Chapter Sixteen
Aftermath
Once again, some parts of this chapter are not for the faint-hearted.
The Irish Chauffeur
Excavation site, Samaria, Northern District, British Mandated Palestine, late March 1937.
Having finished reading their letters from home, with their luggage stowed away in the tent they were to share, here in the ablutions, entirely unselfconsciously, Robert and Max stripped naked and took a welcome hot shower, washing away the dust and grime of their interrupted journey here from Haifa.
While the boys were thus engaged, Friedrich and Horst took Eccles - who had shortly to return to Jerusalem - along with Tibor, and Harriet, on a tour of inspection of the excavation, explaining in passing that when it had been built the villa had been very luxurious. Both its extent, as well as the mosaics with which it had been adorned, and the quality of some of the items recovered from the ruins bore witness to that. However, with only just over half the site fully excavated, when it came to closing the dig down, Friedrich admitted that he would be doing so with a very heavy heart. Indeed, Horst and he still needed to agree exactly what needed to be done in this regard, so as to protect the site and make it as secure as possible; the necessary works would take no little time to complete and Friedrich did not see how these could be done in two weeks. Yet, with the situation in Palestine growing steadily worse, time was not on their side and for the very same reason there could be no question of staying on. As to whether they would be able to resume excavations here at some point in the future was not at all clear.
Boat Deck, on board the S.S. Conte Biancamano, several days earlier.
Max could feel the pulsating throb of the liner's engines, taste the salty tang in the air, smell the scent of jasmine in Elena's hair, felt her hands upon him as she had stroked and caressed him through the fabric of his trousers. Then, clearly the more the experienced of the two of them, at least in matters such as this, letting his desire overcome him, Max had lain back on the bench in the lee of the lifeboat, while Elena unbuttoned his trousers. Deftly, her hands slipped within, then inside the fly of his underpants. A moment later, and she had released Max's penis from within the confines of his clothing. As Elena's mouth closed upon Max's erection, and began to work her magic, Max gasped and flushed red. A few moments later, unable to stop himself, he had spilled himself deep inside her mouth.
"Mein gott," indeed!
Excavation site, Samaria, Northern District, British Mandated Palestine, late March 1937.
With the tour of the site over, a short while after, once they had all been suitably refreshed, Captain Eccles took his leave; the others, now joined by Robert and Max, showered clean and having changed into fresh clothes in the ablutions tent, all standing at the entrance of the site to see Eccles and the soldiers under his command depart aboard the two army trucks, Friedrich politely having declined the British captain's kind offer to leave a detachment of the soldiers to guard the site until Friedrich and Horst had done what needed to be done to close the excavation down and, along with the boys, travelled back to Tulkarem where they were to catch the express south to Alexandria in Egypt.
After Friedrich had once more tendered his heartfelt thanks on behalf of all those who had been caught up in the ambush, the little convoy set off, bound, for the Damascus Gate on the north side of Jerusalem, which lay some thirty or so miles off to the south.
As the army trucks disappeared out of sight round a bend in the road, and the sound of the lorries faded away, with Robert and Max having gone off to their tent to finish unpacking their cases, Friedrich turned to Tibor and Harriet.
"Now," he said, looking directly at the Hungarian officer, "would you kindly tell me just what the devil this is all about".
Having learned that there was a plot to assassinate King George VI and replace him on the throne with his elder brother, who had abdicated the throne, ostensibly for love, Friedrich was appalled. That there had been rather more to the whole business of the abdication had been something which Friedrich, when he gave the matter any thought at all, which was rarely, was something which he himself had long suspected. That the would-be assassin was in the pay of Nazi Germany, made perfect sense as, in certain circles, the political sympathies of the duke of Windsor were well known. It was at this point in his discussion with Tibor that Friedrich found himself wondering if, in her letters, which so far he had not yet had the chance to read, Edith had given any account of what had passed during her dinner engagement at the Rothschilds with whom the duke of Windsor was presently staying.
That Armitage was the same British soldier who had been behind the theft of antiquities both here in Palestine and across the border in Trans-Jordan, made the man doubly damned in Friedrich's eyes. Yet, of the missing artefacts, which included a silver ewer stolen from the site of the villa here at Samaria, there was no sign. Nor, since his disappearance in London, had there been any definite sighting of the man himself. This said, as Tibor now explained, Armitage hailed from Downton, and it was believed that he had made his way up to Yorkshire to lie low, while Matthew and a small group of hand picked men were now involved in a desperate race against time to find Armitage, and so prevent an attempt being made on the life of the king.
Friedrich nodded. Even though he was an Austrian, he knew full well that the date of the Coronation in London was only now a few weeks away.
