by Hugh Thomas
Prieto did, however, suppress Largo Caballero’s Supreme War Council, confirm the able Colonel Rojo as overall chief of staff, and create four sub-secretaries of defence (Fernández Bolanos, Benjamín Balboa, Camacho, and Pastor) in respect of the army, navy, air force and armaments, none of whom were communists.3 Prieto’s design, largely achieved, of balancing communists with republicans or anti-communist socialists did not, however, have always the results for which he hoped. For example, the appointment of Colonel Visiedo as head of fighter operations ‘balanced’ the communist Colonel Hidalgo de Cisneros, chief of the air force; but Visiedo seems to have been one of those ‘geographically loyal’ only to the republic and, in consequence, very cautious.4
Negrín’s government included five men (Prieto, Zugazagoitia, Irujo, Uribe, and Hernández) from the Basque provinces.1 There the front was continuing to crumble. On 18 May, the priest of Amorebieta, Father San Román Ituricastillo, crossed the lines on a private mission of conciliation: a risky thing to do, at the best of times. The nationalists shot him, and announced that he had been killed by the ‘reds’.2 The Basques were now almost back to the ‘ring of iron’. The bombing continued, the Condor Legion experimenting now with the idea of dropping incendiary bombs on woods to force the Basques to leave their positions. The assumption by Aguirre of the command of the Basque army corps in the field confused matters further with General Llano de la Encomienda. Aguirre wrote to Prieto that the latter was the ‘personification of incompetence’, incapable of understanding the Basques and excessively influenced by the communists, notably his chief of staff, Major Ciutat, an able officer, but anti-Basque.3
Aircraft sent from Valencia via France to help the Basques were meantime held up at Toulouse by Colonel Lunn of the Non-Intervention Patrol Commission. (The republic expected that friends in Air France would have refuelled the aircraft and sent them on their way.) They were then returned to Valencia, with their machine-guns confiscated. Eventually, on 22 May, the risk was taken of sending fighters across nationalist Spain to Bilbao. Seven arrived safely and, in the next few weeks, some fifty aircraft were sent from the republic to the north; forty-five arrived—some Moscas, Chatos and some Natasha bombers.4 In addition, the British agreed to join the French in escorting Basque refugee ships (including British merchant ships), once they were outside the Spanish three-mile limit. The first refugees to be evacuated were children, to be divided among those who agreed to look after them. The CGT in France agreed to take 2,300, while Russia undertook the care of communist children. A Basque children’s relief committee in England, supported by the Roman Catholic church, accepted 4,000 children. These, after being carefully examined by doctors from the ministry of health, were boarded at a camp in Stoneham in Hampshire. The authorities in Burgos protested, believing that these steps implied that the Basques were preparing to destroy Bilbao. But the evacuation of ‘our brave expeditionary infants’, as the Bilbao press described those who went away, continued without difficulty.1
Perhaps in the knowledge of the difficulties between the Basques and the republican government in Valencia, several new unofficial proposals were now made to the Basque government for a separate peace. Such ideas had been unofficially put forward throughout the winter. The most important new plan derived from the Argentinian ambassador to Spain, then established, with the rest of the diplomatic corps, at St Jean de Luz. He suggested to the Pope that he should try to arrange a separate peace. As a result, Cardinal Pacelli, secretary of state, about 12 May, sent a conciliatory telegram to Aguirre, suggesting terms for peace in the northern provinces. Unfortunately, the telegram was dispatched en clair. The post office in Paris, seeing a communication for Spain, sent it to Valencia, where it fell into the hands of the republican government. Largo Caballero did not raise the question in the cabinet. Instead, he sent a bitter telegram denouncing the Basques for seeking a separate peace. The Basque government, not knowing of the misdirection in Paris, concluded that the affair was a manoeuvre of the communists to discredit them. The Basque minister of justice, Leizaola, therefore, sent a telegram couched in such strong terms that Prieto, reading it, thought that it demanded that he should be shot.2 In this state of misunderstanding, the relations between the Basque and republican governments remained throughout the rest of the war. Meantime the Pope also approached Cardinal Gomá in the same sense as he had approached Aguirre. Gomá went to Mola and Mola telephoned Franco and limited guarantees were indeed offered to the Basques by the nationalists. But nothing came of this.
