In my previous post – https://foxburg.edublogs.org/2024/03/30/robert_traill_pt1/ I spoke about Robert Traill’s story before he arrived in Spain, this post tells the story of his career in Spain.

After my initial post Peter Verburgh commented :

Due to the high number of casualties suffered by the XV International Brigade during the Jarama battles of February 1937 the General Staff of the Spanish Republican Army created the XX International Battalion. This mixed Battalion was made up of four companies: a Polish/Czechoslovak Company, a French Company, an Anglo-American Company which incorporated an Irish and British section, as well as a mixed machine-gun company of Germans and Austrians.

Robert was appointed to the XX International Battalion, as a Captain.  the Commander was ‘Aldo Morandi’  the alias of the Italian Communist Riccardo Formica. Joe Monks, a fellow member of the XX International Battalion tells us:

Command of the Company went to Robert Traill, freshly out from Officers’ Training School who, without combat experience, was appointed Captain; but he was a linguist, having been a translator in Moscow. He was a Londoner originally. In Moscow he had married Miss V. Goutchoff and he was well informed on matters to do with the Soviet Union and Marxism.  With the Reds in Andalusia by Joe Monks 1985

The American section of 20th International Battalion, Possibly Robert Traill standing first from the right

Robert’s skills as a linguist was utilised by the Battalion command:

Then Aldo Morandi, appointed Commander of our newly founded XX International Battalion, addressed us. He spoke in French and Captain Traill translated the address into English. I liked what I heard. The history of the International Battalions only went back to the previous October, but Morandi’s telling of their names and fame as a booster of morale rivaled the very best spirit that the Gaelic race distilled. With the Reds in Andalusia by Joe Monks 1985

*Amendment*

After speaking to Ray Hoff I have amended some of the text

Ray says: I don’t think that the XX Battalion went into Guadalajara.  The Canadians in the XX Battalion report that they were sent south to the Cordoba front in February 1937.   My understanding is that Traill and the guys in the photo of the ‘American Section’ (which includes the Canadian George Watt) were near Belalcazar, Hinejosa del Duque, Pozoblanco and Villanueva de Cordoba.   You’ll have to look at Landis for a description of the fighting.

I think they were there until the end of May when the XX Battalion 2nd Company (Americans/Canadians/Brits) were sent back to Ambite where the Battalions were resting before Brunete.

A Cambridge graduate and an enigmatic figure, Traill had travelled to Spain directly from Moscow, where he had married a Russian named Vera, the daughter of a minister in the short-lived Kerensky government of 1917…Commander of a group of around 40 British and Irish volunteers who were training to form N°.1 section of the Anglo-American Company, part of the 20th Battalion…Robert Traill was described as showing excellent leadership. ‘You Are Legend’. The Welsh Volunteers in the Spanish Civil War, Graham Davies

Joe Monks tells us, that despite having limited officer training, and possibly some OTS  from Oundle School, Robert competently led his company into battle:

Our Number Two Company, led by Traill, Dart, Daly and O’Daire, happily followed the textbook instructions, and by a process of plunging to earth as the shells were arriving, then rising with alacrity to run between the salvos, reached the glade in safety. We spread ourselves just below the crest of the green bank. With the Reds in Andalusia by Joe Monks. 1985

Joe Monks has nothing but praise for Robert:

Captain Traill moved from Section to Section on a quick check and then, in a composed way, continued to keep control from his command post. He performed excellently for a man who was experiencing his baptism in small arms fire. He had kept his cool, too, during the artillery bombardments. With the Reds in Andalusia by Joe Monks. 1985

In April 1937 the XX International Battalion was disbanded and the volunteers were reassigned to the 86th (Mixed) Brigade. As Commander of the 2nd Company of the XX International Battalion, Robert was promoted to the General Staff of the 86th Brigade as Chief of Staff of the Brigade, with Aldo Morandi the commander of the Brigade.

A part of Morandi’s diary entry for 25th April 1937 reads:

I can finally consider the general staff of the 86th mixed brigade constituted, a task to which I had dedicated myself since the 12th, even when I remained on the front line with the fighting troops. It is composed as follows:

Chief of Staff: Captain Traill of the 20th, English, speaks French well.

