2009-09-26T04:21:00.001-07:00

Bailén: the Thirst for Spanish History

Spain is a country of bars; if everything thing else goes wrong, you can always be sure of finding a friendly bar to water your horse and encounter salutary refreshment.
Or so I thought! I had swallowed whole the old statistic that in Andalusia there are more bars than in the rest of Europe combined, and yet when, like Napoleon’s army in July 1808, I arrived at Bailén, it was at first my misfortune to spend a miserable two hours looking for sustenance on premises that did not concentrate on ice creams and cakes, before finally giving up and having supper in the empty hotel restaurant.
However, the sun always rises and, the following morning I walked up a gentle slope behind the hotel and found, not only a huge, pedestrian square dedicated to the battle, but also a veritable plethora of bars and restaurants with delightful views over the surrounding countryside. There was even the ubiquitous Irish pub goddamit!
And yet of course, we hadn’t come for such frivolities as food and drink, but to meet up with Juan Soriano, the official Chronicler of Bailén, who very generously offered to take the morning off work to show us what remains of this historic battlefield, where Napoleon’s army was beaten for the first time, where the myth of his invincibility was smashed forever, inspiring nations across Europe to oppose him, and where the Duke of Wellington’s poor opinion of Spanish troops proved to be erroneous.
Historians agree that the battle was as much a French defeat as it was a Spanish victory, and the fact of the matter is that with hindsight it is easy to see clear reasons why the French lost.
Most important of all was the terrain, and when Juan took us out of the town and showed us the old royal road to Madrid along which the Spanish forces arrived at Bailén, it became clear why they at no point during the battle were able to deploy their full force. As it was, of the 27,000 recently recruited French troops in the area, less than 12,000, 20% of which were sick or wounded anyway, got anywhere near the battlefield to face over 17,000 Spaniards.
The narrow twisting road which fed the army upwards and onto the battlefield was simply too narrow to allow them to arrive in sufficient numbers together. Furthermore, as the baggage train of 500 wagons was located at the front of the convoy because they believed their enemies to be in their rear, the troops, stretched out over seven kilometres, had to squeeze past the entire baggage train, passing the mill which was their headquarters during the battle, and leave the river behind to advance the remaining seven kilometres to the battlefield in dribs and drabs. And all this after marching all night! If they hadn’t been French, you could almost feel sorry for them.
The river was also important because it was the only water available to the French soldiers, apart from a supply in No Man’s Land called ‘La Noria de San Lázaro’, which the French troops could only reach by risking Spanish bullets and cannonballs.
The Spanish army on the other hand, fought with its back to the town, well supplied with food, drink, shade and even female company, while the French sweltered in the up to 50 degrees of heat of an Andalusian summer’s day among the olive groves that also impeded their deployment.
Many of the French soldiers in fact died of thirst or deserted, whereas the Spanish managed to casually burn down a whole street while making a barbeque at the end of the battle.
The French army, like all Napoleon’s armies, consisted of its fair share of other nationalities pressed into service when their nations were conquered, or of mercenaries, like the Swiss. Unfortunately for the French commander Dupont, the Spanish commander, General Reding was of Swiss descent, and also had Swiss troops, 1,110 in fact, factors which probably explain why Dupont’s Swiss decided to change sides in mid-battle.
Most of the battlefield has been urbanised since 1808, but it is still possible for the moment to visit the Noria’s remains, next to the stone pool into which the French troops desperately hurled themselves during the battle, risking life and limb for a drink, a sensation probably not unlike our first night in Bailén.
The town has various monuments; up the top near the Irish pub is the monument to General Castaños, who arrived when the fighting was over and promptly dispatched his victorious Generals as far away as possible, converting himself into the hero of Bailén, for which he paid the price of having his corpse exhumed and buried in a church there in 1963.
A recent statue of Reding stakes his claim to being the true Spanish hero; but then the name probably just didn’t sound Spanish enough for him to be the hero of Bailén!
There are many myths and legends surrounding the battle. One of them refers to the ‘Treasure of Cordoba’, which was the booty that the Spanish army is believed to have been carrying, having just looted the city a few days before. Even today, according to Juan Sorriano, grubby-looking men with metal detectors will occasionally appear on the battlefield seeking the treasure that was never recovered (or so the upright citizens of Cordoba told the insurance company at the time!)
Although the British didn’t fight at Bailén, there was a General of Irish descent called Felix Jones present, as well as 1,824 Irish troops, and we did play a secondary role by breaking a promise to take care of the almost 20,000 French prisoners, who were consequently dumped in the Balearic Islands, where most of them died in windsurfing accidents, or the early 19th century equivalent.
The French never reached the Spanish lines at any time during the battle, nor did they reached the new visitor’s centre, which is supposed to architecturally suggest a cannon, although I couldn’t quite make it out, and is full of panels retelling the story and a couple of knickknacks that Juan sniffed at disapprovingly as we strolled through the empty rooms.
Although the battle was fought in 1808, the Spanish put a lot of ‘mañanas’ between that date and the year when they finally got around to building a monument to their heroes. The first one was built in 1860, and still stands in a small square, showing a flag-wielding statue of Iberia, a Roman Goddess of Victory. An interesting detail is the rabbit on her crown, a reference to the Roman notion that Spain was a nation of rabbits, in the strictly zoological sense.
On the edge of town there is also a monument to Maria Bellido, the obligatory heroine of the battle, and who was according to Juan, probably invented round about 1862 when a wave of uncontrolled feminism swept Spain as Queen Isabella II sought some much needed popularity by promoting the feminine figure.
The statue of Maria Bellido shows a muscular woman in an apron carrying a broken water pot. Not exactly inspiring admittedly, but the legend says that her pot was smashed by French bullets as she offered water to the Spanish front line troops, but that she ignored this minor setback and continued to offer what water remained amongst the shards anyway.
Even though there are few things to be seen today at Bailén for the serious casual historian, Juan Sorriano’s narrative makes up for it, and it is easy to imagine (and enjoy) images of French troops struggling uphill without water or even a decent Beaujolais, their pockets bulging with stolen treasure, only to face the massed Spanish guns, which were of much greater calibre than the light French guns because the Spanish troops had been on their way to besiege Andujar when they reached Bailén.
As we made our way down a hill where the town’s water supply is today, Juan told us about how he had once encountered an English couple suffering from the summer midday sun and desperately trying to get out of Bailén, having arrived to see a historical site and found very little. There are no noticeable indications in sight as to where the battle took place, and if you don’t have the help of an amateur enthusiast like Juan, or his colleague Diego who joined us later, then you would probably also end up like that English couple, or indeed like the entire French army, screaming for an exit.
And you probably wouldn’t notice the tiny building known as the hermitage, near the Spanish lines, with the tombstone at the door where the French Cavalry General Dupré, who was shot in the head during an attack, is buried.
Nor would you hear some of the delightful anecdotes, such as the one about the French General, sawn in half by Spanish guerrillas near the wild ravine known as ‘Desfiladero de Despeñaperros’.
And you would be left to invent for yourself the horror of it taking two months to scrape holes in the ground to bury the two thousand dead, many of whom were later dug out and eaten by wild dogs.
Although Wellington didn’t intervene at Bailén, where the town’s festival is such a riot of Spanish flags that they have even received threats from ETA, Juan told us that there is in fact a British cemetery at nearby Linares, where there used to be lead and silver mines exploited by a British company, and that not only is it well looked after, but there is even a book written about it.
Juan Sorriano feels passionately about conserving the historical heritage of Bailén, and welcomes visitors who would prefer to skip the visitors centre and explore the real thing. He doesn’t speak English by the way.
He can be contacted at: cronistabailen@telefonica.net or by telephone at 649224993, which amusingly plays the Spanish National Anthem when it rings!

