Passaran- SCW passes into history in the British Isles

The Volunteera site dedicated to Abraham Lincoln brigade volunteers reports that the last Spanish Civil War veteran in the British Isles has died.

David Lomon (above - photo from the Volunteer) died on 21 December 2012, aged 94.

David arrived in Spain in December 1937 and was captured by Italian troops in the following spring. He was repatriated in a prisoner-of-war exchange in October 1938.

His death leaves one British volunteer known to be alive: Stan Hilton, who is in a nursing home in Yarrawonga, Australia.

Ans so the Spanish Civil War passes into history in these isles

I missed this item but Denis McGuinness, Ireland's last SCW veteran,  died last month.He did not serve in the International Brigade but in the Nationalist Bandera XV comanded by the Irish fascist Eoin O'Duffy.

Whether one likes it or not it is a matter of historical record that  for every Irish citizen fighting for the Republicans three fought for Franco.

McGuinness, who was born in Blackrock, Co Dublin, in 1914, went to Spain in December, 1936, with hundreds of volunteers on a cargo ship from Galway.

The young Irish volunteers became known as the XV Bandera Irlandesa del Terico of the Spanish Foreign Legion.

The Bandera's first casualties happened when they reached Ciempozuelos on the way to Madrid in March, 1937.They were involved in a firefight with fellow Nationalist soldiers from the Canary Islands. After a 20-minute firefight, two Irish soldiers, a sergeant and a captain, were killed.

The Irish volunteers were later involved in the  battle of the Jarama River, their last major battle before they came home to Ireland via Portugal. The Bandera was stood down shortly after and the volunteers returned to Ireland in December 1937 having contributed little to Franco's war effort.

Denis McGuinness told his granddaughter Niamh McGuinness 70 years later in an interview for her university dissertation that they went to Spain to fight communists and were not fascists.

"He never liked the stigma of fighting for Franco's side," Niamh said. "He didn't really understand the politics behind it. "His father died young, he was the eldest and he went to Spain to earn money for his siblings," she said.

Wars are dirty, ugly and brutal, civil wars even more so. I am sure that is something that Lomon and McGuinness qould have agreed on.

Civil War veterans to be given Spanish citizenship

As recognition goes it may be rather tardy but it definitely a case of better late than never - the Spanish government is awarding citizenship to the surviving members of the International Brigades. Seven British pensioners will receive their citizenship at the Spanish Embassy in London on June 9. An eighth survivor, Les Gibson, 96, has declined because of poor health; the award is of course too late for veterans Jack Jones and Bob Doyle who died earlier this year.

Jack Edwards (centre) with the late Bob Doyle (left) and Jack Jones (right)

Jack Edwards, 95, who gave up selling newspapers in Liverpool in 1937 to head for Spain said that he was “elated” at the Spanish recognition. Mr Edwards, who was shot in the leg during his service, said that despite the hardships he had seen and experienced, he had no regrets. “You were fighting for rights. You were fighting for something you believed in.”

According to the the Spanish government have overcome political sensitivities to implement legislation that granted citizenship to the volunteers from more than 50 countries who came to combat the rebel fascist forces. Only a few hundred men and women remain alive to benefit from the citizenship offer.

Penny "English Penny" Fiewel

Over 2,000 British men and women joined the fight against Franco. Most had minimal, if any, military training and all were poorly equipped. They formed the International Brigades. Deployed to towns and villages along the front line, thousands of International Brigaders died, including 525 Britons.

Lou Kenton

Lou Kenton, 101; Sam Lesser, 95; Joseph Khan, 94; Paddy Cochrane, 96, from Ireland; and Penny Feiwel, 100 will also receive passports next month

And good news for Lorca

According to the Times the remains of Federico García Lorca and others buried in mass graves during the Spanish Civil War are to be exhumed as part of an investigation into mass killings.

Judge Baltasar Garzon authorized the opening of the graves containing remains of the victims of General Franco’s victims all over Spain, including one where Lorca is thought to lie in Viznar near Granada.

