STORY STAR
Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Novels
- Published: 02/25/2023
The Hunter and La Cagoule
Born 1949, M, from Binghamton NY, United States.jpeg)
November 1936
Madrid, poor Madrid. Her beauty and soul defiled by the beast.
It was an hour before the 11 p.m. curfew when the lorry carrying Rafael Delgado rumbled into the center of Madrid from Valencia, a bone jarring ride of 224 miles. The city’s wounds lay open and ugly. Bombs and shelling had turned it into a shamble of disemboweled buildings, debris, and gaping holes. A smell of death from bodies buried under the rubble hung in the air. Streetlamps that normally added brilliance at night were painted blue to keep the right-wing Nationalist rebel artillery on the Garabitas Hill from zeroing in on a target. Along with the curfew a blackout was in force. The only light was from the moon as it sparkled off broken glass from shattered windows.
Far away booms echoed as another round of bombardment from the nationalist forces hit the working-class district of Carabanchel at the southwestern edge of the city where loyalist forces of the Republic remained holed up after halting the rebels six days earlier on November 7th. 1936.
Rafael Delgado got out of the lorry and into a chilly wind blowing in from the Sierra de Guadarrama mountains to the north. While he was familiar with the streets of Madrid, the extensive damage from the shelling and bombing disoriented him. He looked around the deserted Gran Via in front of the fourteen-story white Telefonica Building as if a tourist and caught the attention of two militiamen patrolling the opposite side near an overturned streetcar teetering at the edge of a deep crater.
“Halt! Stay where you are!”
They came up to Rafael with rifles pointed at him. Inside the city danger lurked. The rebel nationalists claimed a ‘Fifth Column’ of supporters were ready to help when called upon. The militiamen suspected anyone out this late at night. One held Rafael in his sights while the other asked for identification and his pass. Rafael gave him both, laid his rucksack down, and stood confidently, his Astra 400 pistol snug in the shoulder holster under his sheepskin coat. Rafael was not a big man and when the militiaman shined his partially hooded flashlight towards him, he saw a dark, thin peasant face with a few days’ beard growth, intense brown eyes and black hair covered by a black beret. Rafael did not cower in front of these men. Just the opposite.
The militiaman looked at Rafael’s papers with his flashlight and then showed them to his comrade. They were part of the newly organized police force in Madrid organized by the Spanish Communist Party, the new power in the city.
“What are the watchwords?”
“It must be ended,” answered Rafael.
The other militiaman answered with the counter sign, “It must be ended, forever.”
“All is in order, comrade major.” He handed back the documents to Rafael.
“Can you tell me, comrade, where is the office of the district commandant?”
“You keep going down the Via a short way. Next block on the left. Look for the sentries.
“Thank you, comrades. Salud!”
Rafael raised his arm with his fist clenched tight in the salute of the republic and its allies.
The militiamen returned the salute and walked away.
One muttered, “That is one you do not want to get on the wrong side of. They call him The Hunter. He is on our side but of no side.”
“At some point he will have to choose, or he will be the hunted,” said the other.
Rafael continued walking. He put his pass and his identification as a Major in the Intelligence Division of the government back in his coat pocket. The first time he visited Madrid was ten years ago when he was fifteen. His father invited him along to attend a socialist meeting and to introduce Rafael into politics. At that age Rafael was already getting in trouble and his father thought that political activism might be just the thing to straighten him out. Now, although committed to defending the republican government, Rafael stayed out of the political wars of the various left organizations. Too much infighting he thought, and it could kill the people’s chances of winning the fight against the nationalists and their fascist allies. Rafael agreed with one thing in common with his allies in the republic, fascism must be eliminated.
The previous July a coup by rebels in the army against the Popular Front government that had been elected in February had failed only to be replaced by a brutal civil war. Right wing nationalist and fascist rebels, with Spanish Morocco soldiers and Legionnaires, now fought against the republic and its loyalist allies of socialists, anarchists, and communists across Spain. Some areas had fallen to the rebels, other areas, like Spain’s capital Madrid held out in favor of the republic. The nationalist army of Generals Jose Enrique Varela and Francisco Franco’s four columns of 25,000 soldiers pushed towards the city boundaries. General Franco had pledged to shoot all those in Madrid who supported the republic. The government had fled to Valencia, but the people would not budge. “They Shall Not Pass!” became their cry of defiance. The city of one million fought back and stood ready to defend Madrid from enemies outside and within. In the air, German and Italian planes, allies of the rebels, rained death down on the civilian population.
The office of the district commandant was in a large ornate building once owned by one of the large industrialists in the city, who either left the country or was shot. No one knew for sure.
Like other buildings it too was dark, curtains and shades drawn so the light would not seep through. Rafael saw a pinprick glow of a lit cigarette to one side near the front door, then another. The sentries.
Rafael called out to them; his hands raised.
“Comrades! Major Delgado approaching.”
The guards, wearing heavy leather coats and peaked militia caps with red five-pointed stars, waved him forward.
“Papers!” said one. Again, the other held his rifle at the ready.
Satisfied with his credentials they escorted Rafael into the building to an office where the night duty officer Lieutenant Gomez sat barely awake. He was startled when one of the sentries brought Rafael in and handed him Rafael’s papers.
Gomez looked at the papers with their appropriate stamps and signatures then stood and saluted.
Rafael scrutinized the lieutenant noticing his clean uniform and the hammer and sickle pin of the Spanish Communist Party on his tunic.
Rafael was acutely aware that with his sheepskin coat and ragged appearance that he did not look like a major. Good. He preferred to be that unknown entity walking amongst people, friend, and foe alike.
“Sit, major. What can I do for you? How is Valencia?”
“Valencia is much warmer,” Rafael said curtly. “First, as I am new here, and on a mission, it was important for me to report to the district commandant no matter what time I arrived in Madrid.” Rafael sighed. “Secondly… I really need a place to sleep tonight.”
“Of course, major. It is late so we need to put you up here. We have rooms with cots where you can bed down. In the morning I will show you the canteen.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“I will inform the commander when he comes in that you are here. What is your mission may I ask?”
“You may ask but you nor the commander will get an answer. It is classified from the top reaches of the government. Sorry.” Rafael gave a weary smile. “My room please, if you don’t mind.”
The sentry took Rafael to the third floor where an office had been converted to sleeping quarters.
The lieutenant went back to his desk, sat back down in his chair, and shook his head. He too had heard of the Hunter. It did not matter what political party or group you belonged to, if he was sent for you, watch out. He wondered why the Hunter was in Madrid. Who was he after?
Rafael awoke to a dim morning light. Someone had opened a blackout curtain. He heard his name called.
“Major Delgado?”
Standing above him was Lieutenant Gomez.
“Good morning, Major. When you have refreshed yourself, I will be downstairs in my office then I will escort you to Colonel Garcia, the district commandant.”
