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November 1936, Berlin
"My dear, Dolfo," Colonel Wolfram von Richthofen said to the young pilot with a friendly demeanor. "How do you think you'll fly if, according to your medical card, you've just suffered a serious injury?"
Lieutenant Adolf Galland gave the Colonel a bright look. The fact that the one of his eyes had been struck blind after the crash of his Fw 44 was kept secret.
"The medical examination proved I'm fit as a devil, Herr Colonel!" Dolfo reported, remarking to himself with a conceited smile that he'd already learned all of the letters on the charts by heart.
The Colonel's harsh face gradually became softer. Nobody was able to resist Adolf Galland’s charms, neither his superiors, friends, nor women.
"Fine, then," remarked the Colonel. "Condor Legion needs brave and skilled pilots, so you'll be flying the He 51. Do you know the machine? Spain is waiting for our help… Lieutenant."
March 1937, Salamanca
A game of cards was being played at headquarters. Richthofen turned to reach his cigar case, but Galland beat him to it.
"Care for a cigar, Herr Colonel?"
"Where do you get such amazing cigars, Dolfo?"
"It’s a military secret. Life's too short to deprive oneself of comfort."
"Is it true you have oysters and champagne on board your aircraft?"
"One must be prepared for everything, like the celebrating another victory."
"Well said, Dolfo," Richthofen inhaled and produced a ring of smoke that floated in the air. "It’s good that we finally have German pilots flying German planes. Between you and me, those Spaniards are completely useless in the sky. We made the right choice to give up our roles as instructors and passive observers."
"And it's also much more interesting work," Galland added with a smile.
"You must get a feeling of delight each time you see one of those deadly flowers bloom after you drop a bomb." Richthofen said. "However, developing the first bombers was not a challenge. The Luftwaffe is at such a young age that experiments become a necessity. Without them, we risk not gaining experience."
"Well, this war gives every opportunity to test theories our academics are trying to develop," Galland acknowledged. "However, from the experience we already have, I gather we should also share some efforts to help develop fighter craft."
"The defense?" Richthofen snorted. "Never!"
"I’m not talking of defense," objected Galland. "I'm talking about common sense."
"Well, Dolfo," replied Richtofen. "You'll have a wonderful opportunity to test all of your theories. This is no drill. This is a real war. Isn't it wonderful?"
March 1937, in the neighbourhood of Bilbao
"Herr Colonel, the defector wants to talk to you in person," the young officer saluted to von Richthofen. His expression was bland, but his voice gave way with trembling excitement. "He says he has some information about Cinturón."
"See him in," said the Colonel.
The capture of Bilbao was vital and a matter of honor for Condor Legion, not to mention it was a vital port with a rich iron ore reserve. There were other difficulties, as Biscay was not properly Spanish, but it was a small province of Basque country and a group of officers discussed if the Basques could be regarded as representatives of the Aryan race, or if they were something different.
"In any case," General von Sperrle contended, "from a political point of view, they are different. See for yourselves, meine Herrschaften!"
"One should bear in mind that Bilbao is still pro-British," Richtofen said. "The precious iron ore still goes to the Fuhrer’s worst enemy: England. It should be stopped."
"That’s no surprise," said Galland, a squadron commander. "They boastfully named their fortification the Iron Belt."
"We know interesting facts about this Cinturón," Richthofen stated. "The defector proved to be one of the designers of this fortification."
"Also, we know that the system is built too close to Bilbao, which makes it a danger to the city itself, taking into consideration that we have long-ranged artillery," von Richthofen indicated. "Next, fortifications are partially located on the Cantabrian Mountains without any camouflage. The western part of the system directed to Santander is better fortified than the eastern one. This gives us some advantage. If, of course, infantry supports us. Surely we will win anyway, but it’s always a pity when, after our productive bombings and or tank attacks, the Spanish infantry fails to take new positions or otherwise exploit success and just sticks around some pastoral hill."
April 26, 1937, in the neighbourhood of Bilbao
"Our task," Galland showed the direction on the map to his pilots, "is to drop bombs on the roads and bridges, destroying communications in 30 kilometres around Bilbao." His finder stopped at a village named Guernica. "Here."
Planes rose in the air. There were more than 40 bombers: from trimotores to the new He 111. They were covered by 20 fighters, mostly He 51 and Fiat-32s. A new product of German aircraft construction, the Bf 109, was also to have its combat test.
It was a splendid sunny day. The village was bright, people strolled, the market was busy. Wooden houses with tiled roofs, an open aqueduct…
April 26, 1937, about 3 p.m., Guernica
The first bomb fell.
Nothing could be seen in the smoke. Then dark figures appeared -- people seeking shelter.
Plunging low, the planes dropped bombs and again sped upward. The bombers were followed by fighters, machine guns fired on moving targets. The figures stumbled and fell; the houses caught fire one after another. It was a spectacular sight. Everything on the ground was surreal and sinisterly beautiful.
April 26, 1937, about 5 p.m., 15 km south-west to Guernica
The car stopped. George Steer, a journalist of The Times, opened the door, got out of the car, and stood rigid. He couldn't believe his eyes. The Spanish driver clutched his head.
"What is it, Jose?" Steer mumbled.
"The doomsday," Jose answered. "That’s what it is..."
"Drive," Steer got in the car again. And when Jose started to argue, he shouted "Drive! I must see it for myself."