With Tibor and Harriet having accepted Friedrich's offer of hospitality for the night, having walked all around the excavation and then had a long talk with Horst, Friedrich had come to the unwelcome conclusion that in order to do what needed to be done regarding closing the site down and making all secure, despite the deteriorating military situation, this could not be accomplished in two weeks. A month would ensure that what needed to be done was completed. This would include backfilling areas of the site that had been excavated, arranging for the safe transhipment of all the finds up to Jerusalem, the paying off of the workforce, and the appointment of local men to keep watch on the site and do what they could to prevent it being disturbed. There also remained the question of what to do about the boys...
Friedrich found Robert and Max in their tent and at once proceeded to explain how the land now lay.
For his part, Max was delighted by the unexpected turn of events.
"What about you, Robert? Would you mind it very much if your stay out here turns out to be a little longer than envisaged?"
"Rather, Uncle Friedrich!" Robert grinned; he was more than happy to stay on. Away from Downton, and Mama's ever watchful eyes, he was enjoying himself enormously. And, when, eventually, he returned home there would be so much more to tell his parents, as well as his chums at school. His pals would be green with envy. After all, it was not everyone who could tell the tale of finding themselves under attack from Arab tribesmen.
"Then, that being so, I'll wire your father directly".
There was, thought Friedrich, also the necessity of breaking the unwelcome news to Edith who Friedrich knew would be counting down the days until their return to Austria, while at the same time imagining all manner of horrors befalling Max. Not that this had come to pass. Indeed, so far, Max had taken everything in his stride and, save for on the dance floor of the liner, he had not over exerted himself; had repaid the trust his parents had placed in him by taking the utmost care. Nonetheless, Friedrich thought it better that nothing be said of how things stood out here in Palestine; nor make any mention of what had befallen all of them on the road from Tulkarem.
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, April 1937.
When Friedrich's telegram arrived, surprisingly, Mary raised no objection.
"I don't see the harm in it. So long as Robert is back here in time for the start of the Summer Term at Ripon".
"Then I'll telegraph Friedrich and let him know". Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Matthew mooched off down to the Post Office.
Seeing him go, Mary sighed. She had lost count of the number of times she had told Robert and Simon that walking about the house and the estate with their hands in their pockets was completely unacceptable. That apart, it was so middle class.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, April 1937.
Edith was not at all pleased.
Irrespective of the fact that, so far, Max had come to no harm out there in Palestine, she wanted him back here at Rosenberg sooner rather than later. Still, like darling Tom, Edith was a realist. There was nothing that could be done and what Friedrich had telegraphed regarding closing down the excavation made eminent sense. He had promised to explain things more fully in a letter. So, all Edith could do was wait for its arrival and for Friedrich and Max to return; pray that nothing... No, don't even think about that.
Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, Sunday 25th April 1937.
Having now heard news of darling Danny directly from someone who had seen him but a few days earlier, and then being told she would be able to write to him, to say that Sybil was anything other than elated would have been an understatement. So, when she had finished speaking to George Steer on the telephone, Sybil had wasted no time in running upstairs to tell both Saiorse and Bobby the marvellous news that darling Danny was both safe and well, and doing just fine.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed, reading the latest issue of The Schoolgirl, Saiorse listened politely enough to what Ma had to say regarding Danny without making any comment; let her mother run on and on until finally she made an end of things.
"Isn't it wonderful news, darling?"
"So, when's Danny coming home, Ma," Saiorse asked, her tone matter-of-fact, indeed brutally so. Like her mother, she was never one to dissemble. That Saiorse loved Danny dearly was unquestionable but until her brother was standing here in front of her unharmed, she would not believe him either safe or well. To her daughter's coolly posed question, Sybil had no answer. Not trusting to herself not to make an equally pithy retort, Sybil promptly turned on her heel, walked out the room and across the landing to Bobby's bedroom at the back of the house. Here she knocked the door, and went in to find young Bobby seated at his little desk sticking stamps into his album. Taking a deep breath, Sybil now repeated what she had told Saiorse. Being several years younger than his sister, Bobby was thankfully more receptive to what Ma had to say regarding his adored elder brother; he asked no awkward questions, wanting instead to know every last detail of what Sybil had been told by Mr. Steer.
"Is it sunny in Spain, Ma?" Bobby asked, as, hunched over his album, he stuck in another stamp.
"I'm not sure. I think so".
"Good. Danny likes the sun".
"Yes, he does".
Downstairs in the sitting room, Tom sat and considered what he had been told. While understanding perfectly the reason for Sybil's sudden transport of delight, Tom was much more sanguine about what they had both learned from Steer. War was a brutal business and a civil war especially so. In this regard, Tom knew better than most what could happen; given that he had first hand experience of what had ensued in the civil war fought here in Ireland during 1922-23, between those who supported the implementation of the Anglo-Irish Treaty and those who saw it as a gross betrayal of the Irish Republic proclaimed during the Easter Rising back in 1916. Here in Ireland all manner of unspeakable atrocities had been committed - by both sides - and Tom saw no reason to suppose that the way a similar conflict was now being waged in Spain, and with more modern weapons, would be any less murderous.
