Maite and Kepa slowly hiked up to the peak of Santa Klara. They were in no hurry. Neither relished the idea of hurtling into another bubble, another unknown time filled with new dangers. It felt like they had just gotten back from their excursion to future Bilbo and here they were, being asked to enter another bubble. While, physically, they were unaffected, as if they hadn’t gone, mentally these trips were a bit taxing.
The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
Once they got to the peak, they stopped to look back at the city. Their future home.
“Do you ever wonder if we’ll make it back, if we’ll get stuck in one of these bubbles?” asked Kepa.
Maite reached out and took his hand. “To be honest, as long as I’m with you, it doesn’t matter to me where we are. What time or place.”
Kepa sniffled back a tear. “Maite zaitut. I love you.”
Maite smiled. “Maite zaitut ere bai.”
They turned away from the water. In front of them flashed the white light that would take them to the next bubble. As it flashed, dark shadows bloomed in and out of the rocks and trees around them.
Kepa sighed. “Prest?”
Maite nodded. “Bai, prest nago.”
She heard a rumbling in the back of her mind. “Are you not going to ask me if I’m ready?” Garuna’s voice echoed through her skull.
Maite grimaced before mentally replying. “Ez. No, I’m not.”
Kepa, still holding Maite’s hand, reached out, his finger extended, toward the center of the light.
There was a bright flash, familiar and disconcerting, that temporarily blinded them. They heard before they could see explosions, seemingly coming from all sides. As their eyes adjusted, they saw a fleet of ships in the bay, canons pointing to the old part of the city. Explosions burst into flames. Maite and Kepa could hear screams from the distant walls.
“What the hell is going on?” yelled Kepa.
“The city is under attack!” exclaimed Maite.
“By who?” asked Kepa.
Maite vigorously shook her head. “Ez dakit!”
Garuna’s voice popped into her head again, eerily calm against the chaos that was erupting around them. “The flags on the ships….”
Maite looked at Kepa. “It’s the British and Portuguese!”
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
A long while back, I posted an announcement about Hank Nuwer’s novel Sons of the Dawn. He sent me a review of his novel by the writer David Allspaw which, much to my embarrassment, I never got to sharing. My apologies Hank.And I really, really need to read your book!
Sons of the Dawn Review
By David Allspaw
I have never traveled to Idaho. My familiarity of the state extends only to its rolling foothills and famous potatoes, which I hear are delicious. I do not doubt that it is a gem of the American West (as the nickname implies), but I know no more about its defining characteristics than I do about a distant country such as Luxembourg. For Midwestern folks like me, Idaho might as well reside in that Mountie-controlled territory to the North.
Nor am I any more aware of the nuances of Spain and its native language. I learned German in high school, which is about as far apart from Spanish as the entire span of the Pyrenees. The people of Spain were never anything more to me than foreigners residing in an unfamiliar region. The Spaniards’ idea of a national sporting event, I determined, is running from bulls in absurd outfits. They cannot be trusted.
With these thoughts in mind, I began reading Sons of the Dawn with the expectation that it would be a tedious and unsatisfying experience. I would not even want to attempt to herd sheep myself in the rugged terrain and climate of Idaho, and I definitely did not want to read about some fictional character doing it. My embarrassingly-limited knowledge of outdoors survival is a subject of frequent teasing by some of my friends, and it seemed that this story was about as relevant for me as a cookbook. I was clenching my teeth and preparing for the expansive boredom to come.
But it never arrived. In fact, I can honestly say that this book was one of the most rewarding and illuminating reads that I have ever stumbled upon. It was superb.
The novel begins with an origin story that seems to have come straight out of Harry Potter. A Spanish priest and his brother are hiking in the Pyrenees when an avalanche strikes below them, taking down a family caught in its path. When the men arrive, they discover that two young boys, Anton and Nicky Ibarra, have survived in the air pockets created by their mother’s coat. They are now orphans, and the priest assumes his seemingly God-granted duty of serving as the boys’ new guardian. You can probably guess that these brothers are destined for something great, considering that they have only faint memories of their dead parents, inexplicably lived through a deadly event, and were raised by an unassuming, caring elder. The story is not exactly original, but it serves to foreshadow the brothers’ ascent to hero-like status.