When Rafael entered Colonel Garcia’s office he noticed the same fastidious look, the same party pin. Rafael knew that since the Soviet Union’s pledge to support the republic in its fight against the fascists, the Spanish Communist Party had seen its membership swell. Even loyal members of the Spanish army joined. The militias made up of various political groups in Madrid saw their ranks become absorbed into a unified communist command along traditional military discipline. This caused consternation and distrust among many, especially among the anarchists and other independent left-wing groups.
“Welcome Major Delgado. May I see your papers please?”
Rafael handed them to the colonel and waited.
“Everything looks in order. I understand your mission is classified, comrade, so I will not dwell on it. What can I do for you?”
Rafael was still standing.
“I am sorry, major. Please sit.” The colonel offered a cigarette case to Rafael. “Smoke?”
“Thank you, comrade colonel.” Rafael took a cigarette, accepted the lighter from Garcia, lit it, and blew the smoke out in satisfaction.
“What I need are safe passage documents that state from you that I have your full authority to take my investigation to wherever it leads and at whatever time.”
“Surely the documents from the highest reaches of the government are sufficient, are they not? Why don’t you go to the War Ministry to General Miaja? He oversees Madrid’s defense.”
“I would rather not be seen going into any government buildings or coming out. I also might need to move around after curfew. Your signature, please. Just in case colonel.”
The colonel pulled out a paper from his desk, wrote his signature, a few words, stamped it, and handed it to Rafael.
“Where will you be staying once you leave here, major?”
“I have a few places in mind.” Rafael stood. “Until later, comrade colonel.”
No one is to be trusted, he was warned when he began his mission.
Rafael saluted the colonel and with safe passage documents in hand, walked out to an overcast and freezing morning. He remembered the location of the national office of his father’s trade union, the socialist Unión General de Trabajadores, UGT, and headed there to meet family.
The morning brought the destruction of Madrid home to Rafael. As he walked to the union headquarters, he could not help but to stare. He remembered the vibrant Madrid from years past. Now after siege and bombardment the city was down but not defeated. The people remained defiant and aware that there were wolves among them. If the fascists took the city, they knew they were dead. They had heard what happened in towns the fascists had overrun. Scores of people who were loyal to the republic slaughtered in the streets or put up against a wall and shot. In Badajoz, the rebels herded two thousand into the bullring and machine gunned them. That thought drove thousands to Madrid’s barricades to defend the city. Scores died but the city held.
The UGT headquarters at Calle de Piamonte nº2, loomed large in front of Rafael. Red banners of the union and another of “They Shall Not Pass!” fluttered in the wind. He went around rubble and barricades, showed his documents to the sentries, and entered the shell damaged building.
At the front desk, a militiaman leaned, tired and haggard, dead on his feet.
Rafael in a soothing voice called to him.
“Comrade?”
The militiaman jerked awake, disoriented.
“Yes, comrade?”
“I am looking for comrade Juan Lopez. Can you tell me where his office is?”
“Yes, it is… I have it now, room 310.”
“Thank you, comrade.”
Rafael walked up the long staircase to the third floor, found room 310 and walked in. It was a bustle of activity. He stopped a young man and asked for Juan Lopez. The man looked at Rafael askance noting his rugged attire.
“Who wants to know?”
Rafael showed him his documents.
The man blanched.
“This way, comrade.”
The young man led Rafael down a long corridor to another office and knocked.
“Enter,” said the voice within.
Juan Lopez was on the phone. Someone was in trouble and Juan was chastising him.
Rafael walked in, smiled at the older man, and stood like he owned the place.
“I have to call you back, Roberto, I have an important visitor.”
Juan hung up the phone, held out his arms, walked over to Rafael and embraced him.
“Good to see you too, Uncle. I am pleased you are alive,” said Rafael, struggling under Juan’s embrace.
“I am too! We have had a rough time. A lot of killing. We almost lost the city to those scum. The people have held them back so far and now the International Brigade is here and Durruti arrived with his column of 3000 anarchists. But how are you, my boy? What brings you to Madrid?”
“I have business here.”
“Not my office I hope.”
“Not your office and not you.”
“I should hope not. If we eat our own, we are lost. Surely it has not come to that?”
Not yet, thought Rafael, knowing that most of the republic’s allies hated each other. Thankfully they hated the fascists more.
“I need a place to stay and to get some of the old crew back together.”
Juan stepped back, concern on his face.
“I thought you had become a lone wolf. Has something changed? Why does the Hunter need a pack?”
“I have a dangerous mission and a sensitive one. That is all I can tell you.”
Juan nodded his head solemnly. They moved over to a potbelly wood stove, its heat warming Rafael in the cold building. Since the army uprising coal from Asturias was blocked from reaching the city. Heat was scarce or non-existent and food was running low.
Lightening the mood, Rafael said, “my mother sends her regards.”
“And how is my sister.”
“Valencia finally agrees with her. It took some time after I moved her. She still mourns papa, but the house held too many memories.”
A look of sorrow crossed Juan’s face.
“When those fascist gunmen killed your father, I thought I would die too. He was the best brother-in-law anyone would want and a superb union organizer.”
Rafael thought back to that day in 1934 during a time of revenge and violence by the right wing after they won the national elections. It was payback time for the right after the republic abolished the monarchy in 1931.
His father was in the east of Madrid organizing construction workers into the UGT. On his way to the union office three men of the fascist Falange party ambushed him on a side street. He died at once.
Rafael and his mother were told that night when members of the Civil Guard came to their house outside of Madrid. Rafael could still hear his mother’s shrieks in his head. The pain of that day never left him. For weeks he sought information about his fathers’ killers, and eventually found out who they were. Friends of Rafael’s father in the construction union had spies everywhere. Eventually the three gunmen, in a drunken state boasted in the presence of the wrong person about the murder of Julio Delgado. 21-year-old Rafael took on the appearance of a country boy and watched the killers as they went about their daily routines. After obtaining a pistol from a friend and shedding his county boy look, he struck them one by one.
His first kill was out on a date and his mind was elsewhere. Rafael came up behind him and blew his brains out. The man’s girlfriend, in shock with blood all over her face, was unable to describe Rafael to the police.
The second met an ignoble end in the outhouse behind his dwelling.
The third sat in a bar with Rafael only feet away. The man joked with friends with not a care in the world. When he finally said his goodbyes and left the bar Rafael came up behind him and pulled him into an alley at the point of his gun. The man, outraged, spat at Rafael. “Who are you to treat me so rough! Do you know who I am?”
Rafael just stared at the man, his hate boiling over.
“This is for my father, Julio Delgado,” and shot him between the eyes.
Rafael’s reputation grew after that, and he was called to perform more seek and kill jobs in Madrid. He became a master of his work and had a crew of killers working for him settling scores with company strike breakers and fascist gunmen. The country was at war with itself even then.
Rafael’s mind cleared as he realized his uncle was talking to him.
