Mine were of trouble

About this time a new Ensign came to us, the Polish Count Orlowski. He was small, dark and beautifully turned out. To my joy, he spoke perfect English as well as Spanish, pronouncing both languages in a careful, precise manner, as though each word were a trip-wire that might set off an explosion. Having served in the Polish cavalry, he was not only a superb horseman but also had a fair knowledge of horsed cavalry tactics; he was horrified by our slovenliness, incompetence, and ignorance.

About this time a new Ensign came to us, the Polish Count Orlowski. He was small, dark and beautifully turned out. To my joy, he spoke perfe...

Father Vicente, in great spirits, dominated the gathering. He was the most fearless and the most bloodthirsty man I ever met in Spain; he would, I think, have made a better soldier than priest. ‘Holá, Don Pedro!’ he shouted at me. ‘So you’ve come to kill some Reds! Congratulations! Be sure you kill plenty!’ The purple tassel of his beret swung in the candle-light. Santo Domingo frowned: ‘Father Vicente , you always talk of killing. Such sentiments do not come well from a priest. The Reds may be our enemies, but remember they are Spaniards, and Spain will have need of men after the war.’ ‘Of good men, yes. But not of evil.’ ‘Of good men,’ repeated Santo Domingo, ‘and of evil men converted.’.

Father Vicente, in great spirits, dominated the gathering. He was the most fearless and the most bloodthirsty man I ever met in Spain; he wo...

Loyal friend, fearless critic and stimulating companion that he was, I sometimes wonder if his qualities really fitted him for the job he was given of interpreting the Nationalist cause to important strangers. For example, he told a distinguished English visitor that on the day the Civil War broke out he lined up the labourers on his estate, selected six of them and shot them in front of the others—‘Pour encourager les autres, you understand.’ He had some original ideas on the fundamental causes of the Civil War. The principal cause, if I remember rightly, was the introduction of modern drainage: prior to this, the riff-raff had been killed off by various useful diseases; now they survived and, of course, were above themselves. Another entertaining theory was that the Nationalists ought to have shot all the boot-blacks. (The boot-black is as integral a part of the Spanish scene as the man who sells newspapers.) ‘My dear fellow,’ he explained to me, ‘it only stands to reason! A chap who squats down on his knees to clean your boots at a café or in the street is bound to be a Communist, so why not shoot him right away and be done with it? No need for a trial—his guilt is self-evident in his profession.’ For the Requeté ideal he had an amused contempt: ‘They call themselves Traditionalists, and what is this tradition that they’re always talking about? The Salic Law, imported from France by the Bourbon kings, which has no place whatever in Spanish law or custom.’ For the Church, in fact the Christian faith, he appeared to have no time at all; yet he was no Nazi—indeed he hated all ‘isms’ and was scornful of all authority, except that of the hereditary nobility of Spain.

Loyal friend, fearless critic and stimulating companion that he was, I sometimes wonder if his qualities really fitted him for the job he wa...