The dealings between the Basques, Cardinal Gomá, the Pope and Mussolini were not the only efforts being made to end at least part of the slaughter in Spain. For Anthony Eden had been visited in London by the socialist reformist Besteiro, who had represented the republic at the coronation on 12 May of King George VI. Besteiro came to Eden on behalf of the melancholy Azaña, begging the British Foreign Secretary to mediate. Azaña had suggested that, after a withdrawal of foreign volunteers, the great powers should then impose a settlement on Spain.1 The idea was one with which Eden had himself toyed. The new British chargé at Valencia, John Leche, reported, however, that the hatred in Spain was such that mediation would not now prosper.2 Eden persevered. The British ambassadors at Rome, Berlin, Paris and Moscow, and the minister at Lisbon, approached the foreign ministers in those capitals in the sense that Azaña had suggested.3 On 19 May, Bastiniani, Ciano’s second-in-command at the Palazzo Chigi, angrily complained to the German ambassador von Hassell that Eden’s plan was typical of ‘the British desire to prevent a fascist victory at all costs’.4 Franco told Faupel that an armistice and free elections would mean a ‘leftist government’ and mark the end of White Spain. He ‘and all nationalist Spaniards would rather die than place Spain in the hands of a red or a democratic government’. Serrano Súñer also believed that a compromise of any sort would ‘leave open the door to a return to that state of affairs which had made war inevitable’.5 The Generalissimo added that he could well believe therefore that the republic might accept mediation. The British, said Franco, wanted an armistice, since they had lent large sums to the Basques.6 Franco and Faupel agreed how much trouble was caused by the Vatican. In consequence, Franco had insisted to Cardinal Gomá, the archbishop of Toledo, that no mention should be made in Spain of the recent encyclical, Mit brennender Sorge, delivered against Nazi Germany, and read in German churches in March.1 Geoffrey Dawson, editor of The Times in London, was, meanwhile, anxiously wondering how he could calm Germany’s feelings over his paper’s reporting of Guernica: ‘No doubt they [the Germans] were annoyed over Steer’s first story of the bombing of Guernica, but its essential accuracy has never been disputed and there has not been any attempt here to rub it in … I did my utmost, night after night, to keep out of the paper anything that might have hurt their susceptibilities.’2 On 24 May, Ciano told the American ambassador that Eden’s armistice plan was unfair, since Franco was about to enter Bilbao.3
Eden arrived in Geneva for the League of Nations Council and the British delegation which he led there openly confessed that the mediation plan had failed.4 Indeed, nothing more was heard of it. On the 28th, the League Council considered a Spanish complaint about Italian intervention. Alvarez del Vayo spoke eloquently. He doubted whether non-intervention control would prevent the influx of material and agreed to the withdrawal of volunteers. Litvinov supported him. Delbos and Eden proclaimed their ‘fervent belief’ that they had made progress since the previous December, when the Council had last considered Spain. Their policy both at the conference table and in the corridors was, as ever, to keep the discussion in a low key so as not to drive the Germans or Italy from impatience out of the Non-Intervention Committee.
In that body in London, Grandi was meantime raising a new incident, that of the Italian cruiser Barletta. This vessel, part of the Italian contribution to the non-intervention patrol control, had been sheltering in Palma, in Majorca. It could not have been carrying out its patrol duties there, since Majorca was a Fre
nch responsibility. Nor could its presence in Palma have been innocent. During a republican air raid, on 24 May, on the island, the Barletta was hit. Six Italians were killed. The Non-Intervention Committee suggested a safety zone might be found for all naval patrol vessels in Palma.5 The next day, the League Council formally regretted that its resolution of December had not been carried out, welcomed the control plan, urged the withdrawal of volunteers, condemned the bombing of open towns, and approved such humanitarian acts as Britain and France had undertaken in respect of the Basque children. These pious sentiments were doomed to remain as aspirations. For the same day a new naval incident occurred in the Balearics.