Huelva British Cemetery: Fighting Against the Odds

Tom Dooley is a striking man, in fact he is the kind of man who strikes you as soon as you meet him; his friendly slap on the shoulder having sent many a back to the future.
Tom is a restless soul, and any attempt to pin him down on which countries he has lived and worked in is best resolved by asking him for a list of those in which he hasn’t. Australia, Vietnam, Dubai and India would name but a very few.
Tom’s idea of fun is to ride a motorbike from Sydney to London, and to terrify journalists by speeding around the roundabouts of Huelva in his ‘informal’ car.
It was Tom’s own restless sense of curiosity and his attempts to resolve a mystery that led us to get in contact with him through a Teesside newspaper, where he had collaborated on an article about the appalling condition of the two Commonwealth War Graves in Huelva’s British Cemetery near his current residence on the Portuguese border at Ayamonte. He also revealed to us further mysteries about the 'Man Who Never Was', and about the tulips that were regularly placed upon those headstones, despite the apparent state of abandonment of the cemetery.
Tom and another British citizen living near Huelva started a campaign to restore the CWGC graves to their former glory and, lo and behold, a week before our arrival in Huelva in March 2009, they were in fact spruced up very nicely; which is more than can be said for the rest of the cemetery, which is owned by the Anglican Church of Spain, whose titular head in Archbishop Carlos Lopez Lozano. This sudden flurry of activity after years of neglect was of course totally unconnected to our correspondence with the War Graves Commission in Rome, from where the Spanish sites are administered, presumably because we share the same Mediterranean, if nothing else.
In Huelva the British influence, from the days when the mines of Rio Tinto were exploited, can still be seen. There is a whole neighbourhood called ‘Barrio de Reina Victoria’ that looks just like a little bit of Brighton or Westward Ho transplanted in the middle of this not very attractive city, which was destroyed by the same earthquake that devastated Lisbon in 1755.
There is also the Rio Tinto pier, now an attractive venue for young couples hoping to see the same attractive sunsets that attracted Stephen Spielberg to the nearby village of Trebujena, where he filmed the prison camp scenes of Empire of the Sun.
One of the mines has now been transformed into a theme park, and the other is, according to Tom, who has leaped the fence a few times, rusting in glorious decadence, but largely intact way up in ‘them thar hills’ behind the city.
Tom took us first of all to the Municipal cemetery, where we visited the grave, without a characteristic CWGC headstone, of ‘the man who never was’, subject of a book and film; the man whose body was dumped by British Intelligence in the sea near Huelva with a false identity and documents as part of ‘Operation Mincemeat,’ in order to convince the Germans during World War II that the Allies planned to invade Southern Europe through Greece and Sardinia rather than through Sicily.
According to retired British Consul for Malaga, Bruce McIntyre: “documents released a few years ago provided the true identity of this person. This ‘casualty’ was for many years considered to be the cadaver of a civilian. It was because of this that he was buried in a civilian grave in Huelva Catholic Cemetery. When his true Service identity became known, the CWGC considered that after so many years it would not be appropriate to put up a CWGC headstone. Nevertheless, the grave is recognized as a War Grave and the CWGC pay maintenance towards its upkeep”.
The grave identifies the body as Glyndwrm Martin, who ‘served as William Martin’ and also, incongruously, bears the epitaph “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori”, (it is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country), although it is uncertain if this is intended by the CWGC to be ironic, as it was when Wilfred Owen quoted Horace in his famous World War One poem.
According to Tom Dooley: “ ‘the Man Who Never Was’ was interred as a member of the armed forces and a detailed plan initiated to cover his allegedly 'non-military' status, including a very elaborate 'military style' funeral attended by British and Spanish high ranking officials. It is surprising that the detail of an ‘official’ or CWGC headstone was overlooked. The attempts to disguise his allegedly ‘non-military’ status went on for years after the war, so the lapse of time does not seem to account for this lack of a CWGC headstone”.
The grave bears fresh flowers, and it took Tom some research to discover that they had been laid by Isabel Naylor. This delightful, elderly lady is also a part of Huelva’s British heritage, and although married to a Spaniard, and now belonging to the second of five generations of her family in the town, she maintains her British identity, and has for many year’s continued the tradition of her father, an engineer with Rio Tinto, of offering a floral tribute to the three British servicemen on Remembrance Day each year, a tradition that began when she used to accompany him to the ceremony at the World War I monument at the Rio Tinto mine.
The graves in question are those of Australian Sergeant AVERN, GEOFFREY LENNOX of the Royal Australian Air Force, died 19/04/1942, aged 27, and Sergeant CROSSAN, PHILIP BERNARD of 236 Squadron of the Royal Air Force, who died aged 21 on the 19/04/1942.
When Tom raised the question of the graves with a Teeside newspaper, who located relatives of Sergeant Crossan, they also called for the graves to be properly maintained.
This has now been done, thanks to the efforts of Tom and of Isabel, who had already been awarded the MBE in 2005 for her efforts, although the question remains as to what will happen the next time the grass grows over them, or the local youth decide that they are too new and whole to fit in with the rest.
The two airmen were originally buried in Gibraleón Catholic cemetery. Their aircraft came down near this village and their remains were not removed to Huelva cemetery until the 1950s for the reason that their graves could be better cared for. As this no longer seems to be the case, there seems to be a good argument for one final move, perhaps to Malaga’s British Cemetery, where the local Royal Airforce Association looks after their own four CWGC graves admirably, and even renders them military honours each year.
The cemetery at Huelva is, as I said, owned by the Spanish Anglican Church, and when I spoke to Archbishop, Carlos López, I was told that the lack of funds make it difficult to maintain the cemetery, although he did promise to have the grass cut the following week and to discuss the option of a voluntary Trust or committee to look after it.
This should please Isabel Naylor, who has fought an often lonely battle to ensure that the cemetery, where her own father was buried, be cleaned up rather than becoming a sanctuary for weeds and rubble, and for local youths looking for somewhere quiet to get stoned.
Apart from the two airmen, the cemetery is also supposed to hold the body of a World War I Royal Navy seaman, Percy Longthorpe, who died in 1918, and who is commemorated by a wall plaque; but he is also 'missing'. Tom told us that: “he died as a result of drowning and his body was reported as ‘not recovered’ in his ship's surgeon's log, although according to CWGC records he is ‘buried’ in Huelva cemetery”.
Why he lacks a CWGC headstone is also a mystery.
The cemetery contains many other graves, including that of a tanker Captain who, in the 1970s, with his ship on fire, was refused permission by the French to dock, and who was killed in the subsequent explosion. And there are many more, each of which has a story to tell about the international nature of this city, but which have fallen into a sorry state because of the lack of interest from the various authorities and of the local British community who, with a few noble exceptions, do not seem to be very concerned about Anglo-Spanish heritage.
Should you chose to visit the British cemetery, the keys are in the offices of the Municipal cemetery adjacent, although don’t be surprised if they tell you that the German Consul has the keys. Don’t bother asking the German Consul for them as he doesn’t exist; just be persistent.
You shouldn’t be surprised either to find the cemetery occupied by young Spaniards, as we did, who regularly leap the walls to satisfy whatever unsatisfied urges they seem to have. They even asked us how they could get permission to ‘use’ the cemetery in future!
But if you’d like a real tour, you could always contact Tom Dooley at tomdooley58@hotmail.com, although I suggest you take your own car!