As for Steer's guarded observations regarding the military situation in the north of Spain, ever the realist Tom knew that what he had been told was probably not the truth of it. That there had been losses amongst the Volunteers was inevitable. However, until such time as the identity of those drowned when the Pieter went down off the Spanish coast or who had since died or been wounded in the fighting in Spain could be confirmed with any degree of certainty, for the present, all that their relatives here in Ireland could do was wait.
And then, scarce two days later, there came the most appalling news from northern Spain, which only served to confirm Tom's worst fears.
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 26th April 1937.
Since the visit here to Downton by the German Ambassador to the Court of St. James, Joachim von Ribbentrop - something which neither Matthew or Mary would ever forget - save for a fulsome letter from the man himself, received a couple of days later reiterating his thanks for the munificent hospitality afforded him by Lord and Lady Grantham, no further communications had passed between between the abbey and the embassy.
Until now.
Here in the rose garden of the abbey, surrounded on all sides by tall, thick yew hedges, and so well away from both prying eyes and, even more importantly, from any possibility of being overheard, Matthew and Mary were sitting side by side on one of the stone benches. At this time of the year, the roses were not yet in bloom and there was no denying the fact that the rose garden was not at its best. Indeed it would not be so until several months later, and even then in no way - although Mary would be loathe to admit it - would it ever match the magnificence and splendour of Edith's rose garden at Rosenberg. All the same, despite the small number of gardeners now employed here at Downton, the rose bushes and the beds were kept well tended. So too the lily pond in the centre of the garden, the water crystal clear, and free of any detritus.
"What you were just saying..." Mary began.
"Indeed". Matthew nodded. Eyeing the lily pond, he picked up a stone and skimmed it deftly across the surface of the water, something which Tom had shown him how to do, years ago, down on the shores of Dublin Bay, back in August 1926, when the Crawleys had paid a brief visit to the Bransons in Blackrock. The still waters of the lily pond rippled momentarily before swiftly closing over the skimmed stone. "If Prince Louis is right, and I see no reason to doubt what he told me on the telephone, then, if as he believes someone up here has tipped Armitage off, I suspect both of us are left in no doubt as to the identity of the individual concerned..."
"Barrow. But how would he..."
"I may be wrong but I see the hand of Maundy Gregory in this. Be that as it may, if Armitage is now aware that the net about him is fast closing, then I and the handful of us involved in this game will have to act quickly. Otherwise, it will be a case, to paraphrase King Charles I, of our bird having flown! For, make no mistake, should Armitage escape capture, somehow make his way up to London, it will be like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. It could even lead to the postponement of the Coronation and that would never do".
Mary nodded.
"Yes, I can see why it might. And, no, it wouldn't. Besides, it would mean you don't have the opportunity to wear your Coronation robes. And that also would never do!" She laughed. Now saw Matthew's brow furrow. Watched as he put his hands together, and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers.
"Surrounding the farm under the cover of darkness certainly has its merits, as it would provide us with both cover and the element of surprise. However, it also has certain disadvantages". Contemplating the issues involved, Matthew fell silent.
Several minutes of stillness followed.
"So,... just what... do you intend doing?" Mary asked, hesitantly.
"Given what we've now learned, I'm left with no alternative but to bring the whole matter forward. And whatever is done, to bring this affair to a conclusion, must be done swiftly". His mind on what needed to be done, Matthew glanced down briefly at the newspaper he had brought with him from the abbey.
"A journey on board that to the United States would be quite something, don't you think?"
There on the front page of the newspaper was a photograph of an airship, the largest ever built, and the pride of Nazi Germany: the Hindenburg. Named for the German Field Marshal from the days of the Great War, who had later served as the second President of the Weimar Republic, and which, but a matter of days hence, was to begin a series of flights between Europe and the United States. She was due to depart from Frankfurt, Germany, on 3rd May and expected to arrive at the Naval Air Station at Lakehurst, New Jersey, in the United States, three days later.
"Maybe. In Edith's last letter, she mentioned that, for months now, darling Max has been following everything to do with the Hindenburg in the papers, in magazines. Apparently he and Friedrich have even been building a model of it, to add to Max's collection".
Matthew nodded.
"When we were staying at Rosenberg, Max showed me his model aircraft. He's very proud of them".
"Yes, he showed them to me too. All the same, I would much prefer crossing the Atlantic on board the Queen Mary".
