Operation Garbo

by Juan Pujol Garcia

  I am not a man given to arguing and I dislike dubious dealings so I decided to ‘exit’ from the stage, as they say in the theatre. I handed in my resignation but offered to stay on for a week to train an old farmer, whose lands had been expropriated and who had been wandering around the place living off the locals’ generosity, to do my job. I never heard of farm nor farmer again.

  I was now determined to cross over to the other side, for I naively thought that once among the Nationalists I would be left alone to live my own life. I decided that the only way of being able to do this was to volunteer for the infantry as a veteran soldier and hope that I would be sent to the front, from where I could desert. I therefore presented myself to a recruiting office in north Barcelona. My false identity papers made me out to be older than I was, but the officer seemed delighted to enrol me. All of us who had joined at the same time were then sent to a training unit outside Les Borges Blanques, a pretty little village in the province of Lleida, set in a torrid landscape surrounded by olive trees.

  The demand for fresh troops for the front was so great that our training was brief. For a fortnight about a hundred of us deployed, advanced, skirmished and practiced shooting around the outskirts of the village, and then we were sent off to Montblanc, some twenty miles to the east, where one of the new International Brigade units was training. We were now in the Tarragona area near the river Ebro and much closer to the front line.

  We had been made ready for war in two weeks. But before joining the International Brigade itself, the sergeant asked whether any of us could drive, and fifteen or so recruits offered their services. He then asked for bricklayers, carpenters and blacksmiths; each time a handful more volunteered who were, or thought they were, experts. I realised that the infantry group was fast diminishing and, as I wasn’t anxious to end up as cannon fodder, I decided to wait no longer. When the sergeant asked for those with a knowledge of telegraphy, I resolutely stepped forward.

  I was convinced that this would keep me out of the firing line, for I was determined not to become involved in a struggle in which I did not believe and which went clean against my personal convictions. Years of hiding and persecution had made me bitter; my dreams had been shattered; my life seemed to have been nothing but disappointments and privations; I hated being a soldier and longed to escape to a new life. I blamed all my misfortunes on the older generation whose endless political wrangles had led us into civil war.

  The signal corps soon realised my inadequacies. Finding my answers to questions about Morse code, telephone installations and flag signals extremely hazy, the sergeant jokingly inquired if I knew how to lay cables between the front line and the different commands. This time I was able to be positive, and so I came to join the signals unit attached to the International Brigade, which, owing to the lack of foreign volunteers, consisted mainly of Catalans.

  My baptism of fire took place when our unit arrived at the northern bank of the Ebro at about noon. A very noisy plane flew in low from the south-west over the old destroyed Ebro Bridge and made straight for a temporary pontoon filled with troops and vehicles coming and going. Orders were shouted to disperse and, in a matter of seconds, we swarmed over the fields and sheltered under the olive trees. The rebel plane released its deadly load over the frail pontoon, smashing it to matchwood. The bombs hissed as they descended, thunderous explosions followed and the air was filled with millions of splinters as huge columns of water gushed upward. The violence of the impact made us rigid with fear. I don’t remember whether any other bombings took place later or not. What I do remember is that as soon as the plane disappeared we made straight for the nearest undamaged pontoon and crossed the Ebro. Once on the opposite bank, we marched along the railway line, parallel to the river, until sunset.

  We found the battalion we had come to relieve up in the Sierra de la Fatarella Mountains. Firmly dug into trenches which zigzagged along the contour line halfway up from the valley floor, they could see the enemy, who were only three hundred metres away and equally securely entrenched. The two fronts juxtaposed each other in an uneven straggling line; sometimes our land protruded into enemy territory, in other places their line jutted into ours.

  The changeover occurred next day. Those we relieved were returning for a well-deserved rest, for they had seen heavy fighting and in many cases had lost over 50 per cent of their men from death, wounds or defections.

  Conditions on the front line were bad. Morale was low, discipline slack, and my fellow soldiers were full of complaints about the way the war was being conducted and talked frequently about going over to the enemy. All we Republicans ever had to eat was a plate full of lentils seasoned with lard or a trace of pork, day in day out, for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

  Every night as the sun went down, the rebels would yell, ‘Hey Reds, what’ve they given you to eat today? Lentils again?’ Then they would regale us with details about their varied diet, the three or four courses available to them every meal and the wide variety of different dishes which they had to choose from. This would make many on our side decide to desert during the night.

  After the opening verbal salvo about lentils would come amusing debates about a particular shot or a specific meal. Party rivalry and doctrinaire disputes were forgotten in curses and argument, insults and counterclaim. The mutual dissensions and recriminations would have been very comical had the situation not been so tragic.

  I would walk up and down the front line checking my telephone cables and would chat with those in the trenches. From our side we could see the enemy clearly, and as soon as evening mess time was over and the sun had set the shouting contests would start. My company captain, a carpenter by trade, was quite happy to participate in exchanging pleasantries, but whenever the enemy dwelt on the exquisiteness of their food, feeling ran high and the number of desertions increased. Then drastic measures were taken. Our company barber, caught trying to escape, was executed in front of the whole battalion, but the stream of deserters continued; our hunger was too great.