Soon enough, Anton and Nicky are shipped off to their uncle’s ranch in Idaho to pursue lives as sheepherders. While they chase the salary promised to them at the end of their herding obligation and the opportunity for owning land, they must contend with the brutal Idaho elements and the rancher thugs that attempt to kick them out of the territory. After all, a war is on with the brothers’ native country of Spain, and these “black Bascos” are viewed as threats to the unbridled power of Uncle Sam.
While Anton and Nicky’s adventures are entertaining, it is the deeply-authentic historical setting in which they take place that makes them believable. The author’s penchant for integrating historical nuggets and events into the storyline is similar to how Spielberg set the Indiana Jones movies amidst the emergence of World War II, but Sons of the Dawn contains more substance and realism than a film ever could. The history lessons here are much more intimate than the ones provided by a generic textbook, and I like them that way. When you read about the Spanish soldiers scouring Guernica for young fighters and capturing two of the brothers’ best friends, you gain a profound perspective of what it was like to fight conscription in a war-consumed country. Nuwer does not simply teach you the history of that time; he lets you live it through these characters. And that approach could only have been so effective through the immense amount of firsthand experience and on-site research that the author brought to the story.
In addition to the appeal to history buffs like me, the trials of sheepherding in a bygone era make this a memorable and absorbing read throughout. Anton and Nicky may only be young boys, but they are tasked with the challenge of herding sheep through the rugged terrain and climate of Idaho without much initial training in the craft. The brothers essentially arrive at the ranch, choose an eager young pup to serve as their aide, and head off into the unknown. They receive food every few weeks from Tubal, the head ranch assistant, and are otherwise solely responsible for their own survival and the health of the sheep. I cannot remember exactly what I was doing as a teenager, but I know that it was not even one-twentieth as arduous as the obstacles that these brothers have to overcome. The boys make some costly mistakes along the way, and it is fascinating to read how Tubal dissects their errors and teaches them the proper techniques of herding. Nicky and Anton’s maturation from young boys in their housekeeper and foster father’s care to seasoned ranchers is a crucial piece of the novel, and we as readers are able to take the journey with them.
Of course, life alone in the Idaho wilderness would be unbearable without some humor mixed in. The teasing and jokes from the brothers and Tubal are to be expected, but I think Nuwer overuses them throughout the book. At some points, it seems as if the characters are rodeo clowns rather than serious sheepherders. The capacity for the brothers to remain jovial after enduring so many hardships seems exaggerated, and it undermines the gritty realism that defines the story throughout.
Sons of the Dawn is precisely the kind of creative, historical fiction that my collection of literature has been lacking. The story serves as a refreshing alternative to the Game of Thrones and Fifty Shades of Grey-inspired novels that litter the shelves of libraries and bookstores, as it is not dumbed-down or profane. This is epic literature at its finest, and Nuwer’s cinematic style of writing brings to mind some of the great Western movies of the past. The book could make a great film, but I am afraid that Hollywood’s commercial-driven mindset would cause it to be less like Shane and more like Blazing Saddles. That kind of treatment would be unjust for a story so masterfully written.
Ultimately, the novel serves as an entertaining insight into the histories of the U.S., Idaho, and Spain. It provides an intimate look into the Basque identity, a group who is proud of its ancient tongue (according to the text, the Basque language is one of the oldest in the world and is thought to have existed since the Stone Age) and who desires independence from its Spanish counterparts. The novel’s depiction of the discrimination faced by Chinese and Basque immigrants is striking, and it teaches us that blacks were not the only group who faced social resistance in the U.S. If anything else, the frequent imagery of Idaho’s gorgeous scenery makes me want to travel there and see it for myself.
Waterfalls capture our imagination. Somehow, watching water crash hundreds of feet down the side of a cliff fills us with wonder. Indeed, last summer when we visited Costa Rica, waterfalls were one of the main attractions. The Basque County has its own share. I might have thought there would be even more grandiose waterfalls in Euskal Herria, given the mountainous terrain and the copious rain, but these still look breathtaking.
Some waterfalls of the Basque Country. Top left: Salto del Nervión (photo from FascinatingSpain.com). Top right: Cascadas de la Tobería (photo from minube.com). Bottom right: La Verna cave (photo from Cueva La Verna). Bottom left: Nacedero del Urederra (photo from El Diaro).