"Where's your spirit of adventure?"
Mary grimaced.
"I leave that sort of thing to Edith".
Matthew smiled.
"Have it your own way! And speaking of Edith..."
"Must we?"
Matthew shook his head; found himself wondering if ever there would come a time when Mary would make her peace with Edith. Somehow he doubted that she would.
"Didn't you say something the other day, about your mother travelling to Austria later in the year, and then flying back with Friedrich, Edith, and the boys, so as to be here in time for Christmas?"
"Yes. Mama's quite agog at the prospect".
"Is she?"
"Yes". Mary's monosyllabic answer spoke volumes.
"Do I take it that you're not?"
"To be perfectly frank, Matthew, in my opinion, Mama's far too old to go gallivanting about anywhere, let alone in an aeroplane".
"Where's the harm in it? Or are you one of those who believe that if God had intended us to fly He would have given us wings?"
"No, of course not. All the same, I'm not convinced how safe it is, travelling by aeroplane".
"No less safe than travelling by motor, train, or ship. In fact a damn sight safer if I'm behind the steering wheel!" Matthew laughed out loud. "As for the Hindenburg, why it would take nothing short of an Act of God to bring her down".
For late April, the day had been pleasantly warm but at this very moment the sun disappeared behind a bank of cloud and Mary found herself shivering. Recalled that she had heard tell that Captain Smith had said something very similar, about the Titanic: "God Himself could not sink this ship". In view of what then happened, which could be said to be the reason that it was Matthew sitting here beside her and not Patrick, it seemed that in making the remark he had, the liner's captain had been singularly unwise.
"What is it?"
The sun drifted out from behind the clouds, bathing the rose garden in both light and warmth.
Mary shook her head.
"It's nothing, darling. Nothing at all".
Guernica, Basque Country, Northern Spain, early evening Monday 26th April 1937.
In its implementation the systematic destruction of Guernica had been coldly clinical; executed with a deadly military precision. First had come the dropping of hand grenades and heavy bombs, the purpose of which had been to terrify and scatter the population, followed by the indiscriminate and seemingly relentless machine-gunning in order to drive the citizenry beneath the ground into the cellars and the refugios, and finally the dropping of incendiaries to set light to the buildings trapping those below, entombing them and consigning all to a fiery, suffocating death.
However, although the bombing seemed to go on for ages, in reality, it had lasted little more than fifteen minutes. Shortly before seven o'clock, with the Nationalist 'planes, the fighters and the bombers, having done their worst, they banked away and flew southwards, off towards Vitoria, from where it was being rumoured they had come; although some said it had been from Burgos.
On the hillside overlooking Guernica, when those who had taken refuge up here felt it was safe to do so, slowly, they emerged from where they had been hiding, among them Danny, Liam, and Develin. Singly, in their twos and threes they came, a handful of families too, grandparents, parents, and children, as well as several disparate groups slipping out from behind walls and from beneath farm carts, from out of cellars and from the thick groves of oak and pine. Along with a handful of other soldiers who had made it up here and so to a safety of sorts, Danny, Liam and Dev watched as down below them in the valley Guernica continued to burn. From one end of the town to the other, everything was a sea of lurid flames and even from this distance all of them could feel the intense heat radiating outwards from the blazing inferno which Guernica had become; heard, too, the continued crackle and roar of the flames, and the repeated crash of falling masonry.
Then, finally, there came a much more welcome sound, that of the fire engines finally arriving from Bilbao, although, with no water to be had anywhere in the vicinity of Guernica, their crews were unable to put out out any of the raging fires. All the firemen could do was to try and rescue as many of the survivors from the burning ruins of the town as they could. There were reports that neither the Renteria bridge over the River Murcado nor the railway station, let alone the factory producing small arms, belonging to Unceta y Compania situated on the edge of the town, had been hit. All of which tended to suggest that the bombing of the town itself had been deliberate; the act undertaken with the intention of both the destruction of Guernica and the terrorising, killing, and maiming of its inhabitants.
And this brutality had not been confined to the town alone; those villages which lay close to Guernica had not been spared; had been subjected to the same merciless usage. So, too, had many of the caserios, the farmhouses hereabouts, set alight by incendiaries and which, with the coming of darkness, continued to burn, flaring as brightly as if they were Roman candles, sending up tongues of red and yellow flames, interspersed with sudden showers of sparks, into the smoke filled, flame shot blackness of the night sky.
Schloss Rothschild, Enzesfeldt, Lower Austria, late April 1937.
Kitty could see that David - not that she would ever dare to presume such familiarity as to call him so - was absolutely delighted by the news. For, with Wallis' divorce now about to be made final, there was no longer any need for their enforced separation to continue: he sequestered here in Austria and she in enforced seclusion on the Côte d'Azur in the south of France, close to Cannes, staying with Hermann and Katherine, at their beautiful home, the Villa Lou Viei.
