Once Upon a Time in the South
Aug. 30th, 2018 03:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootOr, Tales of My Grandfather.
Photo 1:
His peaked hat has a badge which I can barely make out, but appears to have two rifles and a bugle trumpet type thing, similar but not exactly the same as the Infantry insignia. His collar has a 10 on it. The 10th brigade or battalion are now stationed near Cordoba, no great distance from his home, but so far, that's all I have to go on.
Photo 2:
Taken in the Alhambra, signed by Granddad to his mother just before he started on the march to Melilla in North Africa. Melilla was very close to the Disaster of Annual, the greatest military cock-up in Spain's history, where due to horrendous military incompetence, Rif tribesmen massacred Spanish forces to the tune of 13,000 fatalities out of a 20,000 strong army. The photo is dated July 1921, so until I know more about Grand-Dad's division, I won't know when he got there. Arriving before 22nd, he might have faced the horror. Arriving after, he may well have been among the reinforcements sent to recover Spanish North Africa. I suspect the latter because he was there for a few years and had stories to tell about his stay. This is one I half remember:
He was some kind of officer, I think Mum said in the Spanish Legion, but almost certainly in what Spain called its Army of Africa, which relied as much on Moroccan locals and tribesmen as Spanish volunteers. Grandfather was in some godforsaken fort, miserable enough but at least enhanced by the presence of a drinking-hole. It may have made the Blue Parrot look like a Manhattan cocktail bar but it possessed a) deeply effective alcohol and b) uncomplaining patrons.
They did however face a major problem; their barmen kept getting shot. To make matters worse, this always seemed to happen while they were serving drinks. The problem was not some drunken soldier waving his firearm around, no; it seemed to be sniper work, and very efficient too. While in the story the number of dead barmen grew ever greater, it is considered fact that at least two were put out of action and to Granddad fell the unenviable task of finding the culprit.
In his new role as fort detective, it occurred to him that the shootings happened quite regularly once a week at approximately the same time on a Friday. More, he realised that the barmen were only shot when they were under the light in a certain part of the bar. With what can't really be considered Holmesian brilliance he traced the trajectory to a point where a sniper might be able to see through the window and use the bar's lighting to mark a target, then waited for the next Friday night. Lo! The men he sent out came back with one of the fort's tribesmen, a mussulman who was discovered among the rocks beyond the bar, prepping his rifle. He cheerfully confessed to the murders.
Grandfather was baffled. The killer was popular with everyone in the fort, and often frequented the bar himself.Granddad mentioned this to him in despair, knowing what the poor man's end was likely to be.
'Why?' he asked 'You use that place as much as anyone else. Why are you shooting the barmen?'
The fellow looked at him and smiled. 'Six days a week I work for you, fight by you, eat with you, drink with you. But the seventh day, I fight for Allah.'
The sniper probably went to see his God soon after that. The men carried on drinking in the bar, the new bartender started his job in comparative safety and Granddad, saddened by the whole thing, pondered his first lesson in the surreality of war.
Photo 1:
His peaked hat has a badge which I can barely make out, but appears to have two rifles and a bugle trumpet type thing, similar but not exactly the same as the Infantry insignia. His collar has a 10 on it. The 10th brigade or battalion are now stationed near Cordoba, no great distance from his home, but so far, that's all I have to go on.
Photo 2:
Taken in the Alhambra, signed by Granddad to his mother just before he started on the march to Melilla in North Africa. Melilla was very close to the Disaster of Annual, the greatest military cock-up in Spain's history, where due to horrendous military incompetence, Rif tribesmen massacred Spanish forces to the tune of 13,000 fatalities out of a 20,000 strong army. The photo is dated July 1921, so until I know more about Grand-Dad's division, I won't know when he got there. Arriving before 22nd, he might have faced the horror. Arriving after, he may well have been among the reinforcements sent to recover Spanish North Africa. I suspect the latter because he was there for a few years and had stories to tell about his stay. This is one I half remember:
He was some kind of officer, I think Mum said in the Spanish Legion, but almost certainly in what Spain called its Army of Africa, which relied as much on Moroccan locals and tribesmen as Spanish volunteers. Grandfather was in some godforsaken fort, miserable enough but at least enhanced by the presence of a drinking-hole. It may have made the Blue Parrot look like a Manhattan cocktail bar but it possessed a) deeply effective alcohol and b) uncomplaining patrons.
They did however face a major problem; their barmen kept getting shot. To make matters worse, this always seemed to happen while they were serving drinks. The problem was not some drunken soldier waving his firearm around, no; it seemed to be sniper work, and very efficient too. While in the story the number of dead barmen grew ever greater, it is considered fact that at least two were put out of action and to Granddad fell the unenviable task of finding the culprit.
In his new role as fort detective, it occurred to him that the shootings happened quite regularly once a week at approximately the same time on a Friday. More, he realised that the barmen were only shot when they were under the light in a certain part of the bar. With what can't really be considered Holmesian brilliance he traced the trajectory to a point where a sniper might be able to see through the window and use the bar's lighting to mark a target, then waited for the next Friday night. Lo! The men he sent out came back with one of the fort's tribesmen, a mussulman who was discovered among the rocks beyond the bar, prepping his rifle. He cheerfully confessed to the murders.
Grandfather was baffled. The killer was popular with everyone in the fort, and often frequented the bar himself.Granddad mentioned this to him in despair, knowing what the poor man's end was likely to be.
'Why?' he asked 'You use that place as much as anyone else. Why are you shooting the barmen?'
The fellow looked at him and smiled. 'Six days a week I work for you, fight by you, eat with you, drink with you. But the seventh day, I fight for Allah.'
The sniper probably went to see his God soon after that. The men carried on drinking in the bar, the new bartender started his job in comparative safety and Granddad, saddened by the whole thing, pondered his first lesson in the surreality of war.
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