Blood on the Streets

© 2023 Charles Alan Green. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/16/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8272-3 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8271-6 (e)

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Cover Image Credit: Agusti Centelles

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1 The Elections

Chapter 2 The Breakfast

Chapter 3 The trials

Chapter 4 The Plot

Chapter 5 Promotion

Chapter 6 The Trip

Chapter 7 The Dragon

Chapter 8 Barcelona

Chapter 9 And so, it begins

Chapter 10 The Germans

Chapter 11 The Rebellion

Chapter 12 The Uruguay

Chapter 13 Tetuan

Chapter 14 The Battle for Barcelona

Chapter 15 The day after the day before

Chapter 16 The Aviator

Chapter 17 Bloody Shambles

Chapter 18 Aid for Franco

Chapter 19 Durruti

Chapter 20 The General

Chapter 21 The Radio Broadcast

Chapter 22 The Final bullet

Chapter 23 The Long Goodbye

Chapter 24 The Mouth of Hell

Chapter 25 The News is Always Bad

Chapter 26 The Assault

Chapter 27 Assistance from Hitler

Chapter 28 The Airlift

Chapter 29 The Montjuïc

Chapter 30 Gunnery Training

Chapter 31 Mola’s War

Chapter 32 The Aragon Front

Chapter 33 El Caudillo

Chapter 34 Trench Raid

Chapter 35 Onto Madrid

Chapter 36 Fight for the Library

Epilogue

Historical Notes

Anarquista

The Agony & Tragedy of the

Spanish Civil War.

Dedicated to the brave men and women of Spain,

who fought and died for their beliefs.

Felicia Browne –: the first Briton to be

killed in the Spanish Civil War.

Felicia Browne 1904–1936.

Photograph: Joe Humphrys/Oli Cowling/Tate Photography

MAP OF SPAIN SEPTEMBER 1936.

Nationalist Controlled Areas = 45989.jpg

Republican Controlled Areas = 45991.jpg

Publicity Poster for the Peoples Olympiad

Map of the University City in Madrid

Preface

If you are ever fortunate enough to be spending your time, for either work or on a vacation, in the glorious l country of Spain, relaxing on one of the many wondrous beaches that line the magnificent coast of this beautiful country. Or maybe sat sipping a glass of the local sangria in a quaint taberna, enjoying a dish of the native paella, or visiting one of the many historical and delightful cities she has to offer, or just simply appreciating the peace and quiet of the countryside. It’s worth remembering as you lie back on your sun lounger or take a stroll around one of the many quaint sedate plazas, that Spain wasn’t always such a peaceful and friendly country. In the mid-1930s a savage and brutal civil war broke out, which bathed the country in blood, hostility and hatred, as Spaniard fought Spaniard, and death stalked the street and became a common episode in the experience of the heroic people of Spain.

It is now well over eighty years since those epic, traumatic, and tragic events took place, that eventually and almost inevitably, led to the start of what was to become known as the Spanish Civil War. Most of the combatants and people who lived through this dreadful period of Spanish history have now passed on, and the war is fast passing into the pages of history, rather than living memory. The rebellion in 1936, instigated by the Spanish Armed Forces, and assisted by members of the political right wing, against the recently elected Left Wing Republican Government, ultimately led to the bloody and extended War, which came about when the Military Coup failed to obtain its original objectives in several key regions, and most of the major Spanish Cities.

The origins of the war lie way back in the countries colourful and eventful history. It had been firmly established in the nations psyche that political problems could be resolved by the use of force rather than by debate and diplomacy. The Civil War, which broke out on the back of this failed diplomacy, in July of 1936 was, although by far the most serious, the fourth such conflict since the 1830s. The events that led directly to this particular conflict went back to the early 1930s, when King Alfonso XIII abdicated, and the Second Republic, to the great delight of the masses, was joyfully proclaimed, on the 14th April 1931.

The abdication of the King and the resulting Republic had followed nearly a decade or so of Military Dictatorship under the auspices of General Miguel Primo de Rivera. This had begun on the 23rd September 1923 after he had led, with the King’s consent, a successful but bloodless coup. The period of Dictatorship under Primo de Rivera became regarded during the later years of the Republic as a sort of Golden Age by the Spanish middle classes and was looked back on with a certain amount of nostalgia and longing by the diverse reactionary forces on the right.