“Nephew?”
“Yes, Uncle. Where were we?”
“The crew.”
“I do not need all of them just three. It is a quiet operation, surgical.”
“Not all of them are still alive. Our socialist militia, while full of spirit, sadly lacked military training, adequate weapons, and ammunition. And when up against a well-trained professional army, well, let us just say the odds were not in our favor. But since the Soviet Union started helping the republic with weapons, advisors and the International Brigade the tide might be turning, But at a cost, nephew. Too many of our young comrades have left the Socialist Party to go over to the communists because they see them as winners. You know me, Rafael, I never trusted those Stalinists.”
Rafael thought back to the district commandant and his young lieutenant with their spotless uniforms and hammer and sickle pins.
“For now, uncle we need them. With Germany, Portugal and Italy helping the nationalists we need all the help we can get. Back to the crew, who remains?”
“Jorge Amaya, the Gitano, just came back from the front yesterday. You are in luck there. I can have him meet you at your old hangout at 4 p.m. tomorrow. Who else were you thinking of?”
“How about Francisco Ortiz? Pablo Ruiz?”
“Both dead sadly. Killed during the first attacks on Madrid. But Jaime Ruiz and Carlos Ortega are so far still alive.”
“Where are they, uncle?”
“Where else? At the University.”
When Rafael’s uncle told him that the men were at the University, he knew they were not attending class. The University was a battle ground and the front line of Madrid. It was there, on the western edge of Madrid near the Casa de Campo an open park of woodlands and hills that the rebel army thought they could make a swift push through and capture the city. They were wrong. The militias of the republic with international volunteers had held them back, but with heavy losses on both sides.
Rafael thought how strange it was to take a twenty-minute trolley ride through Madrid to the University and the front lines of battle, but that was the nature of this civil war in Madrid. The trolley passed militiamen leaving the front only to return later to fight once again. They were the lucky ones. Most had been on the line for days with no sleep and little food. Hundreds of their comrades had already died in the fighting during the initial attacks by the rebel army. Towards the front went lorries filled with men. Back from the front came lorries filled with the wounded or the dead. A few tanks sent by the Soviet Union clattered by. Groups of armed Madrileños stood in groups talking or readying themselves to go into the fight.
Rafael got off the trolley and started towards the University. As he got closer, Rafael could hear rifles, machine guns, and cannons. Men yelled slogans and profanity at each other from both sides of the front line. Others screamed with the agony of death. Acrid smoke of gunpowder wafted over the university grounds. When he neared the Philosophy building, he noted the pockmarked outside of the building and craters in the earth from rebel’s shells. Windows had been blown apart or smashed by Madrid defenders as a perfect spot for firing at troops on the other side of the narrow Manzanares river.
At the main door of the building Rafael pulled out his pistol. Two dead Moroccan soldiers, their khaki uniforms bloody and ripped, straddled across the steps. Inside, more dead soldiers on blood-soaked stairs leading to the top floors. He could hear people talking and rifle fire from inside one of the classrooms.
Rafael called out his name and rank, hoping the room held republican fighters, not moors.
“I am entering comrades! Do not shoot.”
When he went in, he saw three militiamen pointing their rifles at him. Another waved him in and smiled.
“Rafael! What an unexpected visit. Should we be worried?”
“Hola, Carlos. Not to worry. I have an assignment and I need you and Jaime. Is he here?”
“Next building over with the anarchists and the newly arrived International Column.”
“How goes it, Carlos?” enquired Rafael, as he tossed the bread he bought on the way to him and the other militiamen.
Carlos turned from his shooting position and put his back to the thick wall. He laid his rifle down, his shoulder sore from the constant shooting.
“You should have been here last week. We were magnificent! The fascists thought they had us by the balls. The people proved them wrong. When they tried to enter the city with their moors and legionaries the people rose and pushed them back. Out of their houses, workplaces, and barrios the people stood as one. Their army tried to cross the Toledo Bridge in Carabanchel in the early morning. We had barricades set up and rifles on balconies. The drums of the moors calvary was deafening and a little frightening. Some men tried to run away but the woman called them cowards and urged them to keep firing. Just as the moors were going to overrun us a motorcycle with a machine gun strapped to it arrived and began to fire. The moors were shredded and retreated. We were lucky the comrade came to help us. They would never have made it through Carabanchel alive though. Every house was a death trap for them. We were not going to go quietly.”
Carlos paused; the memory took a turn to sadness. “We held them back but at a great loss. That is where Pablo Ruiz died, dropping dynamite into an Italian tank. And here we are now, still holding on and pushing back.”
Rafael looked around the classroom. Books were stacked up around the windows except for small openings in which to see and shoot through. Plaster, blasted apart from gunfire, lay all over the room. The wounded off to the side were cared for by a militia nurse, her uniform of denim bloodstained, a rifle on the floor next to her. She turned a tired face towards Rafael, tucked a loose strand of black hair under her beret and smiled. Rafael nodded to her and smiled back.
He turned to Carlos. “Retrieve Jaime when you can and meet me at our usual place tomorrow at 4 p.m.”
Carlos turned towards the window, fired, looked over his shoulder and said, “We will be there… if we are alive.”
Rafael stooped down as bullets from the other side whizzed above him striking harmlessly into the wall. He crawled out of the classroom, stopping to look back at the nurse who was busy tending the wounded militiaman.
That night Rafael slept in a room his uncle found for him. The former tenant, a union official, would not be back. He died, along with others, coming out of a cinema from a purposely timed and aimed shell from rebel artillery.
Rafael’s apartment building was damaged with one side of the third floor exposed to the elements. His room was opposite and on the fourth floor. It was unheated like most of the rooms and buildings in Madrid. Rafael slept in his sheepskin coat with a blanket wrapped around him and tormented himself with thoughts of warm weather in Valencia and how he ended up in Madrid.
When he went into the office of the prime minister of the republic, he knew it was for another job.
Francisco Largo Caballero rose from his desk as Rafael walked in. Decorum was thrown away. Caballero was the prime minister and minister of war, but also the former head of the UGT, Rafael’s father and uncle’s union. He knew not only them but was at the funeral of Rafael’s father. The prime minister also knew Rafael’s history and how he avenged his father’s murder. It was because of this that Caballero brought Rafael into the Intelligence Division of the government after the revolt by the Army.
The short, stout 66-year-old prime minister looked weary and troubled after his escape from Madrid just before the rebel army made its attack. He got right to the point of this meeting with Rafael.
“Rafael, Sorry to pull you out of Barcelona. I have given you tough tasks before and I need to again. I want you to go to Madrid.”
“But comrade prime minister you just arrived from Madrid.”
Rafael knew the government ministers fleeing Madrid because of the fascist onslaught was not popular with not just Madrileños, but many in the republic.