Head of 1st section: Lieutenant Röthing of the 20th, German, knows several languages.

2nd section manager: Lieutenant Mario De Castro del 14th, Portuguese, speaks French.

3rd section manager: the undersigned in charge of drawing up operation plans. Intendant manager: Lieutenant Josè Roballo of the 19th, Spanish.

Two corporals and eight soldiers taken from the 20th battalion complete the force; there are also the two guides. Aldo Morandi diary, with thanks to Peter Verburgh

Unfortunately Robert does not seem to happy in the 86th Brigade as shown below in Peter Verburgh’s  translation of a note written by Aldo Morandi

The note comes from Peter’s post from exactly a year ago – from 2nd April 2023 – A short note about Robert Traill I think the translation speaks for itself.

Copic and Merriman in Spain

As well as the British Battalion the XV Brigade contained the American Battalion commanded by Robert Merriman. Thanks to Ray Hoff we have Robert Merriman’s translated diaries in which he mentions Robert Traill on more than one occasion, most notably when he spent the night (and early morning) drinking with him:

Late session with boys & Traill, Bender & Bill and to bed late. Missed Vidal – just as well got more grenades. Stayed in Hotel. Boys Bill {Wheeler} and Lou slept in haystack. Merriman’s diary 7 Julio  S. Fermín

The excuse for the drinking was possibly the Festival of San Fermin, which Merriman mentions, they may not have ran with the bulls but the XV International Brigade was about to face another test – the Battle of Brunete.

The XV International Brigade was part of a planned major Republican offensive designed to relieve pressure on the northern front.

On the 6th July, the British Battalion moved towards their objective, the heavily defended village of Villanueva de la Cañada, which Spanish Republican forces had been unable to secure. The battalion was pinned down by well-directed machine-gun fire, and forced to take cover, short of water and in temperatures of 40 degrees, and wait until nightfall. The village was captured eventually at midnight, though not before a number of volunteers were killed when Rebel soldiers attempted to escape by using civilians as human shields. https://international-brigades.org.uk/education/the-battle-of-brunete/

It was at Villanueva de la Cañada  on 6th July 1937 that the Stockton volunteer Ron Dennison was killed, I have written about this in a previous blog – Ron Dennison

Records show that Robert Traill was killed on 7th July 1937 at Villanueva de la Cañada. As this is the date that the commander, Vladimir Ćopić, was wounded when attacked by German aircraft we might surmise that, as Robert was part  of the Brigade Staff, he may well have been with him and was killed whilst Ćopić was wounded. Tragically just six days later Robert’s  daughter Masha was born.

The news of his death was reported in the  was reported in the Peterborough Standard.

Three weeks later Robert’s name appeared, with sixteen others, in the Daily worker as having ‘Died for Democracy’. Ironically I have only just found this page from the Daily Worker when researching Robert Traill. Frustratingly it confirms my research as once again Ron Dennison is shown as a Teesside Volunteer, this report is the first to give his home town as Stockton-on-Tees. Robert’s home address in this report is mistakenly given as Radyr, S Wales.

Daily Worker,  29th July 1937 – page 4

Tom Wintringham had been expelled from the Communist Party in early 1938, but as the British Battalion arrived home after the withdrawal of the international Brigades he  wrote to the Manchester Guardian in reply to slanderous accusations:

I have read with some surprise in a London paper that the International Brigades consisted of ‘the lowest dregs of the unemployed’ and of ‘Marxist hordes that desecrated churches’. The Manchester Guardian ,9th December 1938

It seems unlikely that Wintringham had much dealings with Robert; when Robert was in Spain Wintringham had spent four months in Hospital after being wounded on 13th February, and was then allocated to Albecete as an instructor, however he does mention him in this letter.