Despite this colourful if somewhat tainted reflection of his governorship, Primo de Rivera failed to construct a lasting political replacement for the decrepit constitutional monarchy. A genial eccentric, de Rivera governed by a form of personal improvisation, which ensured that he would solely shoulder all the responsibility for his regime’s blunders, misgivings and ills. He eventually resigned at the end January 1930 by which time he had managed to offend, in one way or another, virtually every section of Spanish society.

After the fall of the dictatorship of Primo de Rivera, the King turned in desperation to yet another General, this time General Dámasco Berenguer whose mild form of dictatorship foundered in search of a formula for a return to some kind of Constitutional Monarchy. His regime also suffered, throughout its short tenure, from being constantly undermined by several republican plots. Berenguer and his government, under economical and political pressure from home and abroad, eventually was forced into holding municipal elections on the 12th April 1931 in which the Republicans and Socialists swept the board in all the major towns and cities, whilst the Monarchists only won seats in several of the rural areas. These results meant that it was somehow inevitable that the King would have to abdicate before he was either forced to resign, or was over thrown, and once the King had gone the Second Republic was then proclaimed to the great acclaim of the people, with mass celebrations up and down the length and breadth of the country.

Within weeks of the new Republic being formed, however, it became obvious that the erstwhile supporters of the monarchy and right-wing fundamentalists, as well as the revolutionary elements within the Anarchists movement, for diverse reasons were not going to co-exist with the new regime. This meant that throughout the country there was anything but goodwill towards the new government, which led almost inevitably to a failed coup on the 10th August 1932. This coup was organised and led by General Sanjurjo who, at the time, was head of the Spanish paramilitary styled Civil Guard. The rising was somewhat of an ad-hoc affair, being organised and instigated at the last minute, so when the left wing called a General Strike and organised resistance against the coup it inevitably collapsed. In the aftermath of the coup Sanjurjo was tried for treason, and was, at first, sentenced to death, which was later commuted to life imprisonment. He was finally released and sent off into exile, which he served in relative luxury in Portugal, on the beautiful Algarve Coast.

In the general elections that followed on from the events of November 1933 the Left was completely divided and failed to fight any form of co-ordinated campaign, the Anarchists in particular making it as difficult as possible for the socialists to fight a fully structured campaign against the Right. All of this bickering and infighting amongst the Left Wing political parties enabled the Right to gain the upper hand, and sweep into power with a determination to avenge the perceived injustices and indignities, which they believed had been forced upon them under the first republican government (Constituent Cortes). The workers and peasants, for their part, had also been driven to despair by the Cortes, because they considered that the reforms and legislation, which had been brought in were inadequate to sufficiently change their lot, plus they were far too slow in being passed into law. Therefore, a new government which was hell bent on destroying and reversing the meagre reforms, which they had gained was a recipe for disobedience.

That first major confrontation with the new regime duly arrived, when the Anarchists called for an uprising on the 8th December 1933, however the government had been forewarned of this attempt, and a state of emergency was announced, which quickly stopped the uprising in its tracks. Discontent, strikes, occasional street fighting and demonstrations, however, continued for the next few months. Then on the 4th October 1934 the miners’ in Asturias, a province in the Northwest of Spain, went on a strike. The strike soon developed into an armed insurrection against the government, with other left-wing elements only too willing to join the struggle. The government responded quickly, once again, this time calling in the Army, they even brought over elements of the Army of Africa, which being led by a certain General Francisco Franco crushed the rebellion with brutal efficiency.

Eventually, a new set of elections were called in February 1936, this time the Left had learnt the lessons of November 1933 and combined to form a single party known as the ‘Popular Front’, even the Anarchists gave tacit support to the party. The Right was defeated and a new left-wing coalition government was formed. Try as they might to sweeten the pill for the Right it was now becoming obvious that a violent resolution would be the inevitably outcome of all Spain’s ills; the two parties where just too far apart and too intransigent in their views, to form any kind of understanding or co-existence.