Seville British Cemetery: Who Needs James Bond?

The Alfonso XIII Hotel in Seville is famous for two things; firstly in that it is used to portray the courtyard of the Officers’ Club where Lawrence of Arabia is first spurned and then cheered as he swans into the Officers’ Club to announce that “we have taken Akaba” and that he would like a glass of lemonade for his friend (the one who didn’t disappear in the inappropriately named ‘quicksand’), and secondly because it was where Henri Leonard Thomas Peulevé DSO, MC died on the 18th March 1963.
Peulevé was born in Algiers and lived in France for some years, where he became a fluent speaker of that tongue. He was also an electrical engineer, working for Pye Radio and the Baird Television Company before joining the BBC in 1936. Perfect French Resistance material I can hear you thinking!
He was a Staff Sergeant with an AA battery with the British Expeditionary Force at Arras in early 1940, but was evacuated in May as German forces approached. He eventually reached Nantes, and later offered his services to the War Office.
In March 1942 he joined the French Section of the Special Operations Executive, which had been formed in 1940 to encourage resistance and sabotage in occupied countries.
On his first drop into occupied France he broke his leg and had to be taken to a clinic in Nimes run by Franciscan nuns. He contacted other British agents in the area but was so disturbed by their poor security measures that he decided to head for Spain.
Despite problems with finding guides, Peulevé crossed the Pyrenees on the night of 21st December on crutches.
Not having his papers in order, he was arrested the next morning by Spanish police and sent to Figueras prison, where he remained until being removed to a camp at Jaraba in February 1943. On 11th April he escaped during a hospital visit to Zaragoza, and managed to reach the British embassy in Madrid, arriving in the UK three weeks later.
On his second mission in southern France he set up a resistance group, which helped train and arm more than 4,000 resistance fighters, before being arrested on 21st March 1944.
He was tortured for several days before being transferred to solitary confinement at Fresnes prison. He later made an escape attempt but was shot in the thigh, removing the bullet himself with a spoon. Luxury!
On 8 August, Peulevé and thirty-six other agents were transported to Verdun, and then on to a transit camp at Saarbrücken inside Germany.
Four days later they were transported to Buchenwald concentration camp. On 9th September, sixteen of the group were hanged in the crematorium. In collaboration with the secretary of the camp doctor, some of them were hidden in Block 46, where human guinea pigs were being used to carry out experiments on new typhus vaccines.
On 5th October, another eleven agents were executed by firing squad. On 9th October, Peulevé swapped identities with a dead French typhus victim and was sent to work at the Junkers factory at Schönebeck.
On 11th April he was able to escape, but was stopped by two SS officers. He claimed to be a French collaborator and then managed to capture them and hand them over to the nearby Americans
He was demobilised in March 1946 and worked for several years for Shell in South America, being transferred to Tunis in 1952. He was later deported from Egypt by President Nasser's government, but continued working abroad in Spain and the West Indies.
Peulevé is supposed to have died of a heart attack, although there is welcome speculation of skulduggery, and he was buried in the British Cemetery in Seville, where we were accompanied on our visit by Lynda Martin, secretary to the Association of Saint George, who are fighting a noble battle against the new Gestapo, the construction companies who want to demolish and build over this monument to the British influence in Seville.
But the spirit of Dunkirk is alive in this beautiful city, and Manolo the maintenance man pops in to keep the cemetery in reasonable condition and clear up after the drunks and vandals who, all over the world it seems, believe they can keep death at bay by shattering other people’s tombstones. It may or may not be significant that the vandalism especially seems to affect the tombs of the families who are actively involved in preserving the cemetery against the inroads of so-called ‘progress’.
The cemetery was built on land donated by John Cunningham, manager of the MacAndrews Steamship Company, which was founded in 1770 by eighteen-year-old Scotsman William MacAndrew to import fruit from Spain, Portugal and the Azores. Cunningham was a great philanthropist in Seville and so much loved in life and wept for at his death that the Spanish authorities wouldn’t allow him to be buried in his cemetery under his own name, but only with the Spanish translation ‘Juan’.
The cemetery, which is attached to the San Jeronimo Monastery, is like many British cemeteries a history book of our Anglo-Spanish past, and contains much evidence of mixed marriages, as can be seen on the plaque to Alfred John Hines, referred to as ‘Alfie El Abuelo’, buried in 1966.
Lynda Martin, who moved to Spain flushed with romance to follow a Spanish pop star in a group called Los Crich, a star who is now her husband, also told us the story of two Spanish policemen turning up at her office, one of whom turned out to be the grandson of an English émigré called Thomas Harris, who was buried in the cemetery in 1916.
The efforts of the construction companies to create their own version of ‘Poltergeist’ have resulted in a halt to burials (the last one was Argentinean citizen Evelyn Cowley buried in 1996). This is quite a blow to people like Maria Henderson, who will now not be allowed to join her husband, the ex Consul, despite having paid for the plot in advance.
Many of those buried here died from drowning or explosions in boiler rooms on ships, and there are many, too many young children sharing graves with their parents, evidence of the high infant mortality rate of previous eras.
Their memory is protected by a dozen volunteers who, like other groups all over Spain, are motivated by a sense of history and a sense of decency, in opposition to those whose concept of ‘progress’ is on a par with Attila the Hun’s.
The single Commonwealth war Grave in Seville’s British cemetery is a bit of a mystery, even ex-British Consul for Malaga, Bruce McIntyre, who has taken a special interest in the graves, didn’t know it was there. It belongs to Wilfred John Gilbert a Private in the Somerset Light Infantry who died aged 24 on 21/07/1941. But the grave obviously hasn’t been tended for years and nobody associated with the cemetery seems to know why he’s there.
Perhaps like Peulevé he crossed the Pyrenees from occupied France but didn’t make it back home. Efforts to get an answer from his regiment have so far produced no response.
‘Spirit of Resistance. The life of SOE Agent Harry Peulevé,’ has been published by author Nigel Perrin.