Of course - not that Kitty would ever dare to voice her thoughts aloud - while staying here at the schloss, all of his needs and wonts had been punctiliously addressed and he had been given every opportunity to enjoy himself. Admittedly, at least to begin with, the reporters had proved something of a blasted nuisance but this apart, the duke had spent his time going into Vienna, which was how he had first met Edith von Schönborn, going hillwalking, skiing, and even cataloguing the schloss' extensive wine collection. But, for her part, with the press camped permanently outside the gates of the villa where she was in hiding, from the very outset of their separation, Wallis had been a virtual prisoner at Lou Viei. And from what Kitty had been told, the unwilling recipient, on an almost daily basis, of a stream of the most hurtful, spiteful, and vicious letters.
Guernica, Basque Country, Northern Spain, evening, Monday 26th April 1937.
Having made their way down from the hillside, as far as the outskirts of the burning town, Danny, Liam, Dev and their compatriots joined forces with a group of equally dazed, shell shocked, and sobbing Republican soldiers who were giving what help they could to those who had survived the bombing, most of whom were now homeless, having lost everything they possessed save for clothes they were wearing; as well as doing the little that could be done for the injured, some of whom had been most terribly burned, and also lending comfort to the dying. And, as they did so, from time to time, there emerged from the flames of the burning town yet another fire blackened survivor of the bombing; while elsewhere others, many of them also in tears, tore frantically at the rubble of the ruins of yet another house with their bare hands, trying to find family and friends.
Exactly how many people had been killed it was impossible to determine; there were bodies and severed limbs lying everywhere. Hundreds certainly, maybe many more. The Josefinas hospital had been blown to pieces, killing all of the patients inside, so too the hospital at the Convento de Santa Clara, while it was being noised that one of the town's pitiful handful of air raid shelters had taken a direct hit and all within had perished. Despite the immensity of the suffering, there were reports of heroism too, in particular that displayed by the Basque clergy praying unceasingly for the lives of everyone, the faithful and for those of no faith at all, down below ground in the refugios, while above them Guernica was pounded into oblivion. Mention was made of one elderly priest who, with no thought for his own safety, had rescued children from a burning building, only to pay for this selfless act with his own life.
Miraculously, although damaged, the Santa María church, the bells of which had been rung to warn of the air raid, was still standing but it was one of only a handful of buildings in the town which had survived the bombing. What had once been streets were now reduced to nothing more than enormous heaps of glowing, smouldering rubble which grew ever larger as the blackened shell of yet another building collapsed downwards and slid into the street on which it had once stood; while over all there hung the mephitis of burning. And there was something else too, which was far, far worse; the sickening stench of charred and burned flesh.
Now, as the evening wore on and then night fell, rumours began circulating that the Nationalists were closing in on the town. As a result, some of those who had managed to survive what had happened, both civilians and soldiers, began to try and make their way slowly westwards towards Bilbao. While most had no alternative but to make the trek on foot, the more fortunate travelled on carts drawn by oxen, piled high with what meagre household possessions had been saved from the conflagration. Others, including many of the more badly injured, were evacuated in lorries sent from Bilbao by the government when news of what had befallen Guernica became known. Unsurprisingly, given the nature of the roads in the area - which were narrow, few in number, and poorly maintained - it was not long before these became hopelessly clogged by the sheer number of both people and vehicles trying desperately to reach the comparative safety of Bilbao.
In all this pain and suffering, there was one faint glimmer of hope: with darkness having fallen, and the coming of the night, it was to be hoped that the refugees would at least be safe from any further attacks from the air. However, for those still searching desperately for relatives or awaiting news of their loved ones, they had no choice but to remain where they were, camped out in the open, on the edge of the still burning town. And for many, such searches proved to be in vain. And news, if ever it came, was often dire.
Early the following morning, while it was yet dark, bloodstained, begrimed, and dog tired, Danny Branson paused in what he was doing: helping in the harrowing task of retrieving bodies from the ruins of the still burning town. Watched the seemingly never ending stream of refugees departing from Guernica. And it was now that Danny found himself hailed by a voice which he thought he recognised.
Guernica, early morning, Tuesday 27th April 1937.
Danny watched as both the man and the officer accompanying him picked their way carefully through smouldering piles of rubble towards where Danny was standing. As they drew closer, the young Irishman now recognised the other for who he was. A journalist, someone whom he had met a couple of times in Bilbao, most recently but a couple of days ago.
"Mr Steer!"
The man smiled; held out his hand.
