REMEMBERING
BRUNETE
It is a
Glorious Sunday morning, October in bloom, High Mass in San Ginés The Generous
attended by a congregation of over fifties (Roman Catholics are in a bad shape,
but it’s nobody’s fault, but the priests) and the Scribbler got a bit bored
with the sermon of the preacher but you can´t grumble. What can you expect,
Harry? Afterwards a cup of coffee in a wimpy, off we went.
Puerta del Sol at this lazy hour looks full of
vagrants and guiris, but it is business as usual. I hate those admen in
disguise of Micky Mouse near the fountain of Mariblanca.
The macabre smile of that rat of Walt Disney
terrifies me, no joke.
However,
following the chanting of La Salve to la
Virgen de la Cabeza whose ikon is venerated in this old parish of Madrid
where Quevedo was baptised, Lope de Vega married and where Tomas Luis de
Vitoria formed part of the clergy as precentor and chapel master, we got the
view of Carlos III riding his horse in the middle of the plaza.
The bad patch pf it was the visit of
Nicanor-tocando-el tambor (a ver cuando demonios entra la fuerza de una
puñetera vez) the Morose and Slow an old acquaintance, a peeping johny of
the Net who is a pain in the ass, really. With these friends one hasn’t got any
need for enemies
Yes,
but all in all, I am pleased with myself.
After finishing a book, the writer feels the
same sensation of a woman after labour. You have told the truth. You have
worked long hours stealing nights to the blue moon, checking notes, talking to
people, consulting old archives or perusing forgotten phonograms, interviewing
veterans.
More
than twelve years I was pregnant with the idea or obsession of remember
Brunete. It was hard experience of long walks through La Mocha Grande
abridging data, surveying the old trenches of the battlefield in the North West
area of Madrid. I went inside the remains casemates to inspect barbicans and
setting points of shooting pits for machineguns.
I felt
the pain and the same sorrow of the poor soldiers – there is no an exact cipher
but it is believed that between 75000 and 30000 men died- or the ardour of the
fighting sometimes in assaults at fixed bayonet, hand to hand.
And also, like them, I had a dire strife with
the blank page. That horror encumbering all the writers at the end of them I
kept wondering, oh my God, how that was possible. The battle of the Thirst had
been ignored or merely absconded by the modern historiography. Why? It was
victory of Franco not over Communism but over separatism and the International
Brigades, integrated mainly by the Lincoln Brigade.
Most of the volunteers spliced in Battalion
Lincoln were American, some British, some soldiers of fortune from several
countries like Italy, Hungary, Germany, France, Poland, who thought that the
war in Spain was a holiday under the sun.
The renowned Paul Preston passes over this sequence, which, in my opinion, was
the most cruel and crucial battle of the Civil War 1938-1939 on tiptoe along
his propaganda and his tirades (he is not a serious historian) on the subject.
Those
partial scribblers have unanimous purpose: to make Stalin and the Communists
the culprits of the defeat. But they are biased, one-sided historians and minor
authors.
In Brunete Russians not were- The URSS sent a
team of military advices. It is true that they played an important role in the
accommodation of modern warfare with tanks and gas, but they were advisers,
incompetent in the battlefield.
It was real butchery La Batalla de Brunete
and a real miracle that the Nationals with badly supply of ammunition and very
old weapons could put at bay the powerful contingents of the Brigades furnished
with the best military technology in the American market and indoctrinated by
the Kommitern. They formed a strong but sundry, motley and unruly force
That
was one point.
The
other theme is the oblivion and obscurantism in which have been kept in purpose
by the moguls of the media big manipulators, reigning and getting rich in
Moncloa on this bedridden country of the Autonomies, an ideogram of Henry
Kissinger as leader of the obscure forces who endeavour for the destruction of
the old Hispania.
The same people, the commandeers of this
divided Europe of the free merchants, not the Europe of the cathedrals (Legarde
the French big boss of FMI Sephardim by origin, she is a Laguardia, or the
Portuguese Barroso alias Mr Muddy), who orchestrated the blooded
confrontation of the Battle of the Thirst are now active in backing the
secession of the Catalan, the rebellion in arms of the Basque and Galician.
So, we
are back to square one, after all these years, all that blood, all those
sacrifices and holocaust of young lives; and none wants to remember Brunete.
But I do.
The defeat at war could be transformed in
pompous victories through the intrigues and innuendo of these corrupted
politicians we suffer in this country.
The
weapons they use is intrigue, bribery, slander, lies, distortions of the facts,
hypocrisy, prosecution and control of the media and the education to impose
their totalitarian purposes, the Unitarian Thought. They are the herders and we
are the sheep. You ought to lick their stick
Furthermore, they have made the monarchy in
the person of Don Juan Carlos a Quisling of their empire, mocking the whole
institution for the sorrow of many a Spaniard. How awful.
And
adding injury to the wound, most of the Spanish people are kept unaware of the
big twiddling and distortions that goes on beyond the screen.
The
book is dedicated to the memory of my father in the form of a reportage
presented on the procedure of a novel, narrating the excruciating fortnight of
a combatant, a humble peasant joining Falange de Valladolid, who in the last
moment owes his life to one guy from his village El Chafa who happens to take
part on the attack to Regulares and Falangists displayed in Vertice Mocha.
This
anarchist confronts Arije in the other side of the parapet and captures him
prisoner, and asks clemency for him the commander of the platoon. That was the
casus of the story: an act of reconciliation but the plot is motley with
multiple suggestions in clave. I did not follow the conventional method
of the classical formula. The action is in the mind of the young recruit from a
village of Segovia who landed posted in a trench serving a machine gun not
working properly. The guns misfired. People went mad, got drunk and died under
the sun.
None of
them had a clear idea for the cause they were fighting but both, the Blue end
the Red, wanted to save their España. They fought against the rich and the
social injustice represented by a corrupted parliament and a political class in
endogamy and corrupted and privileged. It happens that the Falangist and the
libertarian loved the same woman and had the same purpose, the same attitude to
life.
15/10/2012
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