Joseph Collins at Zahara de los Atunes: A Terrible Beauty

Zahara de Los Atunes, as the name suggests, used to be a fishing village where tuna was the main catch. Now its long beaches are bait for sun-loving tourists, although tuna still prevails on the menus of its restaurants.
It is located on a spectacular coastline between Algeciras and Cadiz in an area of modern wind farms and green hills with grazing cattle more reminiscent of Scotland than Southern Spain. And yet it is nearby Grazalema which has the highest level of rainfall in the whole of Spain.
It was to this coast on 22nd February 1943 that Able Seaman Joseph Collins’ body washed ashore, after the ship that he’d been returning home on was struck and sunk by mines laid by a German U-Boat, which killed seven of her crew, including the Captain.
Collins was serving on HMS Laforey and was on his way home to visit his pregnant wife Ellen Margaret and his mother, when tragedy struck , and he never made it home to Milnsbridge, Huddersfield to see his son, Anthony, who told us: “his body was recovered and buried at Zahara de los Atunes. The local people recovered personal items from his body and returned them to my mother via the British Naval Attaché. These included his wedding ring, wristwatch and a small prayer book, for which we are most grateful. At the time my mother was pregnant and I was born on 30th July 1943”.
The CWGC grave at Zahara is only one of a few that is actually in the ground rather than in a wall niche, and its story is indicative once again of the fact that the CWGC office for Spain, based as it is in Rome, is unable to keep a close eye on what happens to its charges.
Ex-British Consul for Malaga Bruce McIntyre informed us: “his grave is shown on the original burial map as being under what is now as row of niches on the left as you enter the cemetery. At some stage in time it was moved without authorisation to its present location by the builder of the niches (who incidentally did not have the authority of the Church to build them. The parish did not at that time have a resident priest; the builder just presented it as a fait accompli when the new priest arrived!)
Having visited the cemetery shortly after my arrival I was in contact with the CWGC and they eventually agreed to replace the headstone as closely as possible to the original site. They went to considerable trouble and expense to move the headstone to the end of the row of niches. When I later visited, I discovered that the grave had once again been moved, back to where it had been before. When I complained to the parish priest I was informed that the relatives of Able Seaman Collins had instructed a local builder to move the grave back to where it had been before.”
Anthony Collins clarified this and informed us that: “his original grave was built over as described and the CWGC (Med) put the headstone on the end of the niche which appeared like a plaque. I was asked by CWGC if I would prefer it to be moved back as close as possible to the original site and they made all the necessary arrangements with the local builder etc. I felt this was the best solution to an unsatisfactory situation and to protect my mother from the trauma of knowing the grave had been built over. I hope this clears up the confusion”.
The cemetery at Zahara, which is now inside the town limits due to urban growth of this lively summer resort, is small and well-looked after, but was closed when we arrived. Enquiries at the church produced a delightful lady who accompanied us with the keys and let us in.
As if the story of Able Seaman Collins was not sad enough already, she made a point of showing us the well-tended grave of her own 20 year old daughter, a victim of cancer.
That evening we watched the sun setting over the sea, a treat for those of us who live in Valencia, and contemplated how much violence the seas around Gibraltar had seen, and that it wasn’t even necessary for men to go to war to make women weep.
As for the German U-Boat, U-118, which sank Joseph Collin’s ship, history was not kind to its crew’s womenfolk either.
Captained by Werner Czygan, the submarine was sunk on 12th June 1943 in the mid-Atlantic west of the Canary Islands by depth charges from eight Avenger aircraft of the US escort carrier USS Bogue. Czygan was among the 43 dead.

Reina Cristina: A Very British Hotel in Algeciras

Algeciras is not a very attractive town, despite its attractive geographical position, but we had arrived there with the intention of visiting a single Commonwealth war Grave in the local cemetery and of taking from there the ferry to Ceuta, where several Commonwealth sailors and airmen are buried.
As the town is hardly a tourist resort, we decided to compensate ourselves by staying at one of Spain’s most interesting hotel.
It is hardly surprising that members of the British Legion from all over Spain and beyond have chosen the Reina Cristina Hotel in Algeciras as the ideal place to celebrate Christmas for the last fifty years. It is after all a most British hotel.
Queen Cristina was the mother of the Spanish King Alfonso XIII (whose wife was British and a granddaughter of our own sorely missed Queen Victoria) (she of the ‘Victorian values’).
The hotel owes its existence to the railway which the Spanish government decided to build from Bobadilla to Algeciras in 1890. At the time, nobody built railways like the British, and so the contract was offered to Sir (later Lord) Alexander Henderson.
Henderson moved to Algeciras to begin the work and fell in love with the area, deciding to build not only a hotel there, but also a sister hotel in Ronda to be called Reina Victoria.
It was the engineer John Morrison who actually built the railway, designed to connect Madrid to Algeciras, where a packet steamer could be taken to Gibraltar, and the English architect T. E. Colcutt who designed the hotels, but their names are overshadowed by Henderson himself, the man who provided the money.
Today the hotel is a sedate oasis in the midst of a busy industrial city and one of the most important ports in the world.
From the top rooms you can stare across at Gibraltar, just like the German and Italian spies used to do during World War Two from the very same hotel windows; they even converted the bathrooms into darkrooms to process their film.
The Italian Navy also used the hotel to house the sailors who would pilot the miniature submarines used to attack British shipping, which, as we say, is not really cricket.
On our arrival at the hotel we were greeted by manager Francisco Javier Martinez, who started his hostelry career at Gatwick, and consequently speaks excellent English. He showed us the suites used by the Germans, and now used by important guests and honeymooners, (no we didn’t sleep there by the way!)
He also pointed out some of the fine original silverware, porcelain and artefacts such as an old telephone, a clocking-in machine and a grandfather clock from the original hotel.
He then took us into the library containing 90% of its volumes in English, and regretted not having had the chance to sort through them as most were left by guests and there would undoubtedly be some interesting scribblings among them from some of the many famous guests such as President Roosevelt, Edward Heath, Lord Mountbatten or even Rock Hudson and Orson Welles.
Unfortunately the hotel is not the original, which was destroyed by fire in 1928 but rebuilt almost exactly the same but with an extra floor to be reopened in 1932 (the original opened in 1901).
The opening licence, only recently unearthed by Municipal Archive Director Agustin del Valle, and on view in the foyer, bears the shorter name ‘Hotel Cristina’, as the reopening took place during a Republican period.
Also on display in the foyer are photographs of the Conference of Algeciras from January to April 1906, when Morocco was divided up among the super powers of the time in a conference involving twelve nations and witnessed by a young journalist named Winston Churchill.
Next to the reception desk are two gold plaques reproducing original signatures from the golden book (now lost) in which famous signatures of hospital guests can be made out, including Federico García Lorca, Marshal Petain, Lord Halifax, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Charles de Gaulle, Cole Porter and Ava Gardner.
The delightful architecture provides a restful ambience to remember better times when ladies and gentlemen could be saved the stress and strain of modernity by retiring to such elegant surroundings and be pampered by servile servants as we were pampered (without the servility) by the excellent English speaking staff of this delightful and very British place.
The weight of history hangs pleasantly about your shoulders as you stroll across the manicured lawns looking across the Bay of Algeciras at the rock of contention and remembering the many centuries of friendship and conflicted that have entwined Britain and Spain; in the case of Gibraltar as a source of conflict, but in the Hotel Reina Cristina as a symbol of peaceful co-operation.

