco, having apparently remarked before Portuguese journalists that he would destroy Madrid rather than leave it to the ‘Marxists’, embarked on the experiment of trying to bomb Madrid into surrender. The German officers of the new Condor Legion were interested to see the reaction of a civilian population to a carefully planned attempt to set fire to the city, quarter by quarter. The bombing included also buildings such as the Telefónica and the war ministry, whose destruction would cause special damage. The air raids were accompanied by artillery bombardment using incendiary grenades from Mount Garabitas. From 19 November until 22 November, the bombings by Savoia 81s and Junkers 52s, especially at night, continued, and some 150 people were killed.2 No city in history had then been so tested—though the attack was a foretaste of what would happen in a few years in London, Hamburg, Tokyo, and Leningrad—as commentators in Madrid at the time eloquently prophesied. Russian fighters were unable to maintain an effective reply at night. But the military and psychological effects of the air attacks were nugatory, since, as has almost always been the case with ‘aero-psychological warfare’, as it later became known, the bombing inspired greater hatred than it did fear. Only about a hundred houses were destroyed and the Telefónica remained. The Palacio de Liria, the town house of the Duke of Alba, was hit, but militiamen succeeded in carrying off most of the art treasures within.1 The correspondent of Paris Soir, Louis Delaprée, wrote apocalyptically in his diary: ‘Oh, old Europe, always so occupied with your little games and your grave intrigues, God grant that all this blood does not choke you’.2 (He was himself mortally wounded in an aerial battle, a few days later, when flying home to complain that his editor had not published his most sensational dispatches.)3