"Mr Branson, I presume?" Steer chose deliberately to emulate the words of another journalist, Henry Morton Stanley. Looking about him at the scene of utter devastation, he grimaced. "Christ Almighty!" Steer nodded curtly to the officer standing beside him. "Gracias," he said softly. The officer saluted, turned, and began retracing his steps from whence Steer and he had come.
"For sure!"
"God in Heaven!" Steer whistled through his teeth as if he could not believe the evidence of his own eyes. Then he seemed to remember Danny standing beside him. "So, we meet again. I find myself wishing it could have been in different circumstances".
"For sure!" Danny also looked about him. Saw, close by, a limb sticking out of the wreckage of what once must have been a shop. Despite what he had seen here already tonight, now glimpsing the jagged shard of pale bone protruding from a mass of bloodied flesh, Danny found he could take no more.
"Feckin' hell!" He sank to his knees and was promptly sick. Was aware, vaguely, of someone's arms about his shoulders, helping him to his feet and sitting him down on a shattered piece of masonry.
"Here, get some of this down you!"
"Thanks!" Danny hawked and spat hard several times. "Feck! I'm sorry," he said, now wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Don't be. Feeling better?"
Danny nodded.
"I'm fine. Don't be worrying". He handed Steer the flask and for a moment neither of them spoke.
"You remember that drink we shared together in that bar in Bilbao?"
"For sure!"
"Well, no doubt it will come as something of a surprise, but since then I've spoken to your father on the telephone".
"Ya've spoken to my da?" Danny sounded incredulous; as well he might.
Steer nodded. He grinned.
"But how..."
"One of your Da's pals, in the Press Section at the American Embassy in London, got in touch with me. Told me that your father was desperate for news of you. I then telephoned him in Dublin. The day before yesterday, as it happens. When I got through, I told him that, quite by chance, we'd run into each other, in Bilbao; that should we meet up again, I'd let you know we'd spoken. I also said that he and your Ma could write you, care of me".
Danny grinned.
"Grand! How are they doing?"
"They're well. Both of them. Of course, your Ma's worried sick about you, but I told her, that when last I saw you, that you were doing just dandy".
"You spoke to ma as well?"
Again Steer nodded.
"She's very fine," he said softly. "I hope you don't mind me saying so, but I could tell how much she loves you".
Danny swallowed hard. Not trusting his voice not to betray him, for a moment, he sat silent, alone with his thoughts upon which Steer had the good sense not to intrude. Then, after what seemed an age, Danny turned his head and smiled.
"Thanks a million, Mr. Steer. She is. For sure, she does. And, if ever there's anything I can do for ya..." Slowly, Danny rose to his feet. "But now I'd best be getting..."
"As it happens, there is. I reached here an hour or so ago from Bilbao. And, hearing you were in Guernica, I decided to try and find you".
"Whatever for?"
"I'm coming to that". Steer chuckled. "Oddly enough, despite everything that's happened here, you weren't that difficult to find. Everyone, it seems, has heard of el mecánico irlandés! Now, I've already explained how things are to your officer. Yes, the one over there, and that I need your help. To which he's agreed. So, you can rest easy about leaving your pals to do whatever else needs doing here. At least for the time being".
Danny nodded.
"So..."
"I want you to help me try and find out who was responsible for all of this".
Danny shrugged his shoulders, spread his hands, palms uppermost.
"Why, that's easy enough, for sure. There's no mystery about it. The Nationalists!"
Steer shook his head.
"Take a look about you, Danny. Take a good look. Then tell me, have you ever seen the like?"
"No". Danny shook his head. He hadn't; wished never to see such awful sights again.
For, what, until late this afternoon had been a bustling market town had, in the space of a few short hours, been all but obliterated from the face of the earth, reduced to a sea of rubble, a mass of smouldering ruins, and its population, swollen by refugees, men, women ,and children forced to flee for their lives. Many of them were now dead or else injured, some of them very badly burned. As for those who had managed to survive what had happened, most were now homeless.
"While there's no denying that the Fascists have far more 'planes and bombs than the government forces, on their own they aren't capable of causing this amount of destruction".
"So, just what are we looking for?" Danny asked, clearly mystified, as he followed Steer in scrambling up another pile of shifting, smouldering rubble blocking the street.
Almost at the top of the mound of smoking debris, Steer paused, turned, and looked down at Danny.
"I'm not entirely sure but I'll know when we find it".
And with that enigmatic utterance, Danny had to be content.
Guernica, sometime later, early morning, Tuesday 27th April 1937.
All about them was evidence of the destruction and suffering wrought by war. Gaunt, blackened shells of buildings, some no more than tottering facades on the point of collapse, others still burning fiercely, a motor car lying upside down in a street, trees stripped bare of their leaves, enormous piles of debris, shattered stones, smashed tiles, twisted ironwork, broken glass, and splintered beams and wood. And everywhere there were more bodies; many of them horribly disfigured.