Is there anybody there? The Mystery of Eric Vernall

A single, ominous word stands out on the cemetery register page that refers to the burial in Algeciras of Sergeant Eric Vernall, a wireless Operator and Gunner of the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve, whose body washed up on the Spanish shore in July 1942. The word is “vacio” (empty).
The son of Henry Thomas Vernall and Rhoda Mary Vernall, of Cwmaman, Aberdare, Glamorgan, Eric was only twenty years old when he died, but is not forgotten in his village, where his living relatives informed us that “as Eric was the last male to have the surname Vernall, there are no more Vernall’s around our area”. The relatives: Denzil Cooke, John Sullivan, Derek Cumner, Valmai Stephens and Colin Lewis were inevitably upset to learn that the Commonwealth War Graves Commission headstone marking the grave might in fact be a façade covering up either negligence or lack of interest from the Algeciras Cemetery authorities, or the CWGC, or both.
To help us in our investigations we spent a day with the Director of the Municipal Archive at Algeciras, Agustin del Valle, himself a reservist in the Spanish Air Force, who took a very special interest in the fate of Eric Vernall, far greater in fact than that shown by British authorities to date.
Bruce McIntyre, ex British Consul of Malaga commented with a certain air of resignation after a lifetime battling against Spain’s globally infamous bureaucracy: “the Grave in Algeciras is in fact a niche in the older part of the cemetery. The row of niches where it is located is not in very good state of repair, but the niche itself was repaired and I think the plaque was replaced within the last five years. I don’t know why the cemetery Archives should describe the niche as empty, but it would not surprise me. Eric Vernall may have been transferred to Gibraltar. As far as I am aware the CWGC have no record of such transfers”.
Frequent requests for clarification to the CWGC in Rome have as yet met with only vague responses and promises to look into the matter. Vernall’s family on the other hand are very keen to know where his remains are, and are in favour of their being moved to an alternative site such as Malaga’s British Cemetery, where other RAF personnel are very well looked after by the local RAF Association.
The relatives’ representative Colin Lewis, with whom we were put in touch with by Aberdare News, wrote: “I have contacted the members of Eric’s family that are still living in the area and shown them all the E-mails and photos to date. They were very appreciative of your efforts in this matter and asked me to pass on their thanks”.
The single British grave at Algeciras is the only example of a British serviceman currently buried in a wall niche in Andalucia, although this is fairly common at other Spanish sites.
Further enquiries into Agustin’s records reveal the gruesome fact that Vernall’s body had been in the water for 30 days before it was recovered and would obviously have been in poor condition. Agustin took us down to the quiet little beach where the body was found, with the Rock of Gibraltar looming in the background.
Perhaps the attitude of the CWGC is to leave well alone or to let sleeping dogs lie. If this is the case then they might be surprised to learn that the living relatives of these people are not indifferent, as the following communication reveals: “all the living relatives and cousins of Eric Vernall are in agreement for the grave to be moved on the condition that they are kept informed as to where and when his body will be moved: - Hope this helps and if you require any further information then please do not hesitate to contact us or indeed Colin direct, who is happy to act as the voice of the family.
Their spokesman’s e-mail cjlewis1940@btinternet.com has been forwarded to CWGC.
Colin also sent as some newspaper cuttings and a photo of Eric Vernall. The newspaper spoke of his mother Mrs. Rhoda Cook Vernal receiving a letter of sympathy from a chaplain in Gibraltar, which noted that Vernall had been on patrol between the Rock and Malta on July 10th.
The article also spoke proudly of Eric’s marksmanship with the air rifle, with which he was a young champion, and of the last letter home of this only son telling his mother not to worry, and of the death nine months earlier of his father Harry in a colliery accident.
67 years later, tragedy turns to farce as the CWGC’s latest missive reads: “a check of our records reveals that a Graves Registration Report was completed on our behalf by the British Consulate in Seville on 4 March 1948 and confirmed that Eric was buried in Algeciras Municipal Cemetery. This is followed some 6 years later by a further Graves Registration Report which has been completed by one of our own officials, mentioning an accompanying photograph (presumably showing the niche plaque in place). In neither report is there mention of a specific grave location within the cemetery.
Regrettably, our Rome Office, which is responsible for administering the maintenance of the war graves in Spain, can find nothing on their files and have written to both the cemetery authorities and British Consulate in Malaga to see what records they hold. As no response has been forthcoming to date, they have written again and have promised to come back to me as soon as it is received. Naturally I will write to let you know if there are any developments at this time”.
New Malaga Consul Steve Jones declined to meet us on our visit there, so I don’t imagine very much will be ‘developing’ in the immediate future; a certain motto “lest we forget” springs to mind.
Agustin was far livelier in his response to our requests and produced a series of fascinating records from the archives as well as taking us on a tour of the cemetery, pointing out the various graves of British subjects buried there.
He is in fact planning to organise an exhibition about foreign travellers in Spain, people such as Lord Byron who came here seeking romance and adventure. Agustin also has in his possession an interesting collection of documents, including a passport for the Earl of Durham signed by Lord Palmerston himself in 1851.
Agustin was quite excited to discover that he had a couple of Churchills in the cemetery, although his tenants, Emilia and Persileon Winston Churchill, who died on 6th January 1934 and 24th January 1934 respectively, are undoubtedly unrelated to the great man, although the coincidence of the name ‘Winston’ is curious. This Yorkshire Churchill died at the age of 62, and would obviously have been born before the other Winston became famous.
The graves belong to one Eugenia Bassadone, Churchill’s widow. This surname, according to Agustin is very common in the area.
So who if anyone is inside Eric Vernall’s niche? And what if anything will be done about it? All those involved have spoken, and the grinding wheels of bureaucracy will no doubt wind on until somebody more important or better connected gets involved.
Anybody with further information please contact bobyareham@hotmail.com