  Starving, disenchanted with life and longing for more congenial company, I decided to try to cross over to the ‘enemy’. Looking back now I would never take such a hazardous risk again. To cross from Republican to Nationalist lines was the craziest thing I ever did in my long and adventurous existence.

  About seven o’clock on a clear, moonlit evening, three of us prepared to desert. I took two hand grenades for reassurance although I had no intention of using them, but before I could slip out of my trench, my two companions jumped clumsily out of theirs and started a landslide of small pebbles which clattered as they rolled down the rocky hillside. A sentry heard the noise and raised the alarm. I hesitated for a moment and then started off, hotly pursued by a patrol. Confused, I made for a patch of pine trees, where I tried to hide. In no time I had completely lost my sense of direction, but I carried on and began to climb up the hill. Unfortunately, I was climbing up the very hill I had just come down, straight back into my own lines.

  When I realised my error, I turned and raced back down the hill again, dodging the bursts of gunfire; taking huge strides, half sliding, half leaping, I soon reached the bottom, where I went to ground in a reed bed. I could hear the voices of the patrol hunting for me, thrusting the butts of their rifles into the reeds, rightly guessing me to be close by. After about fifteen minutes I heard them change direction, so I crept out of the reeds as quietly as I could and dashed up the hill – the right one this time – into a belt of pines.

  I found a shallow ditch about the width of my body and slid in, covering myself over with leaves and twigs. I could have thrown my two hand grenades at the Republican patrol who were only a few feet below me, but my conscience held me back: although I was desperate, I recoiled at the carnage. The patrol stopped for a smoke and, just before some rain clouds obscured the moon, I caught a glimpse of their silhouettes, they were so close. There were six of them. I lay there shaking with fear and covered in sweat, waiting for them to return to their l
ines.

  As soon as I heard the Nationalists start their customary evening banter, ‘Hey, Reds, what’ve they given you to eat today?’, I decided to move, using their voices as a guide. I took off my boots, so as to get a better grip on the slippery gravel slope, and left them and my hand grenades in the ditch.

  Slowly, taking great care, I began to clamber up the hill, across some terraced fields and over a couple of walls. Suddenly, I heard voices very close. I got such a fright, I must have passed out, for phrases seemed to echo through my head as if in a nightmare: ‘Don’t worry now, lad’ and ‘We’re coming to you’. Recovering, I raced to the top where I found my two companion escapers. They’d made it across in a matter of minutes, while I was exhausted, hungry and bleeding.

  They told me that when the Republicans started firing the rebels had asked them what was going on and they had said that there was a third person out there trying to escape. Whereupon the rebels had begun their nightly exchange of views while they sent out a patrol to search for me, presuming I had got lost.

  For two days we slept in our new trenches and ate and ate. When another escapee joined us, he told us that the Republican patrol had eventually found the ditch where I’d been hiding and had discovered my boots and hand grenades. It had been a wild and suicidal idea to escape and I swore never to embark on anything so dangerous again ‘… world without end. Amen’.

  My naive hopes that, after a few explanations, I would be sent to the rear were shallow fantasies. Endless hours of interrogation followed before we ex-Republicans were put in goods train wagons for Saragossa. Once there, we spent the night in the corridors of the military academy before being taken by passenger train to a concentration camp at Deusto in the Basque area of northern Spain.

  We were imprisioned in the university and slept on the bare floorboards of the lecture halls. Every morning we would wake up to find ourselves covered in lice of every shape and size. There was a real plague of them: they would creep into the folds of our skin, burrow into private crevices and roam around inside our clothes. The only place we had to wash in was the ornamental fountain in the middle of the university campus and, given the number of people in the place, it was always packed to capacity. Every morning we would push and shove and struggle to get a little trickle of water. Lice races were a common pastime, some even betting their food on the results since Republican coins were not recognised currency to the Nationalist rebels.

  I had been eating as much as I could get hold of since changing sides but, after such a long period of semi-starvation, my stomach reacted violently and I could hold nothing down. Wracked with pain, I took refuge in the infirmary where they fed me light broths and milk.

  However, I didn’t give up. I had managed to preserve my fountain pen throughout all my escapades and I now sold this to one of the camp guards at a slight loss. With the rebel currency he gave me I bought a cheap pen, paper, envelopes and stamps and began to write to all my friends and relatives, especially those on my mother’s side who were living in Grenada. I asked them for financial help and if they would vouch for me so that I could be let out. Some wrote back with vague propositions, a few made equivocal promises, while fewer still enclosed money but never enough to be of much help.

  But one person to whom I had written did respond positively: he was the Reverend Father Caledonio Ocen, Brother Superior of the Order of St John of God, a very old friend of my father’s and head of the psychiatric hospital at Palencia, near Santander. He made the long journey to the camp and personally presented himself to the authorities, where he spoke on my behalf, making himself answerable for my actions and vouching on oath that I was honest, apolitical and a Christian.