24. Naval Non-Intervention Patrol
The ministry of defence at Valencia had pointed out that international naval patrol could not be exercised inside Spanish territorial waters. Palma harbour was a known centre of nationalist arms shipment. The republicans would, therefore, continue to attack it. On 26 May, the air raid on Palma had been repeated, and bombs fell near the German patrol ship Albatross, also lying off duty in Palma. The commander of the German naval patrol protested: repetition of such behaviour would produce ‘counter-measures’.
That evening, the German battleship Deutschland lay at anchor off Ibiza. Two republican aircraft, at first unidentifiable against the dying sun, appeared overhead and dropped two bombs. One fell in the seamen’s mess, killing twenty-three and wounding seventy-five of the ship’s company. The other hit the side deck and caused little damage. The affair was witnessed by the republican fleet, then out on a rare sortie. In consequence, the Germans at first thought that they had been attacked by destroyers.
The republican ministry of defence claimed that the Deutschland had fired first at the aeroplanes, whose pilots thereupon retaliated. This was untrue. ‘Reconnaissance aircraft’, which the ministry claimed them to be, do not carry bombs.1 The aircraft were, in fact, flown by Russians.2
Hitler flew into a rage at the death of so many Germans, and the foreign minister, Neurath, passed six hours with him seeking to moderate his anger.3 The Deutschland itself sailed to Gibraltar where it disembarked the wounded. Nine more died, bringing the death-roll to thirty-one.4
At dawn on 31 May, the Germans took their revenge. The pocket battleship Admiral Scheer and 4 destroyers appeared off Almería, and fired 200 shots into the town, destroying 35 buildings and causing 19 deaths. Germany also decided to withdraw from the non-intervention discussions, and from the naval patrol, until she had received ‘guarantees against the repetition of such incidents’. Italy would act likewise.5 In Berlin, Sir Nevile Henderson, recently arrived as British ambassador, begged Neurath ‘not to do the reds the compliment of expanding the Spanish situation into a world war’.6 Even Cordell Hull summoned the new German ambassador in Washington, Dieckhoff. With his usual caution, the secretary of state told him that the United States desired Germany ‘to make peaceful adjustments’ of its Spanish difficulties.1
In Valencia, the republican cabinet met. Prieto suggested that the republic should bomb the German fleet throughout the Mediterranean. This, he admitted, might start a world war but that was worth risking, since it would draw off German aid from Franco. This audacious proposal was characteristic of Prieto. Negrín said cautiously that Azaña would have to be consulted. That gave all the ministers time to consult their consciences—and their friends. Hernández and Uribe went to the central committee of the communist party. The proposal flung the Comintern advisers into a fine flurry. Codovilla went to the Soviet Embassy. Moscow2 was consulted by wireless; and Moscow answered that Russia had no desire for world war. Prieto’s plan should, therefore, at all costs be defeated. But Azaña also opposed Prieto’s plan. He said, ‘We must ensure that Deutschland is not our Maine’.3 A real war against Germany might, after all, have brought the annihilation of the republic before Britain and France could be induced to intervene. The ‘incident’ of Almería, therefore, was allowed to be forgotten.4
There was another occasion when a world war was nearly provoked by the republic. The dismembered body of a republican pilot was dropped onto the airfield at Barajas near Madrid, with scornful comments made in Italian. The incensed republican air force wished to take off to bomb Rome. Hidalgo de Cisneros, the commander, announced that he would accompany his men. But once again the cabinet restrained the impetuous. The advantage to the republic of a general conflict was always equivocal if it were to arise from the Spanish war. It is unlikely that Britain and France would have wanted to assist the republic if they could have helped it. This was a preoccupation of Russia, who knew that, if she sent to Spain enough arms to win the war for her allies, a world war would probably follow, with Britain and France neutral, if not aligned against her.