Yet Steer seemed unaffected by the horror of what had happened here.
From their chance encounter in Bilbao, on the Calle de Bailén, close to the railway station, Danny knew that the British journalist had covered the war in Ethiopia where he had seen terrible things - the use of poison gas and the bombing of Red Cross vehicles by the Italians, so maybe he was hardened to what had happened here. All the same, while Steer seemed not to have noticed it, or if he had he gave no sign of having done so, close to the church of Santa María, the stench of burnt flesh was indescribable. Given what he had seen earlier, Danny dreaded to think what, as yet, lay undiscovered beneath the charred timbers and smoke blackened stones of what must once have been a house.
Steer stood looking about him.
"Earlier tonight, when I spoke with several survivors, they said the 'planes that did this were German... The rebel aircraft, when they flew over, did you, by any chance, get a good look at them?" Steer coughed, then retched. Here in the town, close to the plaza, the air was thick with smoke and ash from the burning buildings.
Danny shook his head. Said that when he was up on the hillside overlooking the town, someone had called out something about the 'planes, a foreign name for sure, but he couldn't now recall what it had been. That the aircraft might have been the ones the Republicans nicknamed tranvías - trams - because they rattled so much. Went onto explain that when Guernica came under attack, like everyone else he had seen the 'planes, but he had been far too busy trying to stay alive than paying any attention to their markings. And even if he had, as far as Danny was concerned, one enemy aircraft looked very much like any other. The person to ask about such matters was his cousin, Max, who knew everything there was to know about aircraft.
"Is he here, your cousin?"
"No. He's in Austria". To Danny, it was just a simple statement of fact but for some reason Steer seemed to find it inordinately funny as he laughed out loud.
"So, he won't be of any use to us then. Aha! What have we here?"
Steer held up a fragment of metal, no more than a jagged shard, which he had pulled out of a pile of rubble. Something on the surface of the metal now caught Steer's attention. Squatting down amongst the wreckage of the building, he held the broken metal close to the flickering light of flames from off a brand of wood.
"I thought as much! Here, take a look at this!"
"What is it?" Danny asked.
"The proof we were looking for".
"Proof? Proof of what?"
"That the bombs and incendiaries that caused all of this were manufactured in Germany. See the words stamped here: Rheindorf 1936 and the German imperial eagle? So, the Nazi regime in Germany has been supplying the Nationalists with bombs. And rather more than that. Several of the people I spoke to before I came looking for you, said the 'planes that did this were German, too. No doubt flown by Nazi Volunteers, of the Condor Legion".
Danny nodded. He had heard mention of the Condor Legion.
"So what are you going to do?"
"Tell the world who did this; show that despite their repeated denials, while posturing and espousing a position of neutrality, the Nazi regime in Germany is supplying the Nationalists here in Spain with arms, ammunition, and men, to help overthrow a democratically elected government".
"But how?"
"Danny, like your father, I'm a journalist. By filing my story, of course! Now, don't move. Stand exactly as you are. Yes, that's right".
Steer pointed his camera at Danny and pressed the shutter.
THE TRAGEDY OF GUERNICA
TOWN DESTROYED IN AIR ATTACK
EYE-WITNESS'S ACCOUNT
From Our Special Correspondent
BILBAO, April 27 1937
"Guernica, the most ancient town of the Basques and the centre of their cultural tradition, was completely destroyed yesterday afternoon by insurgent air raiders..."
Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, Wednesday 28th April 1937.
"Good God! How on earth anyone could have survived that!"
"What is it?" Mary asked.
Matthew handed Mary the morning's copy of The Times. The lead story concerned the on going civil war in Spain. A small town in the north of the country had been subjected to a sustained attack from the air.
"Guernica, the most ancient town of the Basques and the centre of their cultural tradition, was completely destroyed yesterday afternoon by insurgent air raiders. The bombardment of this open town far behind the lines occupied precisely three hours and a quarter, during which a powerful fleet of aeroplanes consisting of three German types, Junkers and Heinkel bombers and Heinkel fighters, did not cease unloading on the town bombs weighing from 1,000lb. downwards and, it is calculated, more than 3,000 two-pounder aluminium incendiary projectiles. The fighters, meanwhile, plunged low from above the centre of the town to machine-gun those of the civilian population who had taken refuge in the fields".
The report went on to say that nearly 1,700 people, men, women, and children had been killed and some 900 injured. Accompanying the article were several photographs, including one simply headed A Republican soldier in Guernica. The picture showed a young soldier surveying a scene of utter devastation.
And for Matthew and Mary Crawley, there was no doubting the identity of the young man in the photograph.
"That's Danny!"