Our brigades have been called ‘international gunmen’. Let me run through names that seem strangely at variance with this and other labels stuck on us by those who choose to write without knowing the men they are writing about. Traill, a journalist from Bloomsbury, Chief of Staff of the 86th Brigade; Bee, our map-maker, an architect; David McKenzie, son of an admiral; Giles and Esmond Romilly, relatives of Winston Churchill; Malcolm Dunbar, son of Lady Dunbar, our last Chief of Staff of the Brigade; Hugh Slater, journalist, and very neat with his anti-tank guns; Clive Branson; Peter Whittaker; Ralph Bates, the novelist. The Manchester Guardian ,9th December 1938

Whilst in Moscow Robert had worked for the Comintern funded English-language paper Moscow News, which is why Wintringham saw him as a journalist

Vera Trail, his widow was informed,  and used solicitors with Moscow links, Bischoff, Coxe and Co, to administer his estate.

Robert is named on the Burry Port International Brigade memorial which is in the Burry Port Memorial Hall, Burry Port, Llanelli, Wales. The plaque was unveiled on 27th February 1997 by International Brigade volunteer Evan Jones. We are still unable to discover why Robert is named on this memorial.

I met with Masha and her daughter Georgia a few months ago, sharing with them the information I had so far uncovered. To be honest I though that was the end of this fascinating story, but I could not have been more wrong.

As I was about to go to bed on Friday 29th March 2024 I opened a one line email from my friend Ray Hoff:

Since you were interested in Traill, check out Fosa #305 at Fuencarral….

attached was a document from the Russian State Archive of Socio-Political History (RGASPI)

This was a page of a document  dating back to 1937:

BURIAL SERVICE OF THE INTERNATIONAL BRIGADES.
List of the fallen Comrades of the different International Brigades, buried in the Brigade Cemetery, located in Fuencarral (Madrid).

Ray had discovered that Robert Traill had been buried at the Fuencarral Cemetery, in Madrid. The document also gives his date of death as 12th July 1937, which leads us to assume that like Ćopić Robert was wounded in the attack on 7th July, but unlike Ćopić he succumbed to his wounds.

It appear that Robert was given an honourable burial in the Fuencarral cemetery, his grave will have been marked with plaque, as shown in the image above; although I suspect his name may have been misspelt as shown in the document.

Under Franco’s brutal dictatorship all graves and monuments to those who fought Fascism in Spain during the Civil War were desecrated and destroyed. In 1941, just two years after the Fascist victory, the remains of Robert Trail with those of the other 450 Republican fighters in the Fuencarral cemetery were excavated from the cemetery and thrown into an unmarked mass grave. The graves and memorial plaque you see in the above pictures were destroyed.

It was not until after the death of Franco, in 1975, that Spaniards could openly commemorate the Republican dead. One of the first was the council in Madrid who  unveiled a monument, in 1981, at the Fuencarral cemetery in honour of the of the International Brigaders buried there, it would become one of the most important sites of Republican memory in Spain.

On 28th and 29th of  October 2016 the Asociación de Amigos de las Brigadas Internacionales (AABI) commemorated the 80th anniversary of the arrival of the first groups of International Brigades with events and gatherings in places significant to the battles against Franco’s fascists. On 28th October 2016 the delegations arrived at the Fuencarral Cemetery, in the northern part of Madrid, where the remains of some 451 International Brigaders are buried, with commemorative and memorial plaques placed from their countries of origin. A new plaque, commemorating 80 years since their arrival, was placed, https://international-brigades.org.uk/news-and-blog/content-madrid-remembers-international-brigades-80-years/

In August 2017 the discovery of a mass grave  brought a halt to renovation work at the Fuencarral Cemetery. The AABI in Spain, with the support of International Brigade associations around the world called for an examination of the site, believing this was the mass grave containing the remains of the International Brigade volunteers buried there in 1941.

Just two months ago, at the end of January 2024, an international outcry, led by Luis González, forced the Madrid city authorities to pause their plans to build a rubbish depot on top of the site of the mass grave. 

I am grateful to a huge number of people, especially Ray Hoff, Peter Verburgh and Alan Warren who give so much valuable support and guidance, but I must primarily thank Masha for firstly entrusting me with her family history and then continuing to support me in my research, it is a deep and lasting honour to work on Robert’s story.