Lorca was shot in August 1936, one month after Franco’s uprising against the Republican government sparked the civil war. The families of two people who were executed and their bodies dumped with Lorca have sought the opening of the grave to give the victims dignified burials. For years, the Lorca family opposed the opening of the grave but recently said it had no objections.

After Franco’s death in 1975, Spain introduced an amnesty law and maintained a ‘pact of forgetting’ about atrocities committed by the Nationalist and Republican forces during the Civil War. But last year, Spain’s Socialist Government passed the controversial Law of Historic Memory. The law sought to offer some justice to Franco’s victims by granting them official recognition, by removing Francoist monuments, and pledges some support to associations that have dug up the remains of some 4,000 people from mass graves.

The Fallen Soldier

In January I posted an item regarding the discovery of what was described as the “holy Grail” of photojournalism - the discovery of a large cache of photos and negatives of photos taken by the great Robert Capa.

It’s enormous importance aside it was hoped that the discovery would settle the one question that has dogged Capa's legacy: was 'The Falling Soldier,' staged? I was therefore interested to see in today’s Independent that an exhibition at the Barbican in London aims to have the last word on the matter. It will show for the first time in the UK every image taken by Capa the same day.

The Falling Soldier, officially known as Death of a Loyalist Militiaman, made 22-year-old Capa's reputation but for years arguments have raged as to whether he set up the picture or whether he had in fact captured a soldier meeting his violent death. An audit of all the negatives held by the International Center of Photography in New York has turned up previously unknown film taken by both Capa and his lover Gerda Taro the same day the Falling Soldier was photographed including other images of the soldier, Federico Borrell Garcia, a 24-year-old textile worker. The new material shows, the curators believe, that Garcia was shot, but not in the heat of battle. They believe that a re-enactment of events at the front line near Cordoba attracted enemy interest.

The new images were researched by Capa's biographer Richard Whelan. After Mr Whelan's death last May, his work was taken over by Cynthia Young, who curated the exhibition. "There are new photographs. They had been lying in the archive for years. Richard was going through all the pre-1939 images and all of these early negatives and contact sheets were in a mess. They were misdated over years. But he recognised these as being taken on the day of the Falling Soldier. No one knew that these negatives existed. It was assumed they had all gone missing. There were 35mm prints taken from Capa's Leica and Rolleiflex negatives, the camera used by Gerda Taro, which proves beyond doubt for the first time that she was with him on that day.

"There have been various theories about whether the soldier was actually shot in battle. Looking at the photos it is clear that it is not the heat of battle. It is likely the soldiers were carrying out an exercise either for Capa or themselves. The images are ordered according to the numbers on the back of the negatives, so it's the best sequence we can put together and from that we can deduce the story."

There is no doubt the soldier was shot, however. Mr Whelan believed Garcia died almost instantly from a bullet to the heart.

So it now seems that the Falling Soldier was indeed genuine. That it was taken during a re-enactment is of no consequence – we are looking at the days before embedded journalists and the like. The Falling Soldier is an iconic image and will remain so. The exhibition is in my diary as a must-see event.

Red Cushing and the Spanish Civil War part III

I was to sail on a ship belonging to the Stag Line, and to throw dust into the eyes of the authorities, I was handed a seaman's book, an A.B. certificate and a life-boat certificate .... I formed one of the crew.... Sometimes I worked in the galley; sometimes I did lookout duties; I was even called upon to steer and a fine mess I made of it, too. I shall never forget the Captain coming up to the wheelhouse to remark dryly, 'I don't mind you writing your Jasus name on the face of the ocean, but why the hell do you go back to dot the "i"?'

... We were now in the thick of the fighting, with very little hope of respite. My only consolation was that I met Frank Ryan, another Tipperary man, who had once been either the Editor or Sub-Editor of the An Phoblacht. Tall and scholarly-looking, Frank had a thin, hawk-like face, dark hair and a humorous mouth. He was serving as a machine-gun officer with the Attlee Battalion. One of the men in his Company told me that thanks to Frank's intelligent siting of the guns in a defensive position farther south, practically the whole of an Italian Brigade had been cut to ribbons.

