AMONG THOSE ABOUT TO DIE
Condemned Priests Blessing
The author leaves war torn Spain
'Without one pleasant memory'

The rising sun threw a pale light on the roofs of the small town to the south. I was on the main road to Madrid and travelling with an assorted company. Milicianos on trucks, on foot, and officers in cards went flying past - some with arms, some without. I picked up a rifle that some weary or frightened soldier had dropped on the route, and marched on. Again unattached!

My side felt chafed and raw; possibly my belt with the heavy ammunition pouches. I threw them away. Then I noticed two neatly drilled holes in the side of my tunic.

I Arrive in Madrid

I had a look inside. Sure enough, a bullet or something had grazed me, scarcely breaking the skin by the sheerest of good luck. I felt devoutly thankful, and then threw away the rifle. As one army retreated, a new one was rushing along the road collecting arms and men to make a further stand - further on.

Arriving in Madrid by way of the Princesca Bridge, I discovered that the Minister of Marine had left for Valencia. If I wanted to see him I must go there. I certainly wanted to go to Valencia, to any seaport or outlet where I could leave this unhappy land. Any move I had made up to now seemed to get me deeper in the toils, and again I prayed hard for delivery.

How the Spaniards Are Insulted

Columns from the International Brigade were now arriving to stiffen the defense of Maid and were being concentrated in the Case de Campo. How the Spaniards swallowed this gratuitous insult so meekly I cannot understand.

The Communist (Russian) organs were forever lauding this band of very mediocre conscripts and unemployed as a modern military achievement. Trotsky's crowd will say anything so will the Anarchists of Catalonia and, of much more portent, so will the Spanish people when they are called upon to met the bill.

At this stage I don't intend to enlarge further on my experiences, but will deal with the few remaining unpleasant episodes that marked my departure from Spain.

Permission to Leave Spain

Back at Brigade headquarters I demanded to be returned to France. Would I accept command of a gunboat? No A cruiser? No. I knew they had no commands to offer and this was but a stall to coax me into the Artillery or Flying Corps. All right. Marty agreed with bad grace and I received permission from the Frente Populaire to leave Spain.

My papers were in order, I was immediately put under police supervision - until a suitable train left for the coast. There were four of us returning, two French, a Hungarian and myself.

The night before our departure was spent in the guardroom of police Headquarters in an atmosphere of smoke and garlic. Now and then prisoners were brought in, singly or in batches, after the approved after midnight forays.

Talk with a Condemned Priest

In the morning I went out into the prison yard to get a sluice of cold water. I was half-drugged and stickily dirty from grime and smoke. About twenty prisoners were walking about the yard or standing in little groups. They looked pale and wan and were conversing in low tones.

A few were at the water spigot, washing. I divested myself of upper clothing down to an armless sports singlet and commenced to wash. Alongside I noticed a gentle-faced young Spaniard.

'Good morning,' he said in Spanish, as he moved aside to give me more room. 'Quite well,' I replied, 'How are you?'

Then looking cautiously around, he added softly, 'I see you are a foreigner, and', looking at a tattooed crucifix on my forearm, 'a Catholic.' 'Yes, I am a catholic and an Irishman,' I also spoke quietly.

'Tomorrow I go to the Cemetery'

Our conversation was a dangerous one. Why, he might have been a spy, for all I knew, but his face was reassuring, 'and', I further remarked, with a note of satisfaction in my voice, ' I leave for France today.'

'May God go with you, my friend,' he barely breathed. 'I am a Catholic priest and the day after tomorrow I go to the cemetery.' Everything went blank before my eyes. A cold hand touched my heart. The grisly terror that lurked everywhere, robbed me of understanding.

I turned to ask the young priest if it were really true - but he had gone. A guard approached. 'Don't listen to these Fascists, Comrade,' he said. Then he remarked pointedly, 'And don't ask or answer questions. We'll do all that.'

I took the hint, and also understood why the priest so quickly left me. He feared the danger I might have got into through conversing with him.

Barcelona Today is Sovietised

I dressed quickly and, as in a trance, walked though the heavy iron grille back to the guardroom. I understood later that most of the prisoners were 'Fascists' awaiting execution or imprisonment in the hulks of Barcelona or Valencia.

I saw touching scenes as relatives brought the prisoners food. Mothers, wives, sisters - they smiled bravely; but when the visit was over I saw them weep unrestrainedly.