  You can imagine my joy at seeing him: it was an unforgettable moment. Although he died a fair number of years ago, I remain eternally grateful to him for what he did and always hold the fondest memories of his kindness toward me. On his way back to Palencia he called in at Burgos, the Nationalist capital, and stirred matters up to such an extent that three days later the order for my release arrived at the camp. At his request, I spent a week in his hospital at Palencia and was then sent to join the Nationalist troops at the St Marcial barracks in Burgos. This time I enlisted under my true age.

  At my first medical examination they diagnosed acute bronchitis and sent me back to the hospital for twelve days. Then they allowed me to convalesce at a Frente y Hospitales rest centre in Burgos, where I sat about playing cards and gossiping. Many local girls of good standing contributed to the war effort by helping with the wounded there, and one in particular interested me greatly for she was good looking and played the piano extremely well. Although my knowledge of music was rudimentary, my ear was good, so I would sit beside her and we played duets. We soon became great friends and I would accompany her to mass each morning. Eventually, I asked her to become my ‘war mother’, which she accepted, and we saw even more of each other. I discovered that she worked as a clerk in the war ministry for General Dávila.

  When I had enlisted at the St Marcial barracks in Burgos I had not only given my true age but I had also told them that I had originally been conscripted in 1933, had served six months and had ended up as a second lieutenant in the reserve. On learning this, my case was forwarded to the army’s legal department and I was placed under the command of a lieutenant colonel in charge of investigating my anomalous position.

  While I waited to take up my commission, I was temporarily awarded three stripes, but was only given a third of a full officer’s pay, which was very little. So in order to cut down on my expenses, I decided to sleep in the St Marcial barracks, which meant that I had to report to the commanding officer, a martinet, every evening for roll call.

  Somewhere around the beginning of November 1938, the people of Burgos decided to hold a demonstration in honour of Francisco Franco and his rebel Nationalist army to celebrate the opening of his attack on the Catalan front. I was asked to join a group from Frente y Hospitales and surged along with the throng. During all the excitement, an enthusiastic Catalan soldier exchanged his Carlist red beret for my military cap. It was strictly forbidden for a regular army soldier to wear any political insignia and such behaviour was always severely punished, even though the Carlists were one of the motley band of militia which made up the Nationalist army. I was well aware of the rule, but had not thought that it applied that day as it was not a military occasion. Unfortunately, however, the commanding officer of the St Marcial barracks had seen me exchanging headgear from the balcony of the Burgos military headquarters.

  That evening, when I returned to the barracks for roll call, the duty Sergeant asked me to report to the arms hall, where an officer was waiting for me. He led me to the commander’s room. I went in and stood at attention. The commander then asked me if I had been wearing a Carlist red beret during the demonstration earlier that afternoon. I replied that I had, and explained that a Catalan had swapped my cap for his beret. He asked me to hand over the beret and, when I told him I didn’t have it, he gave me two vicious slaps to the face which nearly knocked me over. Shouting insults, he tore the stripes off my uniform and sent me to a prison cell for the night.

  Admittedly, I was at fault, but I did not feel that I’d done anything heinous enough to deserve having my face slapped and the stripes torn off my uniform.

  I was rudely awakened before dawn and taken to a dormitory where about fifty soldiers were putting on full battle kit. Without any explanation, I too was kitted out and issued with a rifle and ammunition. A corporal then marched us to the station. I asked the corporal where we were going, to which he replied that we were off to the front at Teruel. I couldn’t believe my ears and didn’t know what to do. I thought of telephoning my war mother, but she did not have a phone and, even if she had, I would never have dared ring her up at that early hour. Demoralised and frightened, I got on the train with the rest. They joked and laughed as we rumbled along, but I felt too miserable to join in; I just stood there, trying to think of a
way out of my predicament. I kept badgering the corporal with questions. From him I gathered that we would change trains at Calatayud and continue on to a small village near Teruel, from where we would trek up the mountains by mule. I also tried to get some answers from some of the soldiers in my detachment. Although many were raw recruits, some were experienced veterans returning from leave. One of the latter told me that the part of the front line we were off to was cold and wild and overrun by rats. Any soldier who killed a hundred was automatically given a week’s leave. He’d obviously become quite an expert: he’d kept reporting to the quartermaster with all the rodents he’d caught and so had managed to get two weeks’ leave in less than a year.

  We finally reached Calatayud late in the morning and the corporal gave us permission to stretch our legs. I quickly found a phone and called my war mother in Burgos to tell her what had happened. She had been worried when I had not turned up that morning for mass and was relieved to hear my voice. Telling me not to worry, she said she would try to find out what could be done to help me. I then dashed off a letter to her giving her all the details again just to make doubly sure, and posted it before we caught the next train.

  We got out at a little wayside station near Sierra de Santa Cruz in south-west Saragossa, where four mules were waiting to be loaded up with the various sacks and boxes we had brought with us. As we walked up the mountain, I chatted to the muleteer and asked him about conditions at the front; he told me that the captain was a young, well-educated man from a noble family, a monarchist who took a great interest in the welfare of his men.