There was no marking time on the Teruel front. Severe fighting had been the order of the day there for six months before my arrival and for once I knew what war really meant. I also realised that we were getting the wrong end of the stick. Enemy attacks were growing in strength and we were being slowly pushed back towards the coast.

At length we were contained on the Ebro riverfront, with our forces strung out along the north bank. The position could only be described as critical. One day I crossed the river with a reconnaissance patrol with the intention of getting some idea of the enemy's strength. Taking full advantage of the natural cover, we proceeded for two or three miles without incident. Then suddenly, as we were cutting through a valley, all hell broke loose. Raked by a merciless crossfire, we scattered and ran.

It was a case of every man for himself. I found myself pounding along beside a fellow called McClusky. Neither of us knew where we were, but we were both confident that we were heading for our own lines... We were about to press on, when we heard voices coming from the direction of a large cave... 'Spaniards!' I hissed. Wait here.' I dropped flat and wormed my way cautiously towards the cave. Whether they were Fascists or Loyalists. I neither knew nor cared... As members of the International Brigade, we're liable to be shot on sight... I forget how many days and nights our trek lasted, when it ended at Port Bou. We had no trouble in persuading an old fisherman to take us to Marseilles in his trawler and there we hung around 'on the beach' for the next two months...

I went to see the American Consul. I had no credentials, as all my papers were in Spain... By participating in a war in which the U.S.A. were non-belligerent, I had automatically forfeited my citizenship...On receipt of this depressing information, I wandered along the Canebire as far as the recruiting office for the French Foreign Legion.. Once inside, I put my case forward with such eloquence that I was immediately escorted to the Depot of the Legion at Fort St. Jean, where my treatment proved altogether different from what I had expected. Instead of brutality, iron discipline 'and an austerity diet, I enjoyed the friendly, relaxed atmosphere of the Depot and four excellent meals a day, including a litre of wine...

This dilatory attitude quite baffled me until one morning I bought the Continental edition of The Daily Mail and scanned the headlines. It was perfectly obvious that Great Britain and France would soon be fighting Germany... I had no difficulty in squaring matters with the French Foreign Legion. The authorities understood that my first duty was to my own country.

I travelled to England by way of Paris and Dieppe, disembarking at Newhaven and proceeding to Victoria... As I was leaving Victoria, with a view to catching a 'bus to Paddington. a slimy-looking character tried to sell me The Daily Worker. His smug references to the Spanish Civil War so incensed me that I hauled off and belted him one. I derived a great deal of personal satisfaction out of that blow, throwing into it all the anger and disgust I felt about Communist mismanagement in Spain. It symbolised for me my complete repudiation of the Party line...

Make of this what you will. Cushing was a larger than life character but think he should be read with a pinch of salt. His later adventures as a POW-cum-potential German spy are a mixture of comedy and tragedy.

Red Cushing and the Spanish Civil War part II

As the future seemed uncertain, I decided to spend the evening in O'Mara's, an Irish hostelry on 2nd Avenue and 23rd Street. There, by an odd coincidence, I fell into conversation with two young Irishmen who said they were returning to Ireland to join General O'Duffy's Blue Shirts.

'And who the hell might General O'Duffy's Blue Shirts be?' I asked them. 'I'm told it's some sort of independent brigade the General's taking across to Spain,' one of them replied.

'And on what side would the Blue Shirts be fighting?' 'Well, aren't they Catholics, you ignoramus? And wouldn't they be supporting the Nationalists and Franco?'

'Bejasus!' I exclaimed. 'Then I'm on the wrong side again! That'll be another excommunication looming up for me. In any case, it will be like old times, with the Irish trying to destroy each other. And what about the British army? Whose side are they on?'

'I wouldn't be knowing that. I've heard that a British battalion and a Canadian battalion are operating out there as a brigade under a fellow called Tom Wintringham. Pat and I are hoping they've joined the Republicans. We'd dearly love to have another crack at the English.'

The more I questioned those lads, the more obvious it became that they knew as little about this Spanish affair as I did. I began to regret the hours I had spent poring over the sporting pages of the daily press instead of studying reports of what was happening in the world. The most I could gather was that the Russians, the Germans and the Italians were all mixing it in Spain, but the real ins and outs of the struggle had me mystified.