“Yes, my son, I know. We had no choice but to come here. The fascists were ready to enter Madrid and capture the government. In order to continue the fight, we had to relocate. Thankfully, they have been held off for now. General Miaja and his junta in Madrid are competent and will continue with the fight. From our information the people and the new International Brigade not only held off the fascist army but have carried the fight to the enemy.”
“I understand, but what is the urgency that you need me to go?”
“The cabinet has received information of saboteurs and fascist agents in our midst. Specifically French fascists who have infiltrated groups of international fighters who crossed from France into Spain to help us save the republic.”
“So, why haven’t they been arrested?”
“We need you to take care of that Rafael, but quietly. They belong to a French organization called La Cagoule. The group performed assassinations, bombings, sabotage, and other violent activities, intended to cast suspicion on communists and add to political instability in France. They have been recruited to do the same thing here. And it is not just communists they want to destroy; it is all the organizations that make up our Republic. We suspect they have infiltrated government departments. Here are names and photographs of suspects from our contacts in France. It took some doing as well as money to get this information. Guard it closely.”
“Why are they called La Cagoule?” questioned Rafael.
“When they held their secret meetings they wore hoods or cowls. Don’t ask me why.”
Rafael looked hard at the prime minister.
“You surely do not want me to just arrest them?”
“No Rafael. Your mission is to eliminate them. These are dangerous times. We do not need it known that we have such enemies inside the government. It would shake morale and give our enemies ammunition against us. I will have my secretary draw up the proper documents, signed by me, that give you authorization to travel anywhere and to interview anyone, regardless of party or political faction. And yes, get your crew to help you. Good luck, Rafael, the republic is counting on you.”
“I won’t let you down, prime minister.”
Largo Caballero smiled.
“I know you will not, Rafael. That is why I sent for the Hunter. And Rafael, trust no one.”
Rene Boucher, lean and wiry, climbed the rickety stairs of the ramshackle apartment building that was his temporary home in Madrid’s Lavapies district. The twenty-eight-year-old Frenchman had come to Spain in early August with volunteers from around the world eager to fight the fascist uprising on behalf of the workers and the communist party. Rene, fluent in Spanish and with forged recommendations from party officials in regards his earlier military experience in the French army quickly was granted a position in the supply organization of the republic.
Boucher was sent from the government headquarters in Albacete to work as the quartermaster in the department distributing weapons and ammunition to the militia defenders of Madrid. He looked forward to his new position not because he wanted to help the republic defeat the rebels, but to do the contrary. Unbeknown to those he reported to in Spain, Boucher was not a communist, he was not a supporter of the republic. He was in fact a French fascist and one of a hundred La Cagoule that infiltrated all levels of the republic. His fellow La Cagoule, Henri Dupre, who had become quartermaster of the supply department in Albacete had already inflicted damage by sabotaging rifles and machine guns with grit as well as sending the wrong ammunition to the republic’s fighters as they battled the rebel army. Now Rene awaited his turn as Dupre sent him to Madrid.
Rafael entered Emiliano’s Bar in the Barrio de las Letras to await his three friends. The bar had seen better days. The front door had been blown in by a nearby bomb and crudely put back in place. The front window glass, no longer there, was replaced by wood planks. A bar patron guarded the planks so they would not be stolen for firewood. Oil lamps lit the interior. A small potbelly stove with its diminishing supply of coal struggled to add warmth to the bar. Rafael bought a pitcher of red wine and sat at a table in the corner. He positioned three other glasses around the table.
At 3:50 p.m. a figure stood in the doorway, looked around and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness broke out in a big smile. He was short and rugged. Black hair and piecing green eyes set off his dark face. His clothes were grimy from the fighting. A red sash wrapped around his corduroy jacket, and a long knife, ominous and deadly, hung down from his belt. He sported a militiaman’s cap and red UGT armband. At 25 years old, Jorge Amaya, felt he had been at war his whole life and as a Gitano or gypsy, a derided part of Spain’s people, he had been.
He strode across the bar to where Rafael sat.
“Brother! It is good to see you and that you too live.”
Rafael stood and embraced his friend.
“Good to see you as well, Jorge. Sit. We have friends coming.”
No sooner had he said that then Jaime Ruiz and Carlos Ortega entered the bar.
They both had their rifles strapped to their backs, UGT armbands and militia hats on but that was the end of any similarity. Jaime was tall and lanky while Carlos was short and pudgy. Jaime was known to be sullen and more so since his brother died in the fighting. Carlos on the other hand was boisterous and outgoing.
Carlos yelled over to Rafael and Jorge.
“Here are two scoundrels, hiding in Emiliano’s as we brave fighters kill the fascists for them.”
He laughed as they walked over to the table.
“Sorry about your brother, Jaime,” said Rafael.
“It is the nature of war, is it not, Rafael? He may be gone but I am alive to avenge him,” Jaime said morosely.
Outside on the street a motorcycle roared by siren shrieking.
A frantic militiaman ran into the bar. “The planes are coming!”
Emiliano yelled for patrons to go to the cellar.
Most did. The four friends did not.
“We have stared death down many times before have we not,” said Rafael defiantly. “I for one want to see what they have in store for us today.”
They went outside and stared up at the sky. Around them people ran for shelter. Air raid sirens wailed as German and Italian planes came over Madrid. Anti-aircraft guns chattered from the tops of buildings.
“I may be brave, but I have my limit,” said an apprehensive Carlos.
“You might die tomorrow, so a day early is no difference,” said Jaime.
Jorge pulled out his knife and waved it at the sky.
“Come down here and fight man to man, you bastards of the sky,” he yelled.
Rafael chuckled. He had his crew back.
His levity was short lived.
Blocks away explosions, flames and destruction crept towards them. He saw people in panic, running into each other unsure of where to go. A mother dragged her child who could not keep up in their mad dash to shelter. Some stood in place as if surmising one spot was as good as another, if death wants you, it will find you.
“This is not a good idea, Rafael,” said Carlos.
A bomb blasted a building a block away. Large chunks of concrete and wood sailed towards the four men. Instinctively they eased back into the bar as the planes dropped more death from above.
The ground shook and the air filled with thick dust, choking them. Glass shattered and fell to the street from the tall buildings. The noise was deafening. A man staggered towards the door, white as a ghost from the dust and loss of blood. He fell at Rafael’s feet, his body shredded, an arm missing and pulsing blood. Rafael reached down to offer aid, but it was too late. With one last gasp and questioning eyes the man died.
Around them it was mayhem. Sirens and screams filled the afternoon air. The drone of the planes faded as they moved away from the killing field. The Madrid skyline was shrouded in black smoke as fires broke out. Soot trickled down buildings in the rain like tears on dirt streaked faces of sorrow.
Rafael stepped out of Emiliano’s to a shattered city and carnage. The fascist rebels were intent on destroying Madrid block by block, except for the well-off districts of their supporters, if the people did not surrender.