Offices of The Irish Independent, Talbot Street, Dublin, Irish Free State, Wednesday 28th April 1937.
It was not often that Tom telephoned Sybil when she was on duty at the Rotunda.
"Meet me outside the front of the hospital in half an hour".
"Tom darling, I'll be late on the ward".
"Trust me, darlin' ya'll want to see this".
Schloss Rothschild, Enzesfeldt, Lower Austria, early May 1937.
"Shall I say that you wished to be remembered to her, sir?" Kitty asked.
"Why, yes, of course," the duke replied vaguely, clearly absent minded. To be truthful, not that he would ever admit it, given the undoubted unpleasantness - on her part - of their last meeting, he much preferred to forget all about Edith von Schönborn.
A matter of moments later, he was away, happy as a sandboy, thinking of nothing else except of being reunited with Wallis in the south of France. That, and the prospect of being able to tell her that, at some point in the not too distant future, they would be returning to England; he to resume what was his by right of birth, and with Wallis beside him as his queen. When that happened, quite what was to be done with stammering Bertie and Cookie his ghastly frump of a wife, remained to be seen. However, there was no need to dwell on that either now, or else in the future.
For, when the time came, others could be relied upon to do whatever needed to be done in that regard, however distasteful it might prove to be.
Frankfurt am Main, Hesse-Nassau, Prussia, Germany, 3rd May 1937.
At precisely 7.16 in the evening, with a crew of 61 and carrying 36 passengers, the giant airship, Hindenburg, slipped her moorings, and set sail for the United States.
Author's Note:
The Schoolgirl was a British weekly story paper aimed at girls. The first series ran from 1922-23 and the second from 1929-40.
During the Spanish Civil War, until Guernica was captured by the Nationalists, the employees of Unceta y Compania supported the Republicans while the owner, Sr. Unceta, had left the area and joined the Nationalists. This may explain, at least in part, why the factory was not bombed, along with the fact that the Nationalists wanted it left intact to enable its production of small arms to continue.
Three days after the bombing of the town, Guernica fell to the Nationalists, after which they began publicising their version of what had happened here; that the Basques had bombed Guernica, that they had set fire to their own town, that the devastation had been caused by dynamite stored in the sewers exploding, and so forth. Although what happened in Guernica has never been about the numbers of those killed, today it is accepted that the death toll was several hundred. At the time, it was claimed over 1,700 people had died and some 900 been wounded. As recently as 1970, through its official newspaper Arriba, Franco's government stated that only 12 people had died in the bombing. For their own reasons both the Republicans and the Nationalists either exaggerated or under played the number of fatalities.
Herman Livingston (1891-1957) and Katherine Rogers of Hyde Park, New York, and Cannes, Côte d'Azu were long standing American friends of Wallis Simpson. It would be Herman who would give Wallis away to the duke of Windsor at their wedding, held at the Château de Candé, near Tours, France, on 3rd June 1937.
For the visit by the Crawleys to the Bransons over Ireland in August 1926, see Chapter 8 of my story Reunion.
Just before the English Civil War, accompanied by some four hundred armed men, King Charles I attempted to arrest five members of the House of Commons on a charge of treason. Tipped off in advance, as to the king's intentions, when he strode into the Commons to demand the men be handed over, the five were nowhere to be seen. Whereupon the king famously remarked "... all my birds have flown".
The comment about God and the Titanic is attributed to Captain Smith but is also said to have been the reply given by a deckhand to a reporter.
Wallis' divorce from her second husband, Ernest Simpson, became final on 3rd May 1937.
"Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" It was with these words that the Welsh-American journalist, Henry Morton Stanley (1841-1904) is said to have greeted the missing Scottish missionary and explorer, David Livingstone.
The Second Italo-Ethiopian War began in October 1935 and ended in February 1937; terrible atrocities were committed by both sides in the conflict.
George Steer arrived in Guernica a matter of hours after the bombing. His encounter with Danny Branson is of course fictitious.
The thousands of incendiaries dropped on Guernica contained thermite, which burns at over 2000 degrees and, while it does so, is virtually impossible to extinguish.
The Condor Legion - the name given to military personnel from Nazi Germany who served with the Nationalists during the Spanish Civil War.
The press report quoted is the beginning of the one Steer sent to London and which was published in The Times newspaper. A copy of it in l'Humanité, prompted Pablo Picasso to begin painting, Guernica, in homage to the suffering of his fellow Basques.
Both the Duke and Duchess of Windsor referred disparagingly to the late Queen Mother as "Cookie"; it being said in some circles that the Queen Mother was the daughter of her family's French cook, because, allegedly, her own mother could not bear any further children. The Duke of Windsor is said to have been responsible for spreading both the calumny and the nickname.