Jacob Skelhorne’s Story

Out of Africa

One of the most rewarding aspects of investigating the British and Commonwealth War Graves in Spain has without a doubt having been able to contact living relatives of those buried at these sites; to learn from them and occasionally to update their own knowledge about their relatives.
So far, fears that we might be opening old, painful wounds have proved unfounded as those contacted have collaborated and shared information gladly.
Such was the case with Simon Skelhorne, whose grandfather is buried along with some of his shipmates on the Spanish enclave of Ceuta in North Africa.
Simon, who lives in Newton-Le-Willows, was so interested in our intended visit that he actually telephoned us while we were travelling with helpful information about his grandfather. Unfortunately, our visit never materialised as the ferry was not running on the windy day that we had planned our crossing and we were unable to pay Simon’s respects.
According to Simon: “my Grandad Jabez Skelhorne was on board HMS Hecla when she was torpedoed by U 515. He was an engine Room artificer at the time, aged 28 (although the age on his grave reads 31 – he “amended” his birth certificate in order to complete his apprenticeship early as a structural engineer). We are unsure if he was recovered from the water after Hecla sank as wounded, but there are only 8 confirmed dead from Hecla – the rest are “missing presumed killed”. The 8 “confirmed dead” were buried at sea after their bodies were brought back to Casablanca on HMS Venomous. They were buried en route to Gib from Casablanca. Albert Thick, Charlie Stocker and Jabez Skelhorne’s bodies somehow reached Ceuta (either in fishing nets or via the currents) and were interred there.”
The Hecla, a destroyer built by the John Brown Shipbuilding & Engineering Company Ltd. at Clydebank, Scotland was launched on 14th March 1940 and sunk on12th November, 1942 during ‘Operation Torch’, the Allied landings in North Africa. She was torpedoed just after midnight by U-515 and sunk west of Gibraltar in position 35º43'N, 09º54'W. The escorting destroyer HMS Marne was also torpedoed whilst attempting to rescue the survivors and the destroyer had to be towed to Gibraltar. The destroyer HMS Venomous succeeded in rescuing more survivors from Hecla and landed them at Casablanca. In all, 279 of her crew went down with the ship and 568 men were rescued.
The U 515 sank 21 allied ships in all before being sunk on 9th April 1944 by rockets from 4 Avenger and Wildcat aircraft (VC-58) of the US escort carrier USS Guadalcanal and depth charges from the US destroyer escorts USS Pope, USS Pillsbury, USS Chatelain and USS Flaherty. There were 16 dead and 44 survivors, among them Werner Henke, one of Germany’s top U-Boat commanders. He would later “commit suicide” by pretending to be escaping from an American POW camp on 15 June after falling victim for US mind games while in captivity.
Werner Henke was one of the most successful U-boat commanders of the war.
On the same day he sank the Hecla he also damaged the S.S. Marne and three weeks later sank his largest prize the 18,713 ton S.S. Ceramic off the Azores with only one survivor out of 656 on board, who was captured by the U-boat. In all he sank 21 vessels of 131,769 tons and damaged 4 others.
Henke was the subject of a sustained personal attack over the air-waves after the Ceramic sinking and was detained and interrogated at length, being threatened to be handed over to the British as a war criminal. This may have had something to do with his subsequent attempted escape over the compound wire at Fort Meade where he was shot and killed.
Simon told us: “I travelled to Ceuta with my Mother, Rita (currently 74years old) in 2006 to lay a wreath and pay our respects. My mum was only 6 when she lost her dad but does remember a few aspects.
Jabez Skelhorne was a structural engineer from Golborne, Lancs. While serving his apprenticeship his boss was tasked with building a railway bridge (still standing in Helen Street, Golbourne). His boss did not wish to relocate to Chepstow where the bridge was due to be built and suggested that young Jabe was up to the task. Jabez was unable to do this however as he had not yet completed his apprenticeship. After seeking advice from his Uncle (the union man) Jabez “amended” his birth certificate and was old enough to go ahead and build the bridge, now free of his apprenticeship. (His actual age of death was 27 but the grave reads 31) Along with his wife Mary and his daughter Rita they relocated to Chepstow while the bridge was being constructed. After the bridge was completed Jabez took the opportunity to do other contracts in the South of England until the outbreak of War in 1939.
His wife, Mary was not comfortable living in East Ham during war time with the threat of air raids so the family relocated back up north to 4 Lawrence Street, Earlestown, Newton-le-Willows, Lancs. Jabez had itchy feet and applied for the navy and after training at Davenport naval academy joined HMS Hecla as Petty Officer, Engine Room Artificer. My mum recollects going up to Greenock to visit and having lunch aboard the ship with him. Hecla served in Iceland and then was en route to Burma when she hit a Mine. After Hecla hit a mine in South Africa Jabez was promoted to Chief Petty Officer. The ship was in dock for 3 months and then was redirected to North Africa to support the Torch Landings. Unfortunately as you know – she never got that far.
On the list of casualties Jabez appears as ‘Killed’ along with a few others. We are unsure if they were rescued from the sea alive (as bodies were not recovered from the water). A burial at sea was conducted for the dead on board HMS Venomous (a destroyer escort) somewhere between Casablanca and Gibraltar, and for some reason 3 of the bodies were washed ashore at Ceuta. We are unsure if they travelled on the Gulf Stream or were recovered from trawler nets.
In 1958 my Mother and Grandmother visited Ceuta for the first time and my Mother suggested returning Jabez back to the UK.
My Grandma insisted he stayed where he was, resting on foreign soil.
Due to never seeing a body my Grandma was never totally convinced he was dead and always assumed he may return home one day.
After visiting the graves in 2006 we noticed that they were in a very sorry state with most of the wording eroded. It has taken me nearly 3 years of constantly ‘bothering’ the CWGC to have the graves re-written. When they did eventually visit, they informed me that more work will be required as the bodies were re-interred in 1999 and the workmanship was not up to scratch. I am still awaiting info on when the remainder of the work will be done.
As I said, we were unable to visit Ceuta due to our tight schedule. If anyone is going that way I’d be glad to hear about whether the CWGC have remembered their commitment to Jabez and his family.
The Commonwealth war dead are interred at Santa Catalina cemetery, five minutes from the centre and at the foot of Monte Hacho.
Jabez’s comrades were: STOCKER, CHARLES a British Able Seaman Age: 46. Son of John and Alice Stocker; husband of Minnie Stocker, of Blandford, Dorsetshire and THICK, ALBERT J, a British Leading Stoker.
Also buried there are ALLIN, ROBERT ELFORD a Canadian Flight Sergeant Age: 21. Son of Dr. Norman George Allin, M.D. and Elsie Sophia Allin, of Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. BRIND, GEORGE AMBROSE a British Sergeant, Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve. Age: 23. Son of Frederick Ambrose Brind and Ellen Brind, of Barking, Essex. FOX, RAYMOND. A British Sergeant Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve Age: 23. Son of Reuben and Nora Fox, of Pocklington, Yorkshire. GARLAND, JAMES ARTHUR. A British Sergeant Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve. Age: 21. Son of James Alfred and Rebecca Garland of Lupset, Yorkshire. ROSAM, ROBERT CHARLES. A British Sergeant Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve Age: 21. Son of Walter Richard and Alice Tagney Rosam of Worthing, Sussex. WALLACE, UTRICK WATSON a Sergeant and Pilot of the Royal New Zealand Air Force. Age: 21. Son of Harry Wallace and Marianne Frances Wallace, of Thames, Auckland, New Zealand and WARNER, JOHN WILLIAM, a Canadian Flight Sergeant of the Royal Canadian Air Force Age: 20. Son of Charles John and Kate Warner, of London, Ontario. Canada.
All of these fliers died on the 28th January 1943; presumably in the same plane. Again, any information would be welcome.

