FOUL WAR ON RELIGION
Communists' Trail of Sacrilege
Not a Single Church Unmolested Blasphemous Periodicals on Sale

After my first experience o found a room in town. The town, we discovered, was Albacete, in the province of Murcia, about 150 miles from Madrid. There was much criticism of my superiority complex by the British. They, in the ignorance of a first military venture, considered dirt and vermin the hallmark of really roughing it.

They boasted of not having undressed since leaving Paris. As I had come to Spain to go to Madrid on a special mission, I ignored all criticism. One thing I stipulated definitely, I would in no way become attached to or assigned with any group of British Communists.

A week in the barracks of the 5^th regiment, as the transformed monastery buildings were now officially dubbed, a general shuffling of the Brigade took place. The German group being the more disciplined, and looked up to as military models, were accorded a barracks to themselves. The remaining conglomeration moved to the barracks of the old Garda Nacional. This was a huge roomy structure, built in the usual style, enclosing a spacious square. It was soon packed to completion, and a bit over.

Another Irishman for the Brigade

Contingents were arriving daily from France - Perpignan and Marseilles being the concentration points. From Perpignan troops and material were brought to a point near the Spanish frontier by motor lorries. Then they marched across the border, carrying baggage and equipment. Spanish motor lorries concluded the transit by bringing the new arrivals to Figueras, the Spanish concentration point in Catalonia.

Another small group of British arrived, this time a really decent bunch of ex-Army men and a couple of officers. Amongst them was an Irish lad from Achill - Tom Patton. There were now two Irishmen with the Brigade - a very small percentage then out of 8,000 diverse nationalities.

A month later, when Bill Scott arrived, Ireland's only Communist representative (Patton was an English Communist Party member), there were three Irishmen in a Brigade of 12,000 men.

Patton was a decent chap. I told him of the executions and stupid vandalism and asked how he could reconcile such actions with his faith.

'No matter what I am, or where I am, I shall always be a Catholic,' he replied. 'I can’t help the actions of those scum.' He was eventually attached to the British group, who were attached to nobody. If they had left Spain with any degree of secrecy they would never have been missed.

Arms from France and Russia

Up to this time, no member of the Brigade had laid hands on rifle, machine-gun, mortar, or grenade. There were a few old sporting guns and some Spanish Oveido rifles to give guards and sentries the appearance of the real thing. Later a consignment of about 5,000 Remington rifles with ammunition arrived from France. Then came a few Lewis guns, but it was not until the beginning of November that Russian armaments came on to the scene.

These were mostly machine-guns of the Vickers type, mounted on a three-wheeled carriage, and good copies of the Lewis gun. But it was the aircraft and tanks that roused the hopes of the International column.

Truthfully speaking, the foreign Communists had little sympathy with the Spanish people. They blindly worshipped Russia. Spanish Milicianos and Legionnaires did note fraternise. On one occasion when a large draft of Valentian Militia, mostly Anarchists, were approaching Albacete, rumours were adroitly spread tat they were Fascists on the warpath. The International Brigade were confined to barracks until the Spanish Anarcho troops had gone to the Front.

Women in the Brigade

Fraternising with Anarchists was strictly taboo, and yet the war was being fought by the Anarchists. Only a small percentage of Spain follows he teachings of the third International (Russia). Trotsky has more followers, while the Syndico-Anarchists easily outnumber all the Radical groups. Thus it will be seen that, no matter how this conflict in Spain is settled, there will be warring forces at large for another decade at least.

Occasionally, women came with the various drafts from France - Hungarians, Poles, Romanians, and Germans. Mostly all were Jewesses; they looked absurd trotting around in uniforms with Sam Brown belts and revolvers. As with many of the effeminate males, quite a few wore bracelets of revolver cartridges.

For amusement there were never-ending harangues for new arrivals, and send-offs to the Front. Andre Marty, noted French Communist Deputy, and leader of the Black Sea fleet mutiny, was the principal speaker.

Marie Nicolette ('Nicko') was next in point of favour. The 'Internationale ' was sung on all and every occasion. 'Reveille' was played on a concertina by an Italian ex-circus clown. His repertoire was limited, consisting only of the 'Internationale' and 'Bandera Rosa', the Italian Red Flag hymn.