Off to the side a young child was crying. His mother who had shielded him from the destruction lay dead next to him. The boy tugged at her lifeless arm. He could not understand why she didn’t reach out to him.
Rafael knelt to him, spoke in a calm voice and brushed debris from his hair. “Come, little one, we will find someone to help you and your mother.”
“Here, comrade, give the child to me,” said a voice behind him.
It was the militia nurse he had seen at the university.
Rafael handed her the child and looked up at the sky, now free of bombers.
“What kind of people rain down destruction on innocent civilians?”
“The kind that want to eliminate us or enslave us. I think we are seeing the future of war,” she said.
The rest of Rafael’s crew came out of the bar. They had seen this before. It was not their first bombing.
Carlos called out, “Hola, Carmen!”
“Hola, Carlos,” she said while soothing the frightened child.
“Oh, little one,” said Carlos, as he spotted the mother on the sidewalk. He wiped away a tear. “The comrade nurse will take care of you.”
“I must take this child to the aid station and see to having someone retrieve his mother. I believe we will have another busy day after what those barbarians did to our city. Until later, Carlos.” She started to leave, turned, and said, “you as well, Rafael.”
“How does she know my name, Carlos?”
Carlos smiled. “She asked me at the university after you left.”
Rafael and his crew helped aid workers tend to the wounded and load bodies onto horse drawn carts and lorries. After two hours, with that gruesome task completed, he and his crew went back into Emiliano’s.
Emiliano swept rubble out the front door.
“Damn fascists,” he said as Rafael and the crew went back to their table.
Emiliano went inside and brought over a jug of red wine to Rafael.
“On the house, boys. I saw you helping people.” He raised his cup. “To the republic!”
“Salud,” they said somberly, their carefree banter from before the bombs fell now vanished.
“You know, Rafael, Emiliano is a surviving member of the Red Lions?”
Rafael gave Emiliano a questioning look.
“It is not much, Rafael. When the republic calls one must answer.”
“You are a modest man, Emiliano. Here is what happened, Rafael. The Red Lions are a militia of waiters and bartenders. They met at the Plaza de España to await weapons for the defense of the city. Of course, there were none to be had, but none the less they were sent to the French Bridge to keep the fascists from crossing the river. When they got there, they were told to grab rifles from the dead.”
“Yes, Rafael, that is what we did. I shot soldiers out of the trees like I was hunting birds.”
Carlos laughed.
“More than that Emiliano. You and your comrades helped keep them from entering the city.”
They all congratulated Emiliano in chants of Salud.
Rafael knocked his fist on the table to get everyone’s attention.
“Emiliano, if you please, what I have to say is confidential,” said Rafael.
Emiliano took the hint and went back behind the bar.
“Why are we all here, Rafael? Why the crew?” said Jorge.
Rafael gave them the rundown on La Cagoule.
“How will we find these bastards?” asked Jaime.
“Leave that up to me. I am authorized to pull you off the battle line. For now, you will stay at the UGT headquarters. When I am ready, and it won’t be long, I will gather you.”
The street was lined with people when the anarchist leader Buenaventura Durruti led his column of three thousand fighters and armored vehicles down Madrid’s Calle Alcala in mid-November. He had been implored to leave the anarchist stronghold in Aragon by the government to help the besieged city. They arrived tired and hungry but immediately went into the fight at the University. In the few days he was in Madrid his troops attacked and were repelled. Durruti was livid. He could not stand humiliation by the communists in the government who said his fighters were not only undisciplined but cowards. Durruti knew that was not true. Hundreds of his fighters had already died. Today he would go to the front at the University and encourage his troops to fight harder even though they had been on the line without sleep and adequate food for days. He could not order them, that was not anarchist way. He had his driver take him to Moncloa Plaza near the University. It was there he saw three anarchist fighters walking away from the front. His car stopped and Durruti got out and asked where they were going. Satisfied that they were not deserting he went to get back into his car. He jerked, held his side, and collapsed. His driver put him into the car and sped away.
Rene Boucher, outfitted like a communist militiaman, sat near an open window in a small, deserted house on the Moncloa Plaza. His recently fired rifle rested on the windowsill. He watched Durruti’s car speed away. Boucher smiled, strapped his rifle to his back and left.
Later that night, before curfew, he shed his communist party pin and uniform, put on a well-worn black suit and overcoat, and walked to the neighborhood of Salamanca where many foreign embassies were located and the well-off who supported Franco. Because of this the district had escaped the bombs that devastated working class districts of Madrid.
He arrived at a grand house, went around the back, and knocked. A man came to the door with an oil lamp and escorted him in. They went to a large room, filled with heavy plush furniture, bookcases and a well-stocked fireplace. Shutters closed tight to keep light from going out and eyes peering in. The house had enough wood and coal for heat unlike the poorer neighborhoods. Boucher greeted those in the room; fifth columnists and members of the Spanish fascist organization, the Falange. Their number had dwindled substantially since the reprisals from republican forces after the coup began. Many had been rounded up and executed. Others escaped to the rebel held lines.
“What news of Durruti,” asked Boucher.
A distinguished man in a grey suit, known as the Senor, spoke first.
“His men took him to the anarchist hospital in the Hotel Ritz. They say the wound is mortal. Excellent work, Boucher. He was more dangerous than the communists with his Anarchist revolution.”
“It was not easy. I was fortunate our sources knew where he would be. I barely made it there.”
“What now?” asked another.
“We blame the communists of course.” said Boucher. “The anarchists and communists hate each other. We start a whisper campaign in the bars and neighborhoods saying the communists killed Durruti. This will spark open warfare between them. Durruti’s death serves us overall. Let them kill each other off.”
“You should know Boucher that Caballero has sent the Hunter to Madrid.”
“How do you know, Gomez?”
“He arrived at my headquarters last week. I checked his papers. They were signed by the prime minister and gave him full access to all areas of Madrid. In the morning I escorted him to Colonel Garcia.”
“So, Rafael Delgado is here. Keep us informed Gomez. See if you can find out why he is in Madrid. If the reds find you are not one of them come here immediately. Franco should be liberating us soon and we can be rid of Delgado and the rest of the Popular Front scum,” said the Senor. He chuckled. “Be sure to shoot your colonel before you leave.”
The next day Rafael went to the UGT headquarters to see his uncle and tell him his crew was going to stay there for a while. The rain was torrential, and a bitter wind blew down from the north. As he arrived, wet and cold, he noticed people were somber and the conversations were subdued. He walked into his uncle’s office.
“Hola, Rafael,” his uncle said dejectedly. “Have you heard the news? Durruti is dead.”
“What!”
“The rumor mill says his own men killed him for getting too close to the communists and others say the communists did it because he was a threat to their leadership. I do not believe the anarchists did it and I do not believe the communists did it. They are not that stupid. He was too popular with the people. The anarchist would kill all the communists if it were true.”
“Then it had to be a fascist.”