A Hop, Skip and Jump through Gib-(don’t mention the sovereignty)–raltar

By Bob Yareham & Matthew Quirke

Although it was an obvious obligation as scholars, patriots and gentlemen to visit Gibraltar on this trip, and we were lucky to meet some very knowledgeable local historians, we felt from the beginning that the task was too great for the time available; and anyway it is a task that is already in capable hands.
The manager of the Reina Cristina Hotel in Algeciras had warned us that Gibraltar was a “weird place”, and he was right. It’s like entering a time warp and black hole all at once, and all day long I saw distraught people whispering into their watches something about ‘beaming’ and ‘Scotty’.
But I exaggerate. Being a journalist would after all be pretty boring if you had to tell the truth all the time. Nobody would believe you for a start!
To get into Gib, or Gibbers as we affectionately came to call it, you have to cross the runway (preferably when the planes aren’t landing) and then go through a dank tunnel with en suite busker into the centre, which makes it clear that you are entering a historic military bastion rather than a popular tourist resort.
The red pillar boxes and telephone boxes and Bobbies with Andalusian accents have all been written about until the troops come home. The sudden glut of pubs trying to be English, and Marks and Sparks and BHS succeeding, need no comment.
From the first moment you are hassled by touts offering to drive you up to the top, where all the tourist attractions are, and gleefully informing you that the cable car isn’t working today (they probably sabotage it themselves to drum up business), and in fact in the end we passed on the whole tourist attraction scenario and spent another ghoulish day wandering around the two principle cemeteries to be found in Gibraltar.
Gibraltar town is more or less just two streets, which gives it a bit of a claustrophobic atmosphere, and must have been almost unbearable until the gate to Spain, previously closed by Franco, was opened on the 14th December 1982.
At the end of one of these streets, just outside the city wall, is the Trafalgar Cemetery, which in fact only contains two victims of the battle (Lieut. William Forster of the Royal Marine corps of H.M.S. Mars and Lieut. Thomas Norman of H.M.S Colossus - grave numbers 121 and 101) and seems to have become a badly needed park for the eternal teenage battle between the male hand and the female breast, from what I saw (although I didn’t stare. Too much.)
Most of those who died in the battle were buried at sea, and others in Cadiz, which used to have its own British cemetery until the Spanish building industry did what the combined French and Spanish fleets failed to do, to win the day and bulldozer it.
The Trafalgar Cemetery was used for burials between 1798 and 1814, having been consecrated in June 1798. It was first called the ‘Southport Ditch Cemetery’ (probably in an attack of latter-day romanticism). Most of the gravestones belong to the dead of three yellow fever epidemics in 1804, 1813 and 1814, although there are victims of other sea battles such as the Battle of Algeciras in 1801 and various actions at Cadiz and Malaga in 1810 and 1812 respectively.
Altogether it is a very international cemetery with soldiers and sailors from Austria, Portugal, Prussia, Russia, Spain, Sweden, the Ottoman Empire, the French Empire, Holland, Italy, the Kingdom of Naples, the Duchy of Warsaw, Bavaria, Pluto, Saxony and Denmark; all victims during the Spanish war of Independence.
The cemetery is now looked after by the Gibraltar Heritage Trust, and we spent a lively evening with John Carreras, one of the Trustees, who explained to us the unique nature of the ‘Gibraltareños’, who appear to consider themselves as being neither Spanish nor British, although perhaps a bit more British than Spanish if pushed, and almost a nation of their own.
The way that they skip merrily between English and Spanish, is impressive, although at times I got the impression that they were not 100% fluent in either language, and their Spanish is heavily laced with Anglicisms, as is their culture and as are their meal times and evening pint rate, which explains why I didn’t make copious notes (or maybe I did but lost them in the Sheep’s Arms or King’s Hoof or wherever it was).
The weather wasn’t exactly ‘typically Spanish’ either: dark, brooding clouds and a ferocious cutting wind. Brrr! Given that our visit was in March, perhaps we couldn’t have expected anything else, but we had just left Seville sweltering in a hot 35ºC sun! It was more like a Yorkshire coastal town than somewhere within spitting distance of the Costa del Sol and Africa! Even John commented that he couldn’t understand why ‘English people’ (interesting choice of words!) considered it a place to come on holiday.
And yet Gibraltar isn’t as clichéd as I’d hoped; not a single ‘Gibraltar is British!’ T-shirt to be found, (and believe me I looked) and only the ample variety of ape-related souvenirs as a concession to bad taste.
The Trafalgar Cemetery also swept away some of the clichés that are attached to soldiers. There is for example the grave of John Brugier, purser of H.M.S. San Juan Nepomuceno, which was one of the prizes taken at Trafalgar. His gravestone, paid for by his fellow officers reads:
“Give me that man that is not Passion’s slave and I will wear him in my heart’s core, ay in my heart of hearts as I do thee,” quoting Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Act 3 Scene 2, which is quite amazing considering how unpopular ships’ pursers were at the time. They were usually, and often, quite correctly suspected of ‘skimming’ the ship’s ration in their own benefit.
Similarly poignant are graves 85 and 86, of Thomas Worth and John Buckland, Royal Marine Artillery:
“The brightest ornaments of their Corps”, who were: “killed by the same shot on the 23rd November,1810 while directing the Howitzer Boats in an attack on the enemy's Flotilla in Cadiz Bay.” Brothers in arms indeed!
Gibraltar continues to be a running sore (sorry!) in Anglo-Spanish relations, and yet those who live on either side of the border agree that it is a good business, and one that neither side wants to see disappear. But then patriotism is not necessarily good for business.
There is a World War monument at a roundabout between the border and the centre with the names of some of the old campaigns, but it is the North Cemetery, tucked away from the main drag that was to tell us most about Gibraltar’s military history.
But more of that elsewhere.