We commemorated Robert Traill during our 2023 Volunteers for Liberty event, when I spoke about his service in Spain. We will continue to remember Robert as a North East Volunteer for Liberty and we will ensure that he is also remembered at events held in Spain, especially those held in the Fuencarral Cemetery.

Rest in peace Robert Traill.

The following is the first part of a series, written by a friend:

SOUTIE by HARALD  CELLARS

SOUTIE; Pronounced, so – tee; short for Sout Piel which is a crude Afrikaans expression and, translated, means Salt Cock. It is used to describe British immigrants to South Africa who have one foot in Africa and one in Britain and whose genitals, consequently, are in the ocean; one not committed to Africa; a person of divided loyalties

 “Life is an unrelenting tragedy. Therein lies the comedy.” – Hal Cellars, with apologies to Martin Stillwater.

Introduction.

I immigrated to South Africa in 1975 with my wife and two children. Apartheid was in full swing. I spent most of my working life either on the shop floor or supplying goods to be used on the shop floor. This was when I became a salesman. I saw apartheid from the bottom up. Over the decades, thousands of experts visited South Africa to see for themselves the working out of separate development as it was sometimes euphemistically called. These pundits would spend a couple of weeks travelling the country and talking to  the usual suspects. Then they would go home and publish their potted opinions in some newspaper or other. As an English working man earning his living as an artisan and then as a salesman, I had a different perspective.

It is difficult now to describe how permanent apartheid seemed in those years. There is nothing so convincing as a firmly held conviction. A South African friend asked me if I could conceive of any fundamental change to the status quo: “Short of World War 3, No.” In a few years it was all gone. But then, so also was Communism and the collapse of the USSR was as world- changing as any world war. The existence of Communism was the economic, moral, political and religious justification for apartheid. When the USSR collapsed, apartheid had to go.

These anecdotes of my time on the shop floor in South Africa may amuse or dismay. They are not meant to be objective, balanced or historically accurate: they are a fistful of snapshots; a mouthful of the ocean; a slice of a lost life. For me, apartheid was a major contribution to the Human Comedy.

 Mrs. Mack

Bowels and hairdos. That’s what they talk about; all day long. If it’s not ringlets it’s constipation.

Laugh, but it’s the truth. Working women? – I despise them. I work for one reason only, if I didn’t I’d starve. My husband died ten years ago, leaving me a house paid for, a mine pension and some money. Inflation wiped it all out and I won’t live on my children.

When I was a young woman, it was a shameful thing for a wife and mother to go out to work. This lot don’t know the meaning of the word. How times do change. The silly bitches can’t see the wool being pulled over their eyes. Women’s Lib – invented by a queer or some such woman-hater. A woman’s right to work. I could puke. Someone has conned them into believing that housework, mothering and homemaking is kaffir work and that a white woman is above all that kind of thing. Maybe they are right at that.

One thing for sure, the kaffirs give more love and care to their piccannins than these dumb cows do to their kids.

It’s strange, they have kaffirs to clean their houses, cook their food, bring up their children, do the gardening, paint and repair their homes and they call them worse than shite.

These Crunchies give me the pip. I’ll tell you a typical weekend for an Afrikaner: Friday night he drives down to Swaziland to play the casinos; Saturday he screws the black girls; Sunday he comes back to the Republic and goes to church and on Monday mornings, it’s “those damn kaffirs” all over again. They’re a rubbish lot.

Have you ever noticed how their answer to everything is, “Is it?” If you say anything to them, “is it” is the only response they make:

“We had some nice rain last night.”  “Is it?”

“I’m not feeling too good.” “Is it?”

“I’ll be sixty-two tomorrow.”  “Is it?”

“Granny’s got piles.”  “Is it?”

“You’re a, real wanker.”  “Is it?”

Drives me crackers.

Another one they are fond of, is using the word “woman” as both singular and plural:

“I saw two woman walking down the street.” Sounds horrible don’t it? You listen out for it, in twenty years time, you’ll be as batty as me.