This then, was the state of affairs in Spain on the evening of the 16th July 1936. It was, to a certain extent, almost inevitable that conflict and confrontation was to be the outcome of all these diverse differences between the two parties. There had also, over the previous few months, been a string of political murders and atrocities carried out by both sides. These dreadful events culminated in the abduction and murder, by members of the police force in Madrid, of Calvo Sotelo, a prominent right-wing politician on the 13th July. Although the military coup had been planned and organised for weeks prior to the death of Sotelo, it was this event that, perhaps, more than any other helped to form the trigger or catalyst for the start of the rebellion. The military coup under the leadership of General Emilio Mola, was supposed to start in unison at 5am on the 18th July and be virtually bloodless in the gaining of power. However, the elimination of members on the Left Wing and union leadership, plus the atrocities that went with this policy had always been planned as part of the repression and suppression of the working classes. The reason behind this harsh policy of repression was because of the failed coup back in 1932, led by General Sanjurjo, which had been defeated by the unions and the Left calling a general strike, and workers militias taking to the streets. Unfortunately for General Mola and the people backing the coup, even the best laid plans can and do go wrong, so when these plans only partially succeeded it inevitably led to the long, catastrophic and bloody Civil War.

This novel is the story of the early months of those cataclysmic events as seen through the eyes of some of the major contributors to the War, and also from a group of British athletes who just happened to find themselves thrust into the fighting and mayhem of those chaotic days of July, when the first stand against the Totalitarian Right Wing, under the guise of Fascism, was undertaken by the brave and gallant people of Spain. The War was to last from the summer of 1936 through to late spring of 1939 and over 500,000 people were to lose their lives in the fighting and repression that inevitably accompanies any Civil War, especially when a clash of ideological views are involved. The Spanish War was to be overshadowed almost as soon as it had finished, in April of 1939, by world events which happened later that year. It was though, a major conflict in its own right, which had a significant effect on later events. The blood, destruction and misery caused by the Civil War was to all intents and purposes...

THE PAIN OF SPAIN.

Chapter One

The Elections

Democracy is a form of government that substitutes election by the incompetent many for appointment by the corrupt few.

George Bernard Shaw

It was the middle of what had so far been a dark, dank cold and miserably wet February, which although not totally uncommon for the high plains of Madrid, was still an unwelcomed occurrence. The Spanish Army’s chief of staff, Major General Francisco Franco, the son of a naval quarter master from El Ferrol, in the A Coruña region of Northwest Spain, was in his office within the War Ministry Building in the heart of the city. The office was a typical governmental room; it was quite dull due to the poor lighting from one solitary, faltering bulb in the centre of the room, drearily casting its lacklustre yellow light. It was also quite cold, because the wretched heating system was not up to coping with the bitter, if somewhat unusual, cold of the Madrid winter. It had old scuffed mahogany wood panelling upon the walls, and a slightly battered looking oak desk at one end of the room, with a high-backed green leather chair placed behind it, upon which he was sitting. There were several pictures strategically placed around the room depicting various scenes from the past glories of the Spanish Military, and in front of his desk was a rather uncomfortable looking wooden chair upon which junior officers or other guest were expected to sit if he invited them to do so. There was a fancy red patterned carpet on the floor which was now beginning to show signs of its age and looking a little threadbare in places where people had walked to and fro from his desk over the years. Franco’s hat and overcoat where both perched on the plain wooden hat stand which was strategically positioned to the side of the solid looking Oak panelled door. Franco leaned back in his chair and looked out of the office windows to cast an eye over the city, it was already dark and a persistent drizzle was falling steadily, the watery lights of the city shone drearily back at him through the murky window panes.

A new set of elections in Spain had taken place just a couple of days previously, and not unsurprisingly the Popular Front Party, a coalition of Liberals, Socialists and Communists, had swept to power, this event in itself was not unexpected or particular worrying to Franco. It was common knowledge throughout Spain that he had Right Wing sympathies and was somewhat a keen supporter of the monarchy, as indeed most of the Spanish Officer Corps seemed to be. He had, however, worked previously with Left Wing Governments, and although it may not have always been the most amicable of relationships, it had usually worked out quite well.