6.30 p.m., Guernica
Steer walked around smoking debris and couldn’t believe his eyes. The only question pounded in his mind: "Why?"
Guernica was not a military object. It was just a small village. One of the many.
No, actually it wasn’t. It had been an ancient Basque capital. Here their holy oak had earlier stood where ancient rulers had held their legendary courts. As far as Steer knew, only a stump was left of the tree, but new seedlings had appeared.
He walked, and watched, and strove to remember it all. The pavement burned hot. He felt it through the soles of his boots.
April 28, 1937, Paris
Picasso threw a copy of the London Times away. A small article modestly titled "Telegram from Guernica" seemed to bleed out onto the table of his Paris flat.
"Guernica, the most ancient town of the Basques and the centre of their cultural tradition was totally destroyed yesterday afternoon by insurgent air raiders.
The bombardment took three hours and a quarter, during which German and Italian planes did not cease dropping bombs and incendiary projectiles on innocent civilians. When I came to the village, it was a horrible sight. The fire engulfed it entirely. All night long the houses crashed, the streets became impenetrable. The fire gave a crimson colour to the smoke fuming at the mountain's slopes.
Guernica wasn’t a military object. Apparently, the bombing was aimed to demoralize the civilians."
The whole village destroyed? Dropping bombs on the heads of women, children, and old men? And it’s all happening in Spain right now! They waited for Picasso to paint a picture which would become the centre of the Spanish pavilion. "Pablo, you must paint something tremendous. Your work must "explode." You understand, right?" his friend kept telling him.
They wanted him to produce the manifesto of cubism. And he would give them one. His new picture "Guernica" would "explode" to fight the cruelty, to fight mindless destruction, it would make the whole world understand the true face of fascism. The public conscience wasn’t used to bombings of cities and innocent civilians. Picasso’s genius underderstood the dreadful idea of total annihilation. He would warn Europe that it had set free the beast that would be impossible cage again.
Picasso took the brush.
April 29, 1937, In the neighbourhood of Bilbao
"General Mola demands a report," Richthofen outraged. "He should have known that Condor Legion is out of his subordination. We report to the caudillo only, and he seems to have no complaints."
"The destruction of a village with no military objects also raises a list of questions in the world community," von Schperrle said.
"Who cares? The world community may wipe their… we could say Guernica was burnt by rebels. They did put cities on fire earlier when retreating."
"Nobody will believe that." Von Schperrle shook his head. "There was something ancient and sacred for the Basques in Guernica. Even if the head of their government Mr. Agirre had issued such an order, which is itself impossible, no Basque would have followed it."
"Could it be that the bombing was made by mistake?"
"This mistake lasted for three hours and a quarter. The worse is that there happened to be a journalist and someone of the local clergy. He's already written to the Vatican."
"The Vatican? They support the caudillo. The other thing is annoying: we’ve bombed the village and the communications around it, and Spanish infantry hasn’t taken any advantage of this splendid opportunity."
April 30, 1937, Guernica
Canonic Alberto de Onaindia took a piece of paper. Tears stood in his eyes, his hands shook. He lost sleep and spent nights praying. But even prayers couldn’t give him peace. The fire that he had witnessed still echoed inside. It seemed to him that the flames of Guernica had burnt an eternal wound in his heart.
Finally he decided to pour his feelings into a letter to Cardinal Goma, the highest individual in the Spanish Church:
"Women and children buried in trenches, mothers praying loudly, Catholics murdered by criminals without mercy… Unfortunate people who had found refuge from air attacks had to flee from the village under machine gun fire. The whole place burnt. I left Guernica at one o’clock in the morning. Paralyzed by horror, nobody cried or screamed. Unbearable tortures turned us all into stone statues.
Your Eminence, for the greatness and the glory of God’s word, for the body and blood of the gracious God, one can’t let the same apocalyptic crime to be committed in Bilbao."
He asked the Catholic Church to stand up for the land of the Basques.
The answer came in a week.
Cardinal Goma wrote:
"In response to your desperate letter, let me give a simple piece of advice: let Bilbao surrender."
September 1942, Berlin
Without lowering his eyes, Adolf Galland listened to a vexed Goering.
"Not a single bomb will fall to the land of Germany!" Reichsmarschall uttered. "This is a promise I gave to the German people, and I will keep it."
"They’ve already fell," Galland answered sullenly. "You can fly and see for yourself"
"Have they? Then make them never fall again!" Goering shouted. "Don’t act the fool, Dolfo. Germany won’t switch to defense. Ours is an attack!"
Dolfo knew what cities destroyed by air attacks looked like. He knew it damn well. He hadn't any doubt that the lesson taught at Guernica were learned not only by the Germans, but by their enemies…
1940, Paris
Picasso was in Paris when it was occupied by the Germans. That morning he sat in his apartment and frowned into the window. A knock came at the door.
Picasso got up and opened the door. Two officers in black uniforms entered. They were polite and upright. They looked around with interest. Their attention was caught by a reproduction of "Guernica" which hung on the wall.
"You’re a painter, aren’t you?" one of the officers addressed Picasso. "We were told so."
"You were told right," Picasso muttered.
A German officer pointed to the reproduction. "Did you do that?"
Picasso narrowed his eyes and replied:
"No, you did."
© A. Martyanov. Sep. 22, 2012.