“Not at that location, Rafael. It was an area under our control. The communists have openly stated it was not them. This time I believe them. I suspect someone is trying to drive a wedge between all of us.”
Rafael thought, could it be La Cagoule?
“Uncle, you know the leadership in Madrid. Are there many foreigners in critical positions?”
“There are. Why?”
“Get me a list as soon as you can.”
Juan looked at Rafael.
“It is like that is it? I will help you all I can, nephew.”
Rafael went to the room where his crew camped. They were sharing the latest news and rumors of Durruti’s death.
The discussion was lively.
“It had to be the communists,” said Jorge.
“Man, you are crazy. Why would they risk open warfare with the anarchists? Durruti brought three thousand fighters with him. Do you think they would let any communist live after that?” questioned Carlos.
Jaime just hung his head. He had fought alongside the anarchists at the university. He did not agree with all their politics, but he liked them, and they were brave fighters. “There are those who say one of his own men did it. This is bad brothers. We are eating our own.”
“This my opinion,” said Rafael. “I do not believe it was the communists or Durruti’s own men that did it. I believe it was a fascist, but not a Spanish one. One that can hide among us in plain sight.”
He looked around at his crew. They realized what he was saying.
“But Rafael, how do you know? What proof do you have?” said Jorge.
“None now but I will find out. But we must move fast before Madrid is destroyed.”
The next day Rafael’s Uncle Juan gave him a list of foreigners in government positions. Rafael sat down and went through it looking for any from France. There was just one and he was in the supply department in charge of getting munitions to the front. He underlined the name Rene Boucher. Rafael compared it with the photos the prime minister had given him.
“Thank you, Uncle. This is what I was looking for.”
“Can you tell me what this is all about, nephew?”
Rafael frowned.
“Not now and maybe not ever.”
Rafael went to the room where his crew had camped.
“We are moving to my apartment. We leave now.”
Once at the apartment Rafael told them who they would be watching and seeking proof of involvement with La Cagoule and the fifth column of traitors to the republic.
“Rene Boucher works in the supply department at the Ministry of War assigning munitions to the militias and the International Brigade. If I am right and the rumors are true of sabotage of weapons and wrong ammunition supplied our fighters, then he might be our man.”
“How will we get this proof,” said Carlos.
“One of you will work in the supply department. Do I have a volunteer?”
“I will do it,” said Jaime.
Rafael nodded to him and turned to Carlos and Jorge.
“We three will watch his movements. We need to find out where he lives, who he meets, when he leaves and where he goes.”
Jaime had been at work in the supply department for a week, thanks to Rafael’s uncle, who vouched for him as a loyal union member of the UGT and a recovering wounded veteran of the fight at the University. Jaime wasn’t wounded but it was his cover story. He was assigned to work with Rene Boucher.
“You go on and leave comrade, I will finish up here,” said Boucher.
“Are you sure?” said Jaime. “I am not tired, and my wounds have healed.”
“You can go,” said Rene tersely.
“As you wish, comrade.”
Rene Boucher watched as Jaime left. He was wary of this newcomer.
After an hour, Jaime, who had been waiting in an alley across the street from the War Ministry, watched as Boucher left the building. Along the street, also watchful were Jorge, Carlos and Rafael. They each took turns shadowing Boucher all the way to his dwelling in the Lavapies district.
Jaime stayed behind, went back inside the building and to the supply department. He scanned the orders for supplies to be sent to the front. As a militiaman he realized there was something wrong. The ammunition did not match the rifles that were to be sent to the fighters. This can’t be a simple mistake, he thought. He grabbed the order and stuffed it in his pocket. He knew this was the evidence Rafael needed.
Meanwhile Rafael and the rest of his crew met back at his apartment to wait for Jaime.
It was just before curfew when Jaime arrived.
“I think I found what we are looking for. Promise me I won’t be shot for this, Rafael.” Jaime’s hands were shaking as he handed the orders to Rafael.
Rafael looked at the papers in horror.
“If these supplies were sent to the front our fighters would have tried to load their rifles with the wrong caliber of ammunition. They would have been effectively unarmed and at the mercy of the fascists. It would have been a suicide mission. You did well Jaime. You saved lives tonight. I will get word to the prime minister to call off the attack and tell him what we found.”
Early the next morning Rafael went to the UGT headquarters and to his uncle’s office. His uncle, as usual, slept on a cot in his office. He opened the door and was surprised to see Rafael.
“You look worried, nephew.”
“Are the phone lines to Valencia still in operation?”
“So far. Who do you need to call?”
“Prime Minister Caballero, uncle. It’s urgent.”
“Use my phone. Let me call the telephone exchange and stress the importance of the call.”
Rafael told the prime minister what they had uncovered and said it was just an initial finding and wasn’t sure it was definite proof of treason, but the offensive needed to be called off. Rafael emphasized that even if it wasn’t treason, the lack of proper ammunition would be disastrous. Prime Minister Caballero agreed to call off the attack and thanked Rafael and his crew for their service to the republic. The prime minster gave one final order to Rafael, if more proof is found, eliminate Rene Boucher.
The following day Jaime went to work at the supply department and found Boucher in a rage.
“What is wrong comrade,” said Jaime tentatively.
“I had orders and supplies ready for the attack at Jaen on my desk and they are missing. Someone will be shot for this! The republic must be defended!”
Jaime kept his thoughts to himself. He knew Boucher was no friend of the republic.
“You will help me draft new orders and supplies for this attack comrade,” he said to Jaime.
It was then that Boucher’s phone rang.
“Salud! This is Rene Boucher,” he said into the mouthpiece.
“Yes, I understand,” he said dejectedly.
He hung up the phone and addressed Jaime.
“Never mind about the new orders. The attack has been called off.”
“As you wish comrade Boucher.”
With that Jaime left Boucher’s office.
But Boucher was suspicious. His orders with the wrong ammunition missing? Attack cancelled? He watched Jaime walk down the hall. Was he working for Rafael Delgado? He would check with the sentries to see if anyone came in after he left last night.
At the end of the day Jaime left the supply office and met the crew at Emiliano’s. As the crew sat eating lentils and pea soup, he told them of Boucher’s rage and the phone call that the attack was called off.
“That was close, Rafael,” said Carlos. “Many good fighters would have died because of that fascist puta.”
Jorge stroked his knife “When do will kill him, Rafael?”
“Soon brothers. We need to see where the other snakes live. Then we strike.”
“Do you want me to keep working at the supply department?”
“Yes, Jaime, for a short time so you don’t call attention to yourself.”
The next day Jaime went to work as usual. It was a mundane morning with innocuous supplies sent to fighters in areas around Madrid. Nothing that Jaime in a casual way could see was a problem.
“Anything amiss, comrade?”
Boucher had come up behind Jaime.
“No, comrade Boucher, making sure these go out on time.”
“Good. Back to your duties, comrade. Thank you for your diligence.”