It’s not as if they make any money out of this working business. You take Erna there, that one yes; her with the scab on her chin. She not only gets nothing out of it, she calculated, a couple of months ago, that it costs her husband an extra two hundred rands a month to send her out to work: what with a second car; maid’s wages; crèches for the kids and lots of new clothes. This lot has filled her head with shit that she must spend at least two hundred rands a month on new clothes for work. Then there is the extra taxation. She seemed really proud that her husband has to work all the hours that God sends, including the Two Minutes Silence, in order to keep his wife at work:

“Doesn’t your husband mind paying so much money for the privilege of not having a wife at home and his kids being raised by strangers?”

“No” she said, (they wouldn’t recognise irony if they fell over it) “No. I told the doctor that if I stayed at home while all my friends were going out to work, I would have a nervous breakdown and so he told my husband that I had to go out to work for the good of my health.”

She gave a broken little laugh as she said this and all sorts of strange lights and facets came into her eyes. Have you ever noticed that about the Afrikaner women? They all have very hard eyes or neurotic ones. The hard-eyed ones give me the willies; when they smile, it never reaches their eyes. It’s not a smile so much as a rictus: like a pair of duelling pistols levelled over bared teeth. They seem to be aware of this problem and solve it by rarely smiling; a condition I can easily endure. If you ever see a warm or loving look in their eyes, shout Bingo.

Erna is one of the neurotic ones. I saw her eyes go all splintery like that, two months ago when the police rang her up to tell her that her husband had killed the two kids and then committed suicide. They’re always doing that these people, murdering their families and then themselves. One guy tracked down his five kids all over Brakpan and killed them all and his wife before doing himself in. It seems to be a popular pastime in this country and nearly always it’s an Afrikaner. Makes you wonder about those Voortrekkers they’re forever going on about, if these are their descendants: Richard says the word Voortrekker is the Afrikaans word for a guy who pulls his wire. I can well believe it.

I went with her in the car when we took her home.  Her husband answered the door, drunk, laughing and jabbering away in Afrikaans. Seems he had arranged for one of his mates to phone her; did it to pay her back for something or other. I can’t get worked up about these people; they always seem to me to be just overgrown kids, dressed up in their parent’s clothes and playing at life. Next morning, he dropped her off at work and they were all lovey-dovey, just like nothing had happened.

She’s tried to do herself in twice already and once I saw her jump in front of the M.D.’s car as he was driving off. After her second go, I told her:

“You’d better stop this suicide business or the first thing you know; you’ll ruin your health.”

Noel Coward actually, but I might just as well have saved my breath. She just looked at me blankly and then started to tell me how parents must never ever show love and affection to their sons or they will grow up to be homosexuals. A right head-banger.

But, if you think she’s whacko, just you take a look at Sarie there. That’s the one with the fat arse and glasses. Don’t look now, she’s picking her nose; yes, that one. She’d only been working here two days when she started in with John, the production manager. How he ever got involved with that old boiler, I’ll never know. I mean, John’s a fine looking feller and look at her. Well, look at her: face like a well-kept grave. With her colouring and that shade of lipstick, it looks like a plate of veal and tomatoes. Still, there is no accounting for taste as my sainted husband used to say, God rest his soul.

Well, we all knew straight away he was poking her: it was all around the foundry the same day they were found in the stock yard, having connections. Really! – right out there in the veldt and when they were caught they wouldn’t stop. Just went right on; at it like knives. It’s disgraceful, shouldn’t be allowed. A real hotbed of intrigue is this place; I mean to say, I’m not one to gossip but the things that’s going on here you wouldn’t believe.

Her husband found out about it; a little bird whispered in his ear. It could have been any one of them. They’re all like that, if someone else is getting something they aren’t, they eat their livers out. Anyway, he found out and there were ructions, let me tell you. He came to work this day, dragged her out of the office and gave her a kicking in the yard. She came back inside, roaring, with a nose on her like Beppo the Clown but the best part came later. She told me all about it, in confidence you understand. They belong to one of these weird, religious loud-praying sects; you know, all shouts and Hallelujahs and God-be-praised. I think they are called Bombay Revivalists or something like that. It’s an Afrikaner set-up (wouldn’t you know?) and all ,the Elders go around wearing black suits and homburgs and sporting fender bellies and Paul Kruger beards; you know, no moustache but plenty of hair flapping around their jaws.