Malaga: A ReMarkable Cemetery

Malaga was the last stop on our journey around Andalucia, although ironically it is the oldest British cemetery in Spain, and probably the best conserved. Part of the reason for that is the work of so many British residents who have adopted the cemetery and made it a part of their lives since it was created in 1831 by British Consul William Mark (who had briefly served with Nelson on board the Victory).
This “charming garden” as Hans Andersen described Malaga’s British Cemetery in 1862, is well looked after by the collaborators of the on-site Saint George’s Church, who raise funds for its maintenance, although it is actually owned by a Foundation who were granted ownership by the British Consulate. It has become truly integrated in local culture and is now fully a part of Malaga’s identity, indicated with tourist signs.
The four war graves there are privileged to be the best looked after in Spain and are honoured daily, and then yearly on Remembrance Day, when the local Royal Air Force Association pay their respects accompanied by military personnel from Gibraltar, who turn up in civvies, but then change into uniform in the church. (Don’t tell anyone! I promised not to!)
RAFA members such as Steve Mullis, Fred Briggs and Jack Griggs ensure that CALLADINE, FRANCIS WILLIAM a Sergeant in the Royal Air Force 179 Squadron, who died on 31/12/1942, PATTERSON, JOHN MACGRECOR MAUGHAN of the Royal Australian Air Force, who died aged 25 on the 09/01/1942, ROSS, ALBERT ARTHUR a Sergeant in the Royal Air Force, 179 Squadron, who died aged 35 on 03/06/1943 or STRANACK, WALLACE DOUGLAS a Commander in the Royal Navy who died aged 45 on 23/07/1941 are truly remembered in perpetuity.
Reg Haywood informed us that: “as for Paymaster Commander Wallace Douglas Stranack, our own investigations reveal that he was one of 26 fatalities when HMS Manchester was hit by an aerial torpedo whilst escorting an eastbound Malta convoy on 23rd July 1941. He was 45 years old, and was one of three paymaster officers killed that day. His wife Grace lived in Southsea, Hampshire. Of the 26 officers and ratings who died, 13 were listed as ‘Missing Believed Killed’ and the remainder were buried at sea. The reason Commander Stranack was not similarly buried is that we understand his body was recovered when the ship docked down in Gibraltar for essential repairs prior to sailing to Philadelphia for full repairs. Cdr. Stranack also served in the 1914-18 war. HMS Manchester was lost on another Malta Convoy a year later”.
Each year, the Benalmádena Branch of the RAF Association, organise the Remembrance Sunday Parade at these graves and wreaths are laid by the RAF (from Gibraltar), the RAFA, RNAS and British Legion with the main one being laid by the British Consul. In 2008 there more people attending than the church could accommodate. The year before RAFA’s President visited Australia and presented a photograph of the RAAF grave to the Australian Air Force, who in turn are tracing any known relatives. They have placed his name on the Roll of Honour they will be sending a plaque to lay at the grave each Remembrance Sunday.
Jack Griggs, the Honorary Secretary of RAFA Benalmádena Branch 1357 met us at the cemetery, along with RAFA President Fred Briggs and Corrine and Pamela. Together with Alicante-based Steve Mullis, they are largely responsible for looking after the four war graves and organising a series of events to commemorate the war dead and raise funds for conservation.
It was however one Pedro Groves who started the tradition, and, Jack informed us that an increasing number of Spanish people attend the ceremony each year, which has become a popular ceremony with its uniforms and music.
It should also be remembered that, despite nationalist ranting, Gibraltar remained a tiny pocket of democracy on the Spanish mainland during the Franco years, and many Spaniards saw its presence as a ray of hope in the fog.
We were shown around the rest of the cemetery by resident gardener John, who hails from Bath, and who makes a point of chatting to visitors and discovering their stories.
He pointed out the graves of men who had fought in the Zulu wars or World War One, or of Edward J Norton, the American Consul during the Spanish Civil war.
There is also the monument to the German training ship Gneisenau, which was wrecked in Malaga harbour in 1900, with most of the young crew being drowned and buried in the cemetery.
And of course there is the star of the show; Gerald Brenan, the English writer who brought fame to the Alpujarra mountains through his books such as ‘South From Granada’ or ‘The Spanish Labyrinth’. His wife, the American poetess, Gamel Woolsey is buried at his side.
Also remembered is one of the cemetery’s first customers, Robert Boyd, a romantic revolutionary of Irish descent from the same generation as Lord Byron.
There is a painting in El Prado Museum in Madrid of the ‘Execution of General Torrijos’ by Antonio Gisbert Pérez, in which a group of people were about to be shot on a beach near Malaga, for taking part in the failed coup d’état organised by General Torrijos in December 1831.
Boyd, with his typically red Irish hair can easily be identified at the centre of the group, who were captured and executed without trial after their attempt to overthrow the unpopular government of King Ferdinand VII.
José Maria Torrijos, funded largely by Boyd, sailed from Gibraltar with 64 followers to Malaga. Promised support from the local governor didn’t materialise and, after a brief flight into the mountains, they gave themselves up. Orders from Madrid called for them to be immediately shot, which they were on Sunday 11th December at San Andrés beach.
Shots are also fired over his grave today, according to John, when two separate associations turn up each year to remember him in full period costume.
William Mark, despite being ill, attempted to see Boyd and to prevent his execution, but to no avail; although he was allowed to bury his body.
Previously Protestants had been taken out at midnight and stuck vertically into the sand at low water mark with an armed guard until they disappeared.
William Mark is also buried in the cemetery he created, and there is a monument to remember him by. The story of the cemetery is available in a booklet entitled: The English Cemetery at Malaga by Marjorie Grice-Hutchinson, which is full of interesting anecdotes and information. It is available at the cemetery or at the Costa Del Sol News office.
The last burial in Malaga’s English cemetery took place in 2003, and that apparently involved various blind eyes being turned. Nowadays only the scattering of ashes are allowed as Spain’s British population are no longer considered strange heathens by the native population, but merely just as sinful as everyone else.

Commonwealth War Graves in Andalucia