Franco was a man of a rather short stature, he was stocky in build, what you may have termed a well-built man. Indeed due to the early onset of middle-age spread he was somewhat slightly portly in appearance. He had dark wavy hair that was now beginning to show some signs of greying around the edges; with the obligatory moustache that seemed to be so popular with Spanish officers. Franco was in his 44th year of life and was somewhat of a realist, a pragmatic man, and a career soldier. He had, up to this point, had an excellent military career, in 1926 he had been promoted as Europe’s youngest General since Napoleon, and in 1927 he had held the position of principal of the Spanish Army’s Military Academy in Zaragoza, the Capitol of the Aragon region in the Northern Central portion of Spain roughly halfway between Madrid and Barcelona. He had, he believed, proved his worth in the past to several governments first in the Rif War in the 20s against the Moroccan Nationalists, then in his efficient, if at times brutal, repression of the Asturian Miners’ Strike in October 1934. He knew that this last event in particular had not entirely endeared him to the extremists of the Communist and Anarchist movements, but as far as he was concerned he and the army that he had commanded had only carried out an order, from the government of the day, to the best of their abilities and efficiency.

As he sat back in his chair contemplating these events of the past and those of the last few days the phone, which was perched on the left-hand corner of the old desk sprang into life. Franco looked at it with a certain amount of trepidation, it was late in the evening and he had had a belly full today of arguing and bickering with the new government ministers. No matter what he said, or how much evidence he gave them, he just could not seem to make them understand, or grasp the simple concept that if they did not man, or fund the armed forces sufficiently they would be hard pressed to hold on to Morocco, the final colony left of the once vast and imposing Spanish Empire.

After the sixth or seventh ring he eventually, if reluctantly, reached over the desk, picked up the receiver, pressed the line button that was flashing on the right hand side of the body of the phone, and somewhat irritably said, ‘Franco.’

A voice on the other end light heartedly responded with, ‘Hola Francisco, this is Emilio,’ (Emilio was General Emilio Mola Vidal the Spanish Director General of Security) ‘it has come to my attention,’ Mola continued, without waiting for a response from Franco, ‘that the new government wants to move me sideways, out of the way, they are also in the process of paroling all the Left Wing terrorists and thugs that we helped to put behind bars back in 34.’

‘Very good Emilio!’ Franco replied somewhat wearily. He, of course, knew exactly what Mola was talking about. The new government may only have been in power for a few days but already he had had several run-ins with its new ministers, they seemed to oppose his suggestions and proposals at every turn. A move such as the one that Mola was now suggesting was exactly what he feared and had expected from them. ‘Believe me Emilio I completely understand what you are talking about, and where you are coming from, but exactly what can we do to stop them if it’s what this new Government wants to do, to pardon all those people.’ He continued, ‘don’t forget Emilio, they still have to get all these measures passed through the Cortes (the Spanish Parliament), and you know just as well as I do that they do not have an overall majority of the members, do they?’

‘Yes true Francisco they don’t, but the other parties on the left and centre of the political divide will follow their lead, there’s simply not enough members on the right, or members sympathetic to the right, to prevent them doing whatever they want to; and you can bet that after they have paroled all those left wing thugs it won’t be just me who will suffer by being moved on. They are bound to try and oust all the Army, Navy and Air force Officers who may be likely to stand against their policies and you can bet that you will be pretty high on their hit list.’

‘I know Emilio you make a very good point. But just as you have, I have also sworn an oath to protect the Government and the Spanish constitution.’

‘True but if the Government is endangering Spain and threatening its people with Anarchy and Revolution, surely our oath to protect Spain must take precedence over any obligation we may think we have, or owe to the Government?’

‘I don’t Know Emilio, I have spent the whole of my career following orders and those orders have usually been issued by the government of the day, that government I may not have always agreed with and in some cases I may even have disliked, but nonetheless, I have always done my duty and eventually those governments have fallen. The same will eventually happen to this one! It may take a little while but in the end, it will go the same way as all the others.’

‘Maybe so Francisco you may be right, but by the time that happens they will have destroyed everything that you and I stand for and hold dear. They know that at present they cannot retire or, heaven forbid, assassinate us, the Army simply wouldn’t stand for it and would rebel against them, but in three or four years time when they have moved us out to pasture in some provincial back water, when we are forgotten men, they can then remove us at their leisure without any fear of reprisals.’