My First and Last Bull-Fight

The first and last bullfight I attended was one given in our honour in Albacete.

The Plaza de Tore (of unhappy memory), or Bull Ring, was a huge ornamental arena situated close to our barracks on the fringe of the town. Before the so-called amusement started the International brigade marched around and though the arena to give the Spaniards a treat. Clad in various designs and colours of uniform, from artisans blue overalls to a job lot of British khaki, newly arrived from Valencia, the effect was colourful - but as the rank and file included some of France's submerged citizenry, native and adopted, they were anything but specimens of physical fitness.

Their physical vagaries ran the gamut of the average freak show. Marching behind a burly, shapeless, Italian 'comrade', who rolled and lurched like a tug in a cross-sea, keeping step was difficult. Away off to starboard was an ex-French soldier with one leg at least six inches shorter than its pal kept the company busy changing step. Some executed a few steps of a jig trying to do this difficult military feat, invariably landing back on the same mis-step.

How the half of them were accepted is a mystery. What the thousands of physically fit and of military age Spaniards thought was strictly their own business, but anyhow, the spectators cheered loudly. If they could cheer a bull being tortured to death, cheering us was not quite so difficult.

The Parade over, we got what seats were left. Then a beautiful black bull was released into the ring. Five toreadors were mincing around waving red handeros - there were no horsemen. The bull apparently thought it was a game and began to romp with his torturers. Even when a dozen darts had transformed him into a cavorting blood fountain he seemed more hurt than angry.

The crowd were delighted. Beautiful senoritas clapped their hands, 'Brava, mi brava!' they shouted. Then an assembled downtrodden Spanish proletariat.

A graceful matador approached the now bewildered, panting bull. Draping his red bandero round his sword he waited the feeble rush. A quick side step; then with an affected nonchalance the brave matador drove the sword down behind the bull's shoulder.

The poor animal dropped on its knees in a pool of blood. It struggled desperately to rise, slipping pathetically in the blood-soaked turf. The crowd now jeered the matador for bungling his stroke. He drew a long bladed dagger from its sheath and at last finished his unsavoury job.

A pair of horses dragged the bleeding carcass across the ring at full gallop as another victim entered the place of slaughter.

'We Are All Damned Fools'

Seated on my right was an ex-French soldier of the World War and later a Sergeant in the Foreign Legion. 'Armande du Bois' was my closest friend and a most loveable type of fellow. I had noticed he was extremely nervous during the bullfight , occasionally clutching my arm and shuddering.

Jerkily he jumped to his feet. 'Come, let's go. Vite, vite!' I arose and quickly followed him up to the terrace surrounding the amphitheatre. Two other Frenchmen also left their seats.

Clear of the howling mob, Armande spontaneously burst into tears. 'They are not human,' he moaned. 'Such barbarians.' We were all affected, and gladly exchanged the remaining contests for the solace of a bodega.

The Leaders Behind the Lines

Said Jacques Renaud, a cashiered officer of the Armee Nord Afrique, 'Spain is but a French-Russian pawn. Look at the leaders behind the lines. Who are they? Leon Blum, in France directing the stream of International political refugees across the Pyrenees, in Perpignan the Socialist Mayor turns over the huge military hospital and grounds to the Communist Party. Everyone there sees the contingents arrive and leave for Spain almost daily. Then we have Leon Braunstein (alias Trotsky), Finkelstein (alias Litvinov), and Rosenburg, Soviet Ambassador to Spain united in fighting for the Spanish Government!'

One Certainty: The War on Religion

This angle opened a new train of though, and opened a floodgate of dangerous criticism. The fact that Trotsky's forces, the POUM, the largest Communist organisation in Spain; the Freemasons of the Anarcho-Syndicalist groups, and the Soviet Third international were working together was not loudly advertised

We discussed the Basque Catholic situation and their adherence to the Red Government.

One thing we knew of for certain - that nowhere we had been stationed was there a single Catholic church unmolested and free for Divine Service.

And we saw ample evidence of the war on religion everywhere - the horribly indecent blasphemous periodicals openly on sale. These filthy journals are flaunted before the eyes of Spanish youth to inculcate in them a hatred and loss of respect for the Church. I have some of these journals here in Ireland to prove that they are directed solely against the Catholic Faith and - the authors are mostly non-Catholic.