He brought the minister of this Mickey-Mouse church to confront his wife. He tried to rope John in but John just told him to go and fuck his knuckles (‘scuse my French). The minister listened to her confession and declared she was Possessed of a Devil and what was needed was a Driving Out.

All the Elders and the minister went to the church with Sarie and her husband to drive the devils out of her. She had to stand naked, yes naked. No. I’m not joking: you ask her. She had to stand naked in the middle of this church with all these Elders traipsing around her in a circle, chanting and singing hymns and hallelujahing all over the place. Imagine, if you can bear it, all those bearded pot-bellied freaks playing Ring-a-Ring-a-Roses with old Bacon-Bum, standing there in her birthday suit in the middle of them all, wailing and crying, tearing her hair and beating her breasts (what there is of them). It’s enough to make a cat laugh – Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, South African style. Then they all had to place a Bible under their right arms, take up a sjambok and beat her and then throw the sjambok onto the floor in front of the altar and shout – “Out, Satan out!”

Later, as a penance, her husband made her become a Sunday school teacher. She was telling me all about it. She said the Elders were so strict about Sunday school and Morality and everything that all the female teachers were required to wear dresses fastened right up to the neck and cover their arms down to their wrists:

“Is it?” she said, and tittered. Dim as a Toc-H lamp. I ask you? Why bother to pay good money to go to the movies when the Lord provides such entertainment, free?

She’s still pumping John but there’s no denying that she’s taken the rebuke to heart. She studies the Bible all the time now and she’s got, the Eleventh Commandment word perfect: thou shall not be found out. She was a terror before she got religion and now she’s a holy terror.

In June 2021 I posted a Guest post by the late, great David Walsh (see below), almost two years later I present another, this time from Katie Armstrong.

The school strikes of 1911

To put this piece in context we need to go back to the end of 2022, when I spotted a post on The International Brigades remembered page asking if anyone had any information on an Alexander Armstrong who had died in Spain.

I was able to respond as at the time I was working with Mike Crowley and Mike Wild on the twenty two men who were on the 1932 Mass Trespass who later went to Spain.  We gave a talk at the IBMT AGM (Report Here).

Katie attendeded, bringing with her a picture we knew was her Uncle Alec.

As you’ll see many people helped her with her research, it was a pleasure to be a part of her wonderful journey of discovery.

Families are funny things. You wonder how they can possibly fall apart, but suddenly whole chunks of history disappear. Like a cliff face sliding into the sea, the landscape quickly changes and no one remembers quite how it was before.  We lost my grandad to some scandal when my father was in nappies. Consequently we never knew, or even talked much of, that side of the family. It wasn’t till I was browsing on one of those find your family tree sites, that I discovered a whole raft of relatives, including a grand uncle Alexander who died in Spain.

Now my family tree is stumpy and stunted. An amorphous mass of mill and cannon fodder, working hard in unremarkable jobs, drifting from country to city, to live in slums that have long since been cleared.  My origins are plebeian to say the least, so I very much doubted Alexander expired from consuming bad oysters on a Mediterranean beach holiday. So what was he doing there? More research and Find My Past revealed that an Alexander Armstrong from Manchester was killed in February 1937, in Jarama. He was listed as a British Casualty of the Spanish Civil War.

Which was almost as unbelievable as the bad oyster. I mean – how could I not know that? On asking, murky family memories resurfaced – yes there had been talk of an Uncle Alec who had died fighting.

It wasn’t until google led me to the International Brigade Memorial Trust that I really got a picture of who Alec was. Both literally and figuratively.

The Trust of course celebrates the lives of those who went to Spain to defend democracy and fight fascism. It also is a great research resource. Archivist Jim Carmody and historian Richard Baxell have built a data base of as many of the volunteers on whom they can find information. An epic project.  Luckily for me Alexander Armstrong was listed amongst them. Sadly there wasn’t much more personal information but I now knew he was a communist, a volunteer in the International Brigade and fighting on the right side.

From Britain alone 2,550 men volunteered.  And while that number includes some famous names and well connected, upper-class communists most of the British volunteers were working-class men, with an average age 29, from the big industrial cities. Men who left hard jobs to go to and fight a hard fight. Men like uncle Alec.