I will omit details of the journey to Barcelona, via Valencia and Tarragona, and deal directly with this once beautiful and prosperous capital of Catalonia.

Barcelona today is the capital of a partly Sovietised Province. It is a glaring nightmare of red banners, placards, slogans, and slovenly disorder.

'The Anarchists Rule Supreme'

The Anarchists rule supreme, backed by Trotsky's Communists. Tramcars and buses are painted the diagonal red and black of the Anarchist flag, so are trucks and automobiles.

Every faction has a different coloured flag, and some cars and buildings fly the lot. The effect can well be imagined.

As Barcelona was formerly the industrial centre of Spain, so it was the revolutionary or separatist centre. But it was rather a contradiction of Anarchism (which is individualist!) to see the wholesale collectivization of factories, hotels and transport.

As in Russia, the people must become mere ciphers, and must without quibbling obey the rulings of their betters - the chairmen of the various Councils.

'Privileges' for the Proletariat

Food cards are issued and admission by special permit. The Proletariat have the privilege of eating a hasty meal of beans, sitting at long deal tables in the Ritz. When they finish they must at one vacate. They have had the satisfaction of eating where once their betters are - if that is any satisfaction.

Their present masters do not eat in the common mess hall in the Ritz. They dine de-lux in decent restaurants where good food, good wine, music, and really good obsequious service is obtainable.

There is much to be seen and analyzed in Barcelona, and the attitude of its huge population towards the present conflict. One thing seems certain. No matter who wins in Spain there will be a stern Catalonian problem to be dealt with. This province (the richest) is determined to cut adrift, and the future will see interesting and sanguinary developments.

Off For the Frontier

Barcelona has been overrun by writers and Drawing Room Reds eager to get 'copy' at a safe distance from the firing line. But they are all within a short walk from the French, British and American Consulates, whose good services they are not loath to take advantage of when dropped by their sceptical Spanish 'comrades.'

Armed with additional papers, issued by the Catalonian Military Control, we set off for the frontier station of Port Bou, en route La Belle France. At the French frontier town of Cerberes the two French Legionnaires were allowed to enter France on producing cards of identity. The Hungarian and myself, minus these, must perforce return- and were escorted over the Pyrenees by relays of French Gendarmes, walking, climbing, and slipping all the way.

On sighting the Spanish frontier post they stopped and watched s safely negotiate the No-Man's Land between France and Spain. It was raining when we left Cerberes. As we had climbed the mountain goat tracks, the rain changed to sleet and finished in a blizzard of blinding snow.

My Hungarian friend was a nervous wreck. Luckily, I have a wonderful store of optimism and a tough constitution, besides, I have the most implicit faith in St. Anthony, who has protected me though a not unadventurous life.

Back in Barcelona, jaded and dispirited, I repaired to the British Consulate to obtain an emergency passport to prove nationality. The Consul General and his Staff (one of whom was a good Irishman) treated me with the utmost kindness and consideration. They begged of me to accept the hospitality of and a passage to Marseilles on a destroyer.

But I decided to leave Spain as an adventurer, not as a helpless refugee. I didn't like hauling down my flag as token of surrender to adversity.

A Dream That Was Shattered

I took the Pass and again set off for the mountains. Going through Figueras, in North Catalonia, I saw a small church picturesquely situated at the foot of a vine-covered hill. I looked at the building with a feeling of gladness that up her Hate had possibly stayed her hand and the Spanish people were as they were but a few short months ago.

My dream was soon shattered. The door opened, two men walked out, followed by a truck loaded with petrol drums. I was denied even one pleasant memory to dwell on.

Close to Port Bou the Chief of police gave me a mule and a guide wherewith to cross the mountains. I reached Perpignan in due course and later took the train to Paris.

It was like returning to a new life to mingle with well-dressed and courteous human beings. But it was in Paris itself I appreciated the change most of all, and realized the vast difference between Christian and non-Christian principles.

At the Irish Free State Legation I was welcomed with open arms. Art O'Brien, a courteous and worthy representative of Ireland, did all in his power to help a fellow soldier of the Anglo-Irish war days. There I met Commandant O'Byrne, and my passing through Paris will forever remain a pleasant memory.

In concluding these articles, I wish to state that the present Government of Madrid is 100% Red and violently opposed to the Catholic Church. Any Irishman preparing to fight for or defend vicariously this regime is defending the enemy of his faith. I learned these facts by bitter experience. If they will open the eyes of my misinformed or misguided countrymen, I shall have done a great service for Ireland.