Boucher had talked to the sentries earlier and found that Jaime had come back to the office after he had left for the night.
In the afternoon Rene Boucher had one last set of orders for the day. Ammunition and supplies to be sent to the front-line troops for a new offensive at Jaen.
He would meet later with his fifth column members and let them know of the new attack so they could warn General Franco. And to add to a fascist victory, Boucher would send the wrong ammunition and one of his contacts in the warehouse would sabotage the rifles with grit. Boucher was not going to let a setback like the one Jaime caused happen again.
At 7 p.m. Boucher called over to Jaime.
“Let’s call it a night, comrade.”
Jaime got up to leave.
“I will walk with you, comrade,” said Boucher.
Together they walked out of the building and into a bustling crowd eager to finish their day before the planes rained death.
Watching them at a distance was the crew.
“Let us go down this way, comrade. I know a tavern that still has some food and wine,” said Boucher.
He took Jaime down a dead-end alley.
“There is no way out of here,” said Jaime suddenly.
Boucher moved behind Jaime. “No there isn’t.”
He grabbed Jaime’s head, pulled it back and slit his throat.
Further up the street Carlos walked quickly to Rafael.
“That is a dead-end street and they have not come out.”
Jorge joined them and saw the worry on their faces. Just then they saw Boucher walk out, alone.
“Jorge, you follow Boucher. Carlos and I will see where Jaime is.”
Rafael and Carlos ran to the alley. In the closed in gloom, they spotted a streak of blood. Towards the back they found Jaime’s body slumped against a brick wall. Blood had gushed down his chest.
Rafael sighed deeply.
Carlos sobbed and let forth a stream of profanity.
“Now we kill Boucher?”
“Soon, Carlos, soon.
Rafael went out to the street and hailed a militia guard. He showed the guard his papers and told them that Jaime was murdered. The guard shrugged. “There are murders every day, on the street from fascist snipers, from the air… ”
“You saw my papers. I work for the prime minister. I expect our dead comrade to be treated with the respect a fighter for the republic deserves,” Rafael snapped.
The guard stood to attention.
“Yes, comrade major. We will take care of it.” He called over to another guard with orders to have the body of Jaime moved to a temporary and overflowing morgue.
Jorge had returned as Rafael and Carlos left the alley.
“Where is Jaime?”
“With his brother.”
A look of anguish erupted in Jorge’s eyes. “Now both dead at the hands of the fascists.”
“What now, Rafael?” said Carlos.
“First, we go to my uncle’s office. Then wait near Boucher’s building. I feel he will come out tonight. He must report to his compatriots. Tonight, we wipe out this nest of snakes.”
There was a gleam in Jorge’s dark eyes. He stroked his knife expectedly.
At 7 p.m. Boucher dressed in a plain black coat, white cotton shirt with black pants. Gone was his working-class mono dungaree, the hammer and sickle pin and red armband. Where he was headed, he did not want to be mistaken for a communist and shot by mistake from a balcony by a fellow fifth columnist. He also carried a safe conduct pass and knew the password for the night. All with the help of the unsuspecting officials in the Madrid directorate.
Rafael also had the passwords and safe conduct passes thanks to the help of the prime minister. He gave these to Carlos and Jorge. He also gave them Astra pistols and ammunition he acquired from his uncle at the UGT building.
“It will be a dangerous night. Are you ready?”
“Have we never been?” said Carlos as he loaded the two pistols he had.
They took up positions close to Boucher’s building. Carlos and Rafael sat at a table in front of a café while Jorge walked the street in a continuous circle. All hoped Boucher would not notice them among the throng of people on the streets.
Boucher came out of his building and walked towards the Salamanca district.
“Rafael is that Boucher?”
“Yes, Jorge. The snake has shed his skin. Now he fits in with his masters. Let us go. The dusk should help conceal us but let us spread out among people to be sure.”
Boucher scanned his surroundings. He thought he saw something suspicious but wasn’t sure. He had to get to his destination with his information. Boucher stepped up his pace jostling pedestrians too slow to move out of his way.
When he rounded a corner of Calle de Fernando el Santo near the boundary of the Salamanca district, he spotted Lieutenant Gomez who had left his republican army uniform behind and was also wearing civilian clothes.
“Boucher, the Senor told me you had requested an emergency meeting. What gives?”
“I will tell you all when we arrive at the house of the Senor. Let us move quickly.”
Boucher looked behind him, thought he saw movement in the shadows and stepped up his pace with Gomez on his tail.
They went around to the back of the darkened house of the Senor, like they had done so many times before. The conspirators against the republic worked well in the dark. A tall dark man, a known leader of the fascist organization the Falange let them in. He had been in hiding at the house for months, waiting for the victory of the nationalist rebel army. It was his only hope for freedom, but that hope had dimmed as the militia of the republic and their international brigade had stymied Franco’s troops from capturing Madrid.
The Senor was waiting in his book lined study. A warm fire was prepared for his guests and the dark curtains drawn.
Rafael and what was left of his crew watched Boucher enter the house with someone else.
“He is not alone, and we don’t know how many are inside,” said Rafael. “The windows are darkened. But that man with him looks familiar.”
A droning above them caused all three to look up. Searchlights came on and the sound of anti-aircraft guns filled the night air. In seconds the bombs descended and shattered streets, buildings and people in the Carabanchel district. The Salamanca district with its foreign embassies and wealthy supporters of the Rebels was again left unmolested.
“This time we are not under the bombs,” said Jorge as he watched fires break out among the tenements of the district.
Even though they were not under the bombing the noise was deafening. They used the distraction of the noise to break a cellar window and crawl in. The house was large so they had to move about before they found a location where they could hear voices.
“Well, Boucher, what is so important?”
“My apologies for this hurried meeting, Senor, but there has been a development.”
“Go on.”
“There appears to have been a republican spy working in my department. I believe he stole a supply requisition for an offensive. If he knew his business, he would have realized the ammunition was the wrong caliber for the rifles being sent to the front. The offensive was cancelled. I believe he notified the government.”
“So, he is on to you.”
“Yes, but he has been eliminated.”
“Is there anyone to take your place?”
“Not here, Senor. Dupre is still in Albacete working in the main supply department under that communist fool Marty. But I feel my usefulness here in Madrid is finished. I wish safe passage to our lines.”
“We could have Gomez escort you through the city to the Casa de Campo lines in the morning once he is back in uniform. No one will stop a republican officer and once there you can cross over. I will send word that you will be arriving so our friends can arrange a smooth passage over. All right with you, Gomez?
“Yes, Senor. Should I leave as well?”
“No, you are still useful, so far.”
Rafael whispered to Jorge and Carlos.
“Now I recognize him. He was the lieutenant that saw my papers when I first entered Madrid. Treason runs deep in Madrid.”
The voices in the house continued.
A husky voice addressed Boucher.