Anyway, next day I proceeded to the Social Club and mustered my contingent. To my amazement there were no absentees. I marched them to the waiting buses and away we went to Hoboken to board the ship... At the start of the voyage I selected four of the toughest specimens in my outfit and made them section commanders with nine men each to look after. I gave them considerable coaching in man management and in what the whole bunch needed most - personal and collective hygiene. None of the forty had ever undergone military training, so throughout the trip I lectured them on patrolling, scouting, the section in attack and in defence, the approach march, advance to contact and so on. They all seemed interested with the exception of a scholarly type called Rudi Rudovsky... Although a tolerable fart would have blown him into the sea, he caused me more trouble than the rest of the mob put together and was ready to argue on the drop of a hat. His sole topic of conversation was the inevitability of world Communism. No matter what subject was under discussion, Rudi would immediately switch it on to the Party rails. If I asked my trainees how many stoppages there were on a Lewis gun, Rudi would reel off a dozen reasons why the Communist worker never came out on strike. If I was dealing with First Aid, Rudi would prove conclusively that Russia had the finest hospital service in the world. Anything the West could do, the East could do better was the basis of all Rudi's impassioned utterances.

We docked at Cartagena, where Rudi charged me with being a subversive element. He complained that I had confined my lectures to military matters, that I had obstructed his political propaganda and that on one occasion I had threatened to beat his brains out with 'Das Kapital'. The Party boss to whom he complained simply laughed in Rudi's face and slung him out of his office. I never saw him again, although I was informed later that he found himself a cushy job in a leave camp down at the base, preaching the Cause and dodging the column.

I was sent to a vast training area up in the Sierra de Guadarrama, north of Madrid, where I remained for four months. Then, as platoon leader in Number One Company, the Lincoln Washington Battalion, I went into action.

We were operating against the Italians on the front southeast of Madrid. Although we were out-numbered three to one, our sector was surprisingly calm. The Italians had evidently used up all their courage and energy fighting the unarmed Abyssinians. Matched against a small but determined body of professional soldiers, they preferred to remain under cover...

We had no idea what the overall situation was. Any information about the general course of the war was carefully withheld from us by the Party leaders. Gradually it dawned on these political panjandrums that what they needed in Spain was less tub-thumping and more military know-how, so at last they decided to ship me back to the States with a view to recruiting some young men with initiative and leadership qualities.

... Eventually I reported to the Party H.Q. in New York and received my instructions. I had to hang around the Army Base in Brooklyn, keep my weather-eye open for soldiers awaiting demobilisation, take them for a drink, paint an attractive picture of the pay and conditions in Spain and try to persuade them to join the Lincoln Washington Battalion. I was given a wad of notes to cover my expenses on the recruiting expedition and also approximately a dozen addresses of doctors who would be prepared to carry out medical examinations without asking awkward questions.

I put the money to good use by treating myself to regular drinking bouts in the bars of Brooklyn. My conscience would not allow me to conduct a serious recruiting campaign. In case I was being watched by my sponsors, I frequently chatted with young soldiers in bars and restaurants, but I made no real attempts to lure them to Spain. For six months I played the role of the reluctant recruiter in and around Brooklyn, always promising results but never achieving them. It was not altogether surprising that the organisation began to view me with suspicion. Finally, I was ordered to return to Spain...

Red Cushing and the Spanish Civil War

This post was inspired by recent posts by two of my favourite bloggers: Roland Dodds on the vandalising of the Abraham Lincoln Battalion memorial and Bob from Brockley’s Spanish Civil War in San Fransisco.

Irishman Thomas “Red” Cushing is almost certainly resting in his grave now (if he were still alive he would be in his late 90s) but he definitely had a life less ordinary. In the first 35 years of his life he was an IRA member, had a yoyo career in the US army with a sideline of training Sandino’s forces; served in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade (his sobriquet refers to his hair not his political allegiance, he has bolshie, not a Bolshevik!), joined the British army, taken prisoner during the fall of France.... and then his adventures really began!