‘What are you suggesting Emilio’ Franco tentatively enquired, ‘A rebellion or something? At present I do not think we have enough evidence of extremism, or anarchy for that matter, to justify that kind of resistance to them. After all they have only just attained power, let’s at least wait awhile and see what transpires before we do anything rash, that later we may live to regret.’

‘Very well Francisco you have made your point, and I agree with you, we need a little time to see what they do, and besides this is certainly not the time, or the place, to discuss these matters.’ Mola conceded, ‘I have, however, over the last few days talked with several fellow officers who are of the same opinion as I am that we should at least look into forming some kind of resistance, to their let’s say ‘more extremist policies’,’ he explained. ‘Just come to a meeting that has been arranged at the Officers Club in the Montaña barracks for 19.30 hours on Friday evening, will you. There we can discuss what action if any we can, or dare, to take. I am not suggesting rebellion at this stage or even at a later date, but I do think it prudent that we should at least form some sort of plans to try and resist any extremist move that this government may initiate.’

‘Very well Emilio, I’ll be there, Friday at 19:30 hours. Adios Amigo.’

Franco gently replaced the handset on its cradle and looked pensively at it for several seconds; he then relaxed back into his high-backed chair, steepled the fingers of his hands and moved them slowly towards his mouth deep in thought. He knew that a lot of what Mola had said was certainly true. The left-wing politicians had no love for him and would not resist any move to remove him from his present post. He also knew that if the government released all the left-wing sympathisers from prison, there were enough hot-headed elements amongst them to make an attempt on his, or worse his family’s lives. He sagged back into his chair deep in thought, well he decided, he would go to this meeting on Friday night and listen to what they had to say, he would see exactly what moves and plans, if any, were recommended or suggested. It would also give him the chance to assess exactly which officers, amongst the officer corps, were in favour of making some sort of stand against the government, and he would be able to assess the strength of feeling amongst them. He would listen, observe and take in all the information that he could glean from the meeting, after all information is power, and that could be extremely useful at some later date. One thing was for sure he would not commit himself one way or the other or get himself embroiled in any of the plans and scheming, at least not at this stage.

Chapter Two

The Breakfast

Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper.

Francis Bacon

Paul awoke slowly rolled over onto his back and yawned deeply, gently rubbed his eyes trying in vain to drive the sleep out of them. He turned his head and tried to focus on the clock that was sitting on the edge of the cabinet beside his bed, according to the luminous fingers on the dial it was just after 6 O’clock on a cold and miserable Sunday morning in early March. It was the 8th to be precise, and the rain was playing a steady staccato drumming upon the windowpane. As he lay there under the warmth of the covers, dreading the moment that he would have to drag his protesting body away from the warmth and comfort the bed offered, he could hear his parents moving about downstairs the world, it seemed, was coming awake once more.

The Ridgeway’s lived at number 247 Willows Lane in the Deane area of Bolton, Lancashire. The house was a typical 2 up 2 down terrace red brick-built structure with a kitchen-parlour and outside loo, which wasn’t too bad in summer but in winter if you lingered too long you could end up frozen to the seat. Paul occupied the smaller of the two bedrooms, the one at the front of the house which looked out over the main road, and until recently, he had shared with his two older brothers, but now, since they had both left home, it was all his alone, even if most of their belongings were still crammed into the wardrobes, drawers and closets. The house was always spotlessly clean, his mother spending most of her days cleaning and re-cleaning it from top to bottom. Even when he was growing up he could only ever remember the house being neat and tidy and spotlessly clean, despite the fact that three young and very lively boys lived there. During his youth it seemed to him that his mother had been permanently engaged in a battle with the other ladies in the local neighbourhood, to produce the cleanest front doorstep in the whole area.