“I hope you took precautions on the way here. If you have been exposed someone might have followed you and Gomez.”
“I was vigilant, Salvador. I believe we are safe.”
“Salvador, please check the house and outside,”
“Yes, Senor.”
The crew heard footsteps walking around, coming close to the cellar door.
The crew stealthily crept up the cellar stairs.
“We must act quickly, brothers. When he opens the door rush him. Jorge, use your knife.”
“With pleasure, Rafael.” The gleam in his eyes said it would be.
The cellar door handle jiggled and turned. The door opened and light from the first floor shone onto the cellar stairs. The tall dark-haired man’s eyes registered surprise then alarm. He reached for a gun that was in his shoulder holster. Jorge moved quickly. The tall man was dead before he hit the floor. The crew rushed down a hallway, guns drawn to a large room where three men stared back at them. An even fight thought Rafael.
Rafael shouted, “In the name of the Republic… “
Boucher and Gomez both drew pistols from inside their jackets and opened fire at the crew. The crew fired back. Deafening sounds and the smell of cordite filled the room. Jorge took a bullet in his shoulder and slumped to the floor, while other bullets whistled past Rafael and Carlos. A bullet pierced the chest of Lieutenant Gomez, dropping him. The Senor ran towards the back of the house as Boucher dove through a window, landed in bushes and made his way from the house.
“Carlos, you take down the hombre trying to leave. I am going after Boucher. When you are done treat Jorge and meet at my dwelling,”
Rafael crawled through the broken window. He saw a pool of blood on the grass. Someone had found their mark.
Boucher’s left arm dangled along his side, useless with bullet shattered bones. His gun hand still functioned though. He made his way towards Lavapies and his apartment. He needed to get there, pick up some documents and treat his wound. He hoped the Hunter did not know where he lived. He plodded onward, blood dripping next to him. It was slow going.
The streets were deserted. The air raid and curfew forced people inside or in the subways for shelter. While Boucher struggled, Rafael moved.
Boucher had to rest. His vision blurred. He headed south down Calle de Serrano towards Lavapies. He found a spot near the Puerta de Alcala and sat down. He stared at the ancient neo-classical stone structure. He always admired its beauty and thought it was tarnished by being in this city of “reds”. That will be rectified soon he mused.
He heard the crunching of broken glass and instinctively raised his good arm, pistol at the ready. Rafael came out of the gloom. Boucher fired and missed. Rafael fired back and struck Boucher’s right shoulder. He grimaced in pain.
Rafael stepped in front of Boucher, gun level and steady.
“Ah, the Hunter. Have you come to arrest me, Rafael?”
“No.”
“Like that is it? You do know your vile republic is doomed. Too many forces against it. My side is united while yours is just waiting to kill each other off. You may eliminate me but there are more La Cagoule here than even you know.” Boucher emitted a wheezy laugh. “You know Rafael, when I sliced your comrade, he...”
Rafael could listen no more. A single shot from the Astra 400 echoed among shattered buildings.
Three days later Rafael was in his uncle’s office at UGT headquarters when Carlos and Jorge walked in. He had just hung up the phone.
“How is the shoulder, Jorge?”
“Fine, Rafael. It will be a while before I can hold a rifle though.”
“So, nephew can you now tell me about your mission?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t leave this room, understood? All of you?”
They all agreed.
Rafael told his uncle the story.
“When Rafael went through the window, he gave me one last order to grab that rich guy trying to escape. He is still in his fine house with Gomez. They will not be going anywhere,” said Carlos.
“And Boucher the Cagoule?” asked the uncle.
“The official story is he was shot by a fascist sniper,” said Rafael.
“Convenient,” exclaimed Jorge.
“But there is more, and not good. I just got off the phone with the prime minister. I told him two days ago that we accomplished the mission but that there was another La Cagoule, this one in Albacete. We heard Boucher’s conversation in the cellar. Henri Dupre works in the main supply depot under the French communist Andre Marty, who also is the political commissar of the International Brigades. He sees fifth columnists everywhere except under his very nose. The idiot.”
“So, what is to be done, Rafael?” said Jorge.
“Done? Nothing! Marty was told he had a spy and saboteur in his midst, but he didn’t believe it and refused to do anything. Trust me brothers, bad things will come of this inaction.”
Rafael waited at Emiliano’s for Carlos and Jorge. It was time to say goodbye, at least for a while. It was 5 p.m. when they showed up with a surprise. Carmen was with them.
They all sat at a table as Emiliano brought over a jug of red wine. Food was scarce but Emiliano did his best to feed the heroes of the republic. A steaming pot of beans, lentils and rice graced their table.
They all thanked Emiliano profusely knowing that he might have gone without food himself just to feed them.
Emiliano shared some good news. The nationalist rebels had been stopped at the edges of the city and were withdrawing. Unfortunately, they all knew the planes would continue bombing Madrid.
“What now, Rafael?” asked Carlos.
“Uncle Juan received a telegram from the prime minister. I must report back for a new mission.”
Carmen rested her hand on Rafael’s arm.
“Surely not right away?”
He smiled at her. “I have three days before I must leave. Any suggestions on how to spend my time.”
“Oh, maybe a few,” she said.
The night carried on, the friends talked about the days before the war and the people they missed. Curfew was approaching and the mass of Madrid was hastening to their safe places, be it a home, if they still had one, temporary shelter underground in the subway or among the shattered remnants of a building. Thanks to the Hunter a few of the republic’s enemies would no longer threaten the city. But the bombs would continue to drop, artillery would find their mark and the fifth column would bide their time.
“If you need us again Rafael, Juan will know how to find us. And if it is not to be… “
“Enough of that Carlos,” said Jorge. “Rafael will certainly need us. The Hunter needs his pack, right Rafael?”
Just then the air raid sirens wailed.
“Can’t they give us one night of peace?” said Carmen.
“Not until we wipe them off the face of the earth,” said Rafael somberly.
“Into the cellar,” yelled Emiliano to the small crowd in the bar. While many made their way underground, Rafael and the rest remained at their table. They would be defiant until the end.
At the Ministry of War, a diligent and loyal worker in the supply department noticed the pending order of supplies authorized by Quartermaster Rene Boucher. He had heard that comrade Boucher had been shot by a fascist sniper. It had happened before, so he thought nothing of it. He wondered what happened to the comrade who was on temporary leave and was helping Boucher in his tasks. Maybe another casualty of the bombs or sent back to the front. He knew the soldiers of the republic needed supplies, so he forwarded the order to the warehouse to be filled and sent on. The order would, according to Boucher’s instructions and with the help of another member of La Cagoule at the warehouse, be filled with the wrong ammunition, machine gun belts without ammunition and grit in the guns. Even in death Boucher’s sabotage went forward. The diligent worker, satisfied that he had done his part for the war, turned off the lights and went out into the night confident the republic would be victorious.
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
COMMENTS (1)