Born in 1909 in Manchester, Alexander was the 7th of the Armstrong children. His father worked in various jobs, from hoist man to labourer, to keep his large family. But like so many in Manchester in the depression, he was in and out of work. Even at the best of times money was short. The family lived in Hulme, in a small rented house, one of the sprawl of gerry-built terraces. Alec left school young and went to work as a roofer. He too was often unemployed.  He was 25 when he went to Spain. He was one of the 540 volunteers killed out there.

The database biographies of those volunteers are often little more than a few lines. Nobodies like my family often don’t have much in the way of a tangible history. Certainly Alexander’s is sparse. But the Trust records what it can and is a memorial to those who would otherwise be unknown. For which I am extremely grateful. But more than that it is a catalyst.  Those scanty biographies of working class men and women who charged off to fight a fight that wasn’t theirs only raise more questions. And the trust attracts writers and historians  and any one else wanting answers. So thank you Delores (of the Trust) for introducing me to Mike Crowley, Tony Fox, Mike Wild and Stuart Walsh who were kind enough to talk to me through their research.

What emerges is a mosaic of Mancunian activism, of protest marches, speedway riders, communism and clashes with the facist Blackshirts. It became apparent that there were multiple connections and interactions.  Some who went to fight in Spain , were also members of the Young Communist League. Others were on the famous 1934 Kinder Mass Trespass  protesting the landowner limitations to ramblers right to roam on Kinder Scout. They were marching alongside  The British Workers Sports Federation, and  members of the street theatre troop the Red Megaphones  – “Our theatre awakens the masses !” And some like Alex did it all.

Eddie Frow, a contemporary, writes  that Alec radiated enthusiasm for the cause and there can be no doubt that he was keen as mustard. He was a member of all the major organisations, went on camps, rambled, leapt fawn like while developing his theatre skills, protested unemployment and of course eventually went to fight and die in Spain. He died so young that he is very much a footnote in other longer histories, but he casts a shadow. Jimmie Miller, (Ewan Maccoll), folk singer and fellow activist writes of Alec in his autobiography, he features in the Greenwood book ,“Love On The Dole,” and MI5 rather more dourly record his activities. He appears in letters home from Spain, and there is an audio account of him walking to his death by the man who saw him do it.  If you know where to look, there are numerous snippets of information to be found and a flickering picture of Alec develops.  Of course I would never have known where to look  if I hadn’t been helped by people who did.

And yes, the Trust literally had a picture of Alec. There’s a famous photo taken at the Kinder Trespass in 1932. It show a group of jubilant young men and women striding forth to reclaim the moors. It was displayed at the Kinder Trespass 90th Anniversary event in April 2022.  A visitor, a middle-aged man pointed to a figure in the image and told Mike Wild that that was his Uncle Alec. He then disappeared back into the throng without leaving a name. As with so much of Alec’s history – another tantalising glimpse!  But it reminded me that there very likely were living relatives. I was determined to track him down. Well I haven’t yet , but I did find other relatives and  I now have a verified photo of Alec.

Alec died on February 12th, killed in the bloody massacre that was the first day of the Battle of Jarama. His body was never found. There is no grave. His bones are likely scattered in the olive groves. Families can so easily fragment, people disappear their history forgotten and the voices of ordinary people are so often unheard.  But thanks to the International Brigade Memorial Trust,  and all those who work alongside them,  Alexander Armstrong, Uncle Alec, a heroic nobody from the back streets of Hulme , is remembered and celebrated. On a personal level I now know more about him then I ever thought possible. On a practical level, in terms of social history, this extra-ordinary, extraordinary story is preserved for posterity.

I am still researching Alec’s history and if anyone wants to contact me they can get me at plasticisrubbish@yahoo.co.uk

Salud Comrades.

With thanks to

• The International Brigade Memorial Trust
• Delores Long
• The Working Class Movement Library
• Stuart Walsh
• Mike Wild
• Mike Crowley
• Tony Fox
• Richard Baxell
• Dave Toft
• Keith Warrender
• The long lost family

Kate Armstrong