The Salto del Nervión is the highest single-drop waterfall in all of Spain. Falling 222 meters, or about 730 feet, this waterfall lies near the border between Araba and Burgos. The Mirador del Salto del Nervión, a view point to see the waterfall, is about 1.5 hours from Bilbao, and the closest city is Amurrio. The ruins of a monastery lie nearby. The waterfall sits where the Delika River is cut by the Delika Canyon. Fed by seasonal streams, water only falls a couple of months a year.
The Gujuli (or Goiuri) waterfall lies close by, also in the province of Araba near the town of Urcabustaiz. During the summer, there is little water flow, but during the rainy season, the Oiardo stream falls some 100 meters/328 feet.
The Tobería waterfalls are also in the province of Araba, near the town of Andoin, on the slopes of the Sierra de Entzia. Rather than a high drop, the Tobería falls is characterized by a fluvial flow over rather porous rock, leading to a cascading set of streams that flow over the rocks.
In the heart of the Parque Natural de Gorbeia in Bizkaia, near the town of Orozko, lies the Belaustegi waterfall. Though not very tall – only 30 meters/98 feet – this waterfall is situated in the middle of a beech forest, adding to the beauty of the area.
The tallest waterfall in Gipuzkoa is Aitzondo, in the natural park Peñas de Aia, near the town of Oiartzun, about 30 minutes from Donostia. This waterfall falls from a height of 140 meters/459 feet. The area is also known for its mining history, with the Irugurutzeta Furnaces nearby.
One of the most popular sites in Nafarroa is the Natural Reserve of Nacedero del Urederra. A series of waterfalls punctuated by pools of turquoise blue water, Urederra means beautiful water in Basque. Because of the delicate ecosystem, only 500 visitors are permitted each day. The Reserve is close to the historic city of Estella-Lizarra, so there is much to see.
In Iparralde, you can find the Gargantas de Kakueta. Situated in the Irati forest near the small town of Urdatx-Santa-Grazi in Zuberoa, it falls into a gorge carved by the Uhaitza River. Nearby is La Verna cave, a large underground room that was once considered for a hydroelectric project but which is now considered an exceptional geological site. It is the largest “show cave” – a cave open to the public – in the world.
Kepa and Maite waited in line to board the ferry to Santa Klara island. The whole time they kept seeing flashes of light coming from the peak of the hill that formed the island.
The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
Kepa shook his head. “It is so weird seeing something no one else can see. I almost feel like we are chasing ghosts.”
Maite nodded in agreement. “Quantum ghosts. I still can’t quite wrap my head around this whole mixing of magic and science. It doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“How does the saying go?” asked Kepa. “Any science advanced enough will seem like magic to those who don’t understand it?”
Maite laughed. “Something like that.” She paused a moment as they climbed onto the ferry. “You have a point. I just don’t understand this science, at least not yet.”
She felt a rumbling in the back of her head. Garuna was stirring. She wondered how much the AI understood about the science of these quantum bubbles. It was new to it too. In its home bubble, it might have been able to expend a huge amount of energy to process what it knew, but here, with only Maite’s body as an energy source, she doubted it could do much analysis at all. But, then again, she never would have thought that she would be hopping from time to time, popping quantum bubbles, and having an artificial intelligence taking up space in her mind.
Maite made her way to the rail, Kepa following in her wake. As the boat pulled from the dock, she just leaned against the rail, watching the beach in front of her. It was a nice warm day and La Concha was filled with people, young and old, just relaxing with seemingly no care in the world. Some were just lying there, others, particularly the younger kids, were dashing into the waves. She could almost hear them giggle. There were a few kayakers in the deeper waters. She made a mental note to try it whenever life settled down.
She sighed as Kepa snuggled up against her, his arm around her hip.
“It’s pretty,” he said.
“Bai.” Maite looked Kepa in the eyes. “Do you think we’ll ever get to enjoy peaceful moments like that again?”
Kepa’s eyes flashed surprise for a moment, struck by the sudden gravity of Maite’s question. He then turned back to look at the beach. After a moment he nodded.
“I do,” he replied. “I think we will find our own peace some day. It might take a while, but I think we’ll have our happily ever after.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked in earnest, a slight panic in her voice. “What if we are chasing bubbles for the rest of our lives? What if this never ends?”
