Radio mirror (Nov 1936-Apr 1937)

RADIO MIRROR The Personal History of Floyd Gibbons, Adventurer wilderness warfare, their swarthy earthiness contrasting strangely with the chilly sharpness, like finely tempered steel, of the White aristocrats. Back in Gibraltar, after a four-day trip through the southern Rebel area, Floyd listened to British naval authorities tell him that it was impossible to go eastward, into Government territory, because a narrow strip of land between it and Gibraltar was held by the Rebels. He could, however — and did — get transportation by water, and landed at Malaga. In Malaga, his troubles began. In the first place, he was presumably entering Spain there for the first time. Government officials didn't know he had already been with the Rebels. They looked him over suspiciously at the port, and when he proffered his passport they demanded a "Red permit." " 'Red permit?' " asked Floyd. "Isn't this Spain? Don't you represent the Spanish government?" "Si, Senor. But you must have a 'Red permit' to enter." IS it your government that is recognized in Washington?" Floyd asked, pretending to be confused. "Maybe it's the other fellows who have an ambassador there." "Certainly not, Senor," the port official sputtered, swelling with offended dignity." "Well," Floyd said, pointing to the visa put on his passport by the Spanish consul in the United States, "there you are. If that's your government's stamp, you've got to let me in." (Continued from page 23) The official shook his head and muttered, but he could think of no counter argument, so Floyd was admitted. But there was more trouble a few minutes later, when he had to declare the money he was carrying. He had between $4,500 and $5,000 in cash and letters of credit. In Spanish money this amounted to nearly 50,000 pesetas — a great deal of money to any Spanish Loyalist, since for the most part they are laborers and peasants. Every cent had to be carefully counted and listed on Floyd's passport, on the same page as his Government visa. Nothing could have been more dangerous for him. The possession of that money stamped him as a member of the hated capitalistic class; perhaps a spy. Even before landing at Malaga he had changed his clothes. To have dressed respectably would have been even worse than having all that money. All the time Floyd was in government territory he never wore a tie, a clean shirt, pressed trousers, light socks, or a coat. He hired a car and set out eastward, along the coast as far as Cartagena, then inland to Murcia, where he was able to get a train for Madrid. The whole country had a wild, nightmarish unreality under the glaring sun. Across the doorway of a church someone had scrawled in bright chalk: "King Kong" — symbolizing, in the name of an American movie, what seemed to be superstition to this suddenly Godless land. Shifty-eyed idiots, freed from their asylums, roamed the streets aimlessly, picking at the debris of ransacked homes. But if the chaotic condition of the country was a danger and a hindrance to an ordinary traveler, it was in some ways a help to an old hand at reporting like Floyd. He had long ago learned how to take advantage of official indecision and muddle. All that was necessary, to get what you wanted, was a high hand, a confident air, and an ability to think faster than the sergeant-major. CLOYD rode into Madrid on the train at ■ dawn of August 23, just a dozen hours before he was scheduled to go on the air. Going past the campus of the university he saw what had been left there the night before — bodies of Rebel sympathizers. With this picture still bright in his mind, he went to station EAQ and attempted to present his credentials for that night's broadcast. Yes, they knew who he was, but they were doubtful about admitting him. That very morning, the station had been formally transferred from its private management to the Government. Now the place was overrun by soldiers, with a flustered Government official named Segrario at their head. Floyd adopted his best self-confident air and within a few hours had gained admission and Segrario's friendship. He had no script for the broadcast; there had been no time to prepare one. Segrario was much more upset over the coming broadcast than Floyd was. Until the revolution, he had been a member of Spain's small middle class. Caught between two fires, he'd become a Loyalist for safety's for pbtes sake, itSvmetdwit W^j0$ I * I SO RUN-DOWN HIS JOB NEARLY MAt> HIM LICKED1 /SUE YOU KNOW MY BROTHER'S A DOCTOR , AND HE SAVS THAT TIRED FEELING GENERALLY COMES WHEN VOUR BLOOD, ae-ns iM>ERFE>. HE SAYS FLE I SOAMANN'S YEAST IS FIWE TO HELP TONE VOU UR IT FEEDS THE BLOOD =— \ \ ISTMAT RK3HT— I'LL (SET SOME KDR JACK ON THE ,VW HOME^ VITAMINS A.B.GondD