As he lay there relishing the comfort that the bed offered, contemplating these events from his childhood, he knew that this particular grey and wet Sunday morning was not like all the others, this was the day of the regional athletic finals. It was very early in the fledgling athletic season to be holding any kind of competition, let alone one of such importance, but this was Olympic year. It had been decided, by the powers that be, that the regional championships should be held early in the season with the national championships following on later in April. All of these early events were to allow the British Olympic team to have time to try and organise themselves, for the great event later on in July. Although Paul never really believed deep down that he was good enough to make the team, which would be representing the nation in Berlin, he was certainly capable of winning the regional championships, he had, after all, had a very good winters’ training plus he was recording excellent times in practice at the moment, and besides everybody had the right to dream.

Paul was 20 years old and some people would have described him as handsome, although he was somewhat shy, particularly around girls. For some reason he had always found it difficult to strike up a conversation with them, and when he did try, he always ended up tongue tied which would lead to him becoming totally embarrassed, and making a bit of a fool of himself. Paul had a dark almost Latino-like complexion with hair to match, which he had inherited from his father. He was also of a slender build which was ideal for the event he competed in, which was the 800 metres, two laps of the track, just over half a mile. He had tried to compete, on several occasions, at the 1500 metres and the mile, but could never quite get the distance, maybe later in his career when he was a little older, he would be able to gain the extra stamina needed to compete in the longer events. He had also tried his hand at the 400 metres, but he just did not have the outright pace required to be competitive in that event either, so for the time being at least, it would have to be the 800 metres for him. Paul knew that on his day he could hold his own against all the other runners from the Lancashire and the North of England region, but he would have to be at his very best and extremely lucky just to be competitive against all the athletes at national level. Today’s event however was only against the other local runners from Lancashire, and he knew he had beaten most if not all of them previously, at one time or another, so he was reasonably optimistic of doing well and perhaps even winning today’s event. There was also more at stake today than just the regional championship, if he won today, he would be going to the nationals and if he finished in the top three there it was onto the Olympics, to live his dream.

When Paul eventually managed to drag his protesting body yawning and stretching out of the bed and down the stairs to the parlour, his mother had already put his breakfast on the table, and his father was sitting eagerly getting stuck into it with relish, his head buried deep into the early morning newspaper.

He looked up from his newspaper, acknowledged Paul’s presence as he entered the room, and then stated, ‘have you seen what that bloody Hitler fellow and his band of villains have done now?’ Paul looked blankly back at his father who didn’t wait for a reply just simply carried on. ‘They’ve only re-occupied the Rhineland, that’s what. A direct violation of the Versailles Treaty,’ he explained, slapping the pages of the paper with his free hand as if to try and emphasise his point, ‘and what the hell have we done about it?’ He enquired looking directly at Paul, who didn’t have the answer, indeed he still wasn’t entirely sure what his father was going on about. ‘Absolutely nothing, that’s what,’ his father answered for him. ‘Diddly squat, not a bloody sausage, and the French are just as bad, they have an army sat on the border, yet all they do is sit there with their fingers up their arses.’

‘Arthur there’s no need for that kind of thing,’ Paul’s mother protested as she re-entered the room from the kitchen carrying her own breakfast, which she placed on the table in front of her as she took her seat, ‘especially at the table,’ she added indignantly.

‘Sorry luv,’ Paul’s father sheepishly apologised, ‘but I’ll tell you what,’ he added pointing at Paul with a piece of bacon pierced upon the end of his fork. ‘Sooner or later we will have to make a stand against this lot of criminals, and I say it should be sooner rather than later, before they can regain their strength from the beating, we gave ’em last time.’

The point that Paul’s father was trying to make was the fact that German forces under the leadership of the Nazis, had crossed over the River Rhine and taken possession of the left bank of the river, in direct violation of the Versailles Treaty. The Rhineland was, in fact, part of Germany, so it wasn’t an invasion as such that Paul’s farther was complaining about, but the remilitarization of the left bank of the Rhine that they had instituted the day before. Under the terms of the Treaty of Versailles of 1919 the Germans were forbidden to maintain or construct any kind of fortifications, or indeed have any form of military presence on the left bank at all. It was to be maintained as a demilitarized zone, a kind of buffer zone against any potential future aggression by the Germans. This idea of a demilitarised buffer zone was further ratified in 1925 with the signing of the Locarno Treaty between Germany, France, Italy and Great Britain. This particular treaty was seen as important because it was a voluntary acceptance by the Germans themselves of the Demilitarization of the Rhineland. In his Peace Speech on the 21st May 1935 Adolf Hitler stated that his Government would uphold and fulfil its obligations under the Locarno Treaty, just as long as all the other parties stood by their parts of the pact also. This last line in his speech was the pretext that Hitler had then given to justify his move on the Rhineland the day before. The French had recently signed a pact with the Soviet Union, which Germany stated was a blatant breech of the Locarno Treaty and aimed at alienating and surrounding Germany and her interests. It was therefore this Franco Soviet pact which Hitler used as the pretext for his remilitarization of the Rhineland.