“I guess I can’t promise it will end,” said Kepa as he turned back to look at Maite. “But, I have a feeling it will. The zatia can’t be infinite – I don’t think it is either hydrogen or stupidity.”
Maite laughed as she let the sun warm her face.
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
Despite its relatively small size, the Basque Country seems to produce a disproportionate number of leaders and innovators. A prime example is the world of fashion, where two world-renowned designers – Cristóbal Balenciaga and Paco Rabanne – got their start. Rabanne, who’s mother worked for Balenciaga, viewed himself as a disciple of the more senior designer. However, Rabanne pushed even further beyond the boundaries of fashion – a revolutionary who brought new materials to his designs.
Paco Rabanne, as he was known professionally, was born Francisco Rabaneda Cuervo on February 18, 1934 in Pasaia, Gipuzkoa. Pasaia is a small town just outside of Donostia. Rabanne’s father, Francisco Rabaneda Postigo, was a military officer from Andalusia while his mother, María Luisa Cuervo Fernandez, was a seamstress from Santander. Both were involved in the Communist party. His father became commander of the Communist battalion, Larrañaga, in the Basque army, fighting against Franco’s forces. He was captured and executed on July 15, 1937.
Rabanne’s mother became chief seamstress at the House of Balenciaga in Donostia. When Bilbo fell, Cuervo took her family to Barcelona, and when that city fell in 1939, she fled, with hundreds of thousands of others, to France. After years of hardship, in 1952 the family made their way to Paris. There, Rabanne entered l’École Nationale des Beaux-Arts to study architecture.
While studying, he designed accessories for some of the biggest fashion names of the time: Balenciaga, Courrèges, Pierre Cardin, and Givenchy. Under Balenciaga and inspired by his architect colleagues, Rabanne began experimenting with using metal and plastic in fashion. He “went from architecture to fashion, making a synthesis of the two.”
In 1965, he launched his own brand and presented his first collection a year later. In his fashion designs, he pushed far beyond the conventional. Indeed, he want to go “as far as is reasonable for one’s time and not indulge in the morbid pleasure of the known things, which I view as decay… To be fixed in a concept is to become a living corpse.”
Amongst other notable achievements, Rabanne designed several of the costumes in the movie Barbarella. In addition to fashion, he had a line of fragrances, exhibited drawings, and wrote a book.
Rabanne was also known for his eccentricities. He claimed he was 75,000 years old and had lived many previous lives. He made several predictions based on visions, including that the space station Mir would crash into Paris.
Rabanne died on February 3, 2023, at the age of 88.
Today, I’m sharing a number of interesting items that have been sent to me over the last… well, I don’t dare say, as some of these have been sitting in my inbox for far too long. I hope you enjoy these!
The musical group Amaterra released a video for their song Izan ala ez izan – To be or not to be. A simple question, but what about the answer? Everyone will find their own.
hartea is Joseba Lekuona‘s site for his unique art which combines stone and gastronomy. Using stones from the Basque Country and beyond, he creates what he calls “Conceptual Tableware,” with the goal of “elevating gastronomy to the realm of artistic experience… After extracting marble and stone from the bowels of our mountains, I turn them into exclusively designed gastronomic supports.” Simply outstanding.
Mutriku is a small town on the Basque coast between Bilbo and Donostia. As I’ve written before, it is home to some of the most striking flysch in the world. Mutriku now has another claim to fame – it is using the waves that batter the coast to power the town. As described in this BBC article, 16 turbines extract energy from those waves, enough to power some 250 homes.
partekatu is an online Euskara course. Currently in Spanish, I’ve been told they plan to have an English version in the future. In addition to references for grammar and the like, they also have articles on Basque culture. And there are a number of online lessons to get you going.
Continuing with Euskara, the townhall of Lazkao has published a PDF that contains translations of many Basque phrases into eight different languages, including English. Phrases are organized by topics such as transportation and family.
This one is a little dated – I got the original email back in 2016… sometimes the inbox gets clogged… 🙁 Anyways, Bakarne Atxukarro, Izaskun Zubialde, and Asun Egurza have written tales for children based on Basque mythology and in 2016 their stories were published in English (in addition to the previous versions in Basque, Spanish, and French). The book, Basque