I first came across his name in Renegades: Hitler’s Englishmen, Adrian Weale’s excellent account of the Britisches Freikorps (the BFC) and other British traitors of WWII Cushing was mentioned in respect of the Reich’s farcical attempt to raise an Irish legion. He also appears in Mark Hull’s “Irish Secrets: Espionage in Wartime Ireland” and Terrence O’ Reilly’s “Hitler’s Irishmen”. However, he was no traitor himself and he continued his career in the British Army into the 1960s

Cushing wrote an account of his rollercoaster life in the book “Soldier For Hire”. It is long out of print but fortunately it is not hard to track down a reasonably inexpensive copy. The chapter “No Castles in Spain” which covers his time in Spain is very handily reproduced on Ciaran Crossey’s superb Ireland and the Spanish Civil War website. Plagiarism is not intended but I have a damaged wrist and anything that will cut down my typing is a godsend at the moment!

... While on demob leave, I stayed at the Army and Navy Club in Lexington Avenue, New York. I took the opportunity of visiting all the army posts where I had friends. To keep myself solvent I boxed a few times. Then, one morning in 1936, I wandered as far as the Army Base in Brooklyn, hoping to bump into somebody I knew...
My luck was out... I finished up in a saloon bar, sitting at the same table as five or six young fellows, listening to their conversation and occasionally chipping in when the talk became general. Somehow we had got on to the subject of soldiering abroad. During a lull in the discussion, an unmistakably military figure detached itself from the bar and slid easily into the seat next to mine.

'I'm recruiting for the Lincoln Washington Battalion, now serving in Spain,' he announced without preamble. 'Any of you guys interested?' 'What are the prospects?' I asked him. He shrugged. 'Well, I guess that depends on what you can do. Have you soldiered before?'

I fished from my wallet the army documents I carried around with me and dropped them on the table in front of him. He scrutinised them in silence, lingering especially over an impressive list of courses I had passed. At last he looked up and eyed me appraisingly. 'Seems to me you're the type we want, brother. Can't guarantee it, but with these qualifications you should swing a commission.'

'Never mind the commission. My interests are tipple and bananas.'


... First we went to a building on the Grand Concourse, where I was medically examined and pronounced physically fit. Then, we proceeded to a dingy office not far from Union Square. There I completed a sort of application form, signed on the dotted line and was duly inducted. I received a cash advance of fifty dollars and was warned to hold myself in readiness... A day or two later, my instructions arrived. I was ordered to report to an address on Eighth Avenue and Sixteenth Street... I was introduced to a number of curious characters, all belonging to the school of thought that condemns soap and water as capitalist luxuries. Even before they opened their mouths, I knew what I had let myself in for. I had stepped into a gathering of Communist Party members.

Although I had no time for such crapology, I decided to ride along with them and find out how they ticked. I therefore listened patiently to my long-haired friend's appreciation of the situation. .. I had been appointed conducting officer and was responsible for shepherding forty volunteers from New York to the Spanish front.

...The 'Commissar', as I had mentally labelled him, next led me into a dance hall, where I passed on his information to my comrades... When I first saw them, my heart sank. There were intellectuals, students from Columbia University and a generous sprinkling of Bowery bums and dead-beats, who had evidently espoused the Communist cause in order to be issued with meal tickets.... When I had finished, the Commissar gave them a long political speech, loaded with the usual Communist clichés. The workers of the world had to unite, fight for freedom, win a lasting peace and had nothing to lose but their chains. The students and the self-styled intelligentsia lapped it all up, but the talk made little impression on the bums. The squad was then dismissed and the Party members gathered round me, eager to give me a propaganda injection.

'Gentlemen,' I said to the shower of nanny goats, 'I'm a professional soldier, not a politician. I've volunteered to go to Spain simply for the experience. As far as I'm concerned, you can stick your Communist racket up your jaxies! So cheerio, comrades! I'll be seeing you at nine o'clock to-morrow morning.' With an ironic bow to the Commissar, I made a quick exit...

To be continued