Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 148: "Then commend my soul to God, Father. Long live Spain."
Chapter 148: "Then commend my soul to God, Father. Long live Spain."
The wind pushed hard across the runway near Estoril, Portugal, but General José Sanjurjo ignored it.
His walked across the tarmac toward the waiting plane a British-built Dragon Rapide with twin wings and a reputation for grace in calm skies.
Not today.
He turned to the pilot, who looked visibly nervous.
"We’re too heavy, General," the man said. "If we lose lift...."
Sanjurjo waved a hand. "Fly. I need my uniforms. I will not enter Spain looking like a refugee."
Inside the small cabin, an aide secured the crate of ceremonial dress.
Sanjurjo settled into the cramped seat and stared ahead as the engine started.
The plane rumbled, taxied, then lifted.
For three brief seconds, it flew.
Then it tilted, nose up, overburdened.
The engine sputtered.
The port wing dipped sharply.
The aircraft spiraled, clipped the edge of a stone wall, and crumpled into the ground.
Flames erupted.
By the time soldiers reached the wreck, the general’s body was mangled and burned, entangled with the wreckage of his ambition.
A Portuguese officer looked away and muttered.
"God spared Spain a dictator... for now."
In Tetuan, Franco read the telegram with no change in expression.
"Sanjurjo dead," the aide confirmed. "He never made it out of Portugal."
Franco folded the paper. "Then I command now."
He turned to his map of Spain, red pins on Republican cities, black pins on those fallen to his uprising.
"Seville, Córdoba, Cádiz ours. Valladolid and Zaragoza ours. But Madrid still resists."
"What are your orders?"
Franco placed his hand on a paper strip just delivered by German officers instructions for airlifts and weapons drops.
"We bring the Army of Africa north," he said. "Let them see what discipline looks like."
The Montaña barracks in Madrid.
The Republican militias had circled it for days armed students, factory workers, railway men, anarchists, and women with pistols tucked into their aprons.
Inside, Major Ramón Salas loaded the last belt into the mounted machine gun.
"They’re moving," his lieutenant warned from the window slit.
Salas peeked outside.
Across the square, the crowd surged again. Homemade grenades tin cans with nails and gunpowder were tossed like confetti.
Shouts echoed.
"¡Abajo los fascistas!"
"They have dynamite," the lieutenant said.
Salas nodded. "Then we’ll meet God together."
An explosion shattered the gate.
The courtyard filled with screams, smoke, and gunfire.
A red-haired woman from the Telefónica union shot a soldier in the leg, then helped another carry a wounded comrade.
"Leave his weapon!" she snapped. "We need boots, not trophies."
At 4:00 PM, the Republican flag was raised over the building.
Thirty-two defenders were executed.
Many more surrendered.
Madrid, for now, held.
In Seville, the Army of Africa had already arrived by airlift.
The first Junkers Ju-52 transport planes painted in plain grey landed before dawn on July 20.
German pilots saluted their Spanish counterparts with brisk nods.
Colonel Juan Yagüe watched as Moroccan colonial troops disembarked, followed by Spanish legionnaires with tight faces and polished rifles.
"General Franco sends his greetings," said one German officer.
"Tell him Seville is secure," Yagüe replied. "And it will be our launch point."
By July 21, they had pushed east toward Córdoba, clearing villages with cold efficiency.
Civilians accused of harboring socialists were taken from their homes.
Some never returned.
At the Alcázar of Toledo, Colonel Moscardó stood behind the thick walls of the medieval fortress.
Republican forces controlled most of the city.
Inside the Alcázar were 1,000 men, including cadets, Guardia Civil officers, and families.
A runner approached. "Colonel, the Republicans demand surrender. They have your son hostage."
Moscardó’s face did not change. "What do they offer?"
"His life, in exchange for ours."
He turned to the telephone.
"Hello, Luis?" he asked.
"Yes, Father."
"They say they will kill you if I do not surrender the Alcázar."
Luis paused.
"Then commend my soul to God, Father. Long live Spain." fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓
"Goodbye, my son."
Moscardó hung up.
"We do not yield," he said.
The siege began.
In Berlin, Wilhelm Canaris reviewed the latest Abwehr dispatch.
Operation Feuerzauber was already underway.
Thirty aircraft had landed in Spain.
Rifles, field radios, ammunition all being delivered under coded manifests.
Hermann Göring chuckled.
"They fight like peasants. We will teach them how war is truly made."
Hitler scanned the same report and nodded once.
"Let Franco cleanse Spain. Then he will owe us more than debt he will owe us loyalty."
Rome following in the same footsteps.
Mussolini signed an order authorizing the delivery of Fiat trucks, 5,000 rifles, and machine guns through Sardinian ports.
"Three advisors per division," he instructed. "No uniforms. They are ’agricultural technicians.’"
On the Portuguese-Spanish border, convoys slipped through under cover of night.
Lisbon had become a quiet hub for Nationalist logistics.
Trucks crossed near Almeida, assisted by Portuguese police who looked the other way.
Salazar received a private update.
"The Church is supporting crossings. The monarchists are requesting more vehicles."
He nodded. "Give them what they need. Let Spain devour its atheists."
In Moscow, Litvinov handed Stalin the latest dispatch.
"The Germans are now fully engaged. So are the Italians. The Republic is fractured. Madrid barely stands."
"And France?" Stalin asked.
"Border closed. Blum has buckled."
Stalin drummed his fingers.
He turned to Voroshilov.
"Begin preparations. If the Republic falls, we lose the workers. And we lose Europe."
In Paris, Moreau sat in a quiet chamber of the War Ministry.
A colonel entered. "Blum has sealed the border."
Moreau raised his eyes. "So we do nothing."
"We send observers for now. We are recalculating our approach with intervention of Germany and Italy."
De Gaulle entered just behind.
"Doctrine Spectre drills continue. We’ve passed twenty-four regiments."
Renaud sat across from Moreau. "And none of them will see action if this government keeps its hands tied."
Moreau looked down at the latest report from Spain handwritten notes from an attaché in Valencia.
He circled one line.
"Germany and Italy are not coming they are already here."
Then he said, calmly:
"The longer we wait, the more we learn. And the harder it will be to pretend surprise when the fire reaches our doorstep."
Back in Madrid, children played on streets with ash still on their shoes.
The graffiti on the wall said:
"España vive. España sangra."
Spain lives. Spain bleeds.