The incident at Almería marked the beginning of bad relations between Prieto and the communists. Previously, during the destruction of Largo Caballero, friendship had flowered, out of convenience. Prieto had been shortly afterwards approached by Uribe and Hernández, who had suggested daily conferences with them. Prieto replied that the communists could discuss matters with him at the cabinet meetings, not with him alone. Thereafter, though the Prietistas remained at one with the communists on some issues—how to treat Largo Caballero, how to restrain the anarchists—their friendship began to slacken, as friendships with communists often do.1
Bad weather, meantime, had been holding up Mola’s operations against Bilbao. Inside that city, a new general staff arrived from Valencia (to act beside the Russian Goriev) under General Gámir Ulíbarri, who was to replace Llano de la Encomienda as a ‘promise of efficiency’. Gámir took over as supreme Basque commander, while Llano de la Encomienda would hold on to the command of Asturias and Santander. Gámir, a military theorist, had once been director of the School of Infantry at Toledo and, since the start of the war, republican commander at Teruel. This able officer was indeed able to achieve greater efficiency in the Basque general staff. That was odd, since his chief of staff, Major Lamas Arroyo, would have liked to have fought for the nationalists, despite the fact that he had earlier been chief of staff to the ill-fated Puigdendolas, of Badajoz, and to General Walter; he had fought in most of the main battles of the war but was disloyal in inclination if competent in action. The explanation for the greater efficiency of the Basques under Gámir was really that Aguirre had been prevailed upon to withdraw from his commandership in chief.2 During May, many more men had been called up. A new shipment of Czech arms, including 55 anti-aircraft guns, 30 cannons, and 2 squadrons of Chato fighters, also arrived at the start of June. Other commanders came up from Madrid—among them, the gifted Italian communist Nino Nanetti, who had distinguished himself with the 12th Division at Guadalajara.
The republican government now undertook two offensives in other parts of Spain to draw the nationalist fire from Bilbao. The first was against Huesca, on the Aragon front. This was carried out by the reorganized Catalan army, which, since the May riots, had been under more rigid central control. Led by General Pozas, the attack was unsuccessful. The republicans outnumbered their opponents, who were well entrenched in the town, though hard pressed and almost besieged. There were 1,000 republican casualties, mainly anarchists, in the two weeks which the attack lasted. They included the gay General Lukács, who was killed by a shell.1 These Italians were observed in their train singing ‘Bandiera Rossa’ on the way to the front by the recently wounded George Orwell. From his hospital train he saw
window after window of dark smiling faces, the long tilted barrels of the guns, the scarlet scarves fluttering—all this glided slowly past us against a turquoise-coloured sea … The men who were well enough to stand moved across the carriage to cheer the Italians as they went past. A crutch waved out of the window; bandaged arms gave the red salute. It was like an allegorical picture of war—the trainloads of fresh men gliding proudly up the line, the maimed sliding slowly down.2
The other attack at this time was on the Segovia front. On 31 May, General Domingo Moriones (he had been mil
itary governor in Gijón in 1934 and began the ruin of the revolution there then), with three republican divisions (under José María Galán, Walter, and Colonel Barceló respectively), broke through the nationalist lines at San Ildefonso. The attack reached La Granja before being halted by Varela, with units transferred from Barrón’s division south of Madrid. The attack occasioned a quarrel between General Walter and Colonel Dumont, his subordinate of the 14th International Brigade, the attacking force, as to who was to blame for the ultimate reverse.3 Since Dumont was supported by the French communists, Walter could do no more than protest against Dumont’s vanity and inefficiency. The Russian air force in support of the republic was not only ineffective, but bombed republican positions.1 The failure of these two offensives sealed the fate of Bilbao.
There was one further preliminary to the final act of the Basque campaign. The death occurred on 3 June of General Mola. The aeroplane in which he was flying crashed on the hill of Alcocero, near Burgos. Mola used aeroplanes a great deal and there is nothing to prove foul play even though, for many years afterwards, a colonel sat in Valladolid, with two loaded pistols before him on his table, waiting till he found out who had killed his son, Captain Chamorro, the pilot of the aircraft. Faupel described Franco as ‘undoubtedly relieved by the death of Mola’. The Generalissimo’s last words on his brother-in-arms were: ‘Mola was a stubborn fellow! When I gave him orders differing from his own proposals, he often asked, “Don’t you trust my leadership anymore?”’2 The eclipse of the ‘Director’ of the conspiracy of the preceding year removed one more leader with a political position of his own. Mola had been a man of decision, nervous and outspoken, who, though a republican all his life, had taken to the Carlist cause when posted to Pamplona, and the Carlists to him, so warmly, that his death was a bad blow for them.