All of this though was of no importance to Paul, he was far more concerned with what was laid out before him on his plate, rather than world events. The fact that the Germans had re-occupied part of their own territory didn’t seem to be all that important to him on this damp cold morning in March. Instead he looked in horror and disbelief at his plate, which was sitting on the table, and the mountain of food that passed for his breakfast and stated, ‘I can’t eat all that mum; I’ll never get round the track with all that lot inside of me.’ Sat on the plate were two eggs three rashers of bacon, fried to a crisp just as he liked it, a fried tomato and a couple of slices of fried bread as well as a big mug of steaming hot tea to wash it all down with.

‘Course you can Paul luv,’ his mother said with a sort of mother knows best kind of smile across her face. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘I’m not havin a son of mine travelling all that way to Manchester ‘n’ then runnin all that distance wi’ out somat proper inside him, what would people say?’ She indignantly added, with more conviction.

Paul looked again at his plate gave a sigh and sat down he knew when he was beaten. His mother may have been small and the most intelligent and honest person he knew, but she also came from good old Irish stock, and as such, had a fiery temper which Paul had been on the wrong side of on a few occasions in the past, and he did not particularly want to be on the receiving end of it today. So, he picked up his knife and fork and got stuck into the very hearty breakfast that was laid out before him.

Paul loved and admired his parents; he knew that without their support and the sacrifices, that they had made when he had been younger, he would never have been able to compete in athletics at all. When he was a youngster they had backed and encouraged him all the way. They had had to find the funds to buy running kit and shoes not to mention all the trips to training at Leverhulme Park two or three times a week, add to that all the expensive trips to enable him to compete at the various meetings and competitions held all over the North of England. Paul knew that in the early ‘30s things had been somewhat tight financially speaking, particularly during the General Strike and great depression, and that his parents had gone without things themselves sometimes just to enable him to keep up his running. Paul also knew that now he was working and could finance his athletics himself the burden on them had fallen off somewhat, even so he still greatly appreciated all their efforts and support over the past years.

His father had always been Paul’s number one supporter always backing him and encouraging him, even when he hadn’t performed to his best, he would always find something positive to say to encourage him. This time however he was not as supportive as he had been previously. ‘No offense lad, but I half hope you don’t win today’ he stated apologetically, ‘I don’t think it rite that we should send a team out to them Krauts especially with that Hitler fellow ‘n’ all his cronies in charge. It’s disgusting how he’s been treating people especially the unions out yon.’ Paul’s father continued, ‘and now with this Rhineland thing ‘n’ all that, it will end eventually in war there’s no choice sooner or later we will end up at war with that jumped up little git.’

‘Arthur, please, language!’ Paul’s mother complained once again.

His father looked sheepishly away once more. He was a staunch trade unionist and a keen supporter of the Labour party, he wasn’t what you would term a Communist, but he was definitely on the Left in his political outlook. He had taken part in several protests against Mosley and his black shirted thugs when they had come up to Manchester for a rally the previous year, and he had also made sure that Paul had joined a Trade Union just as soon as he had started work.

Paul had no doubt that deep down his father, no matter what he said, would be as proud as punch of him if he did qualify for the Olympic team, just as he had been when his brother Andrew had managed to obtain a scholarship to the University of Lancaster to study law. He may have strong leftist views, but he had not hesitated in giving Andrew all the support and assistance he could. He had even somehow managed to scrape the funds together to put Andrew through university. He had nothing against people bettering themselves or their social standing what he didn’t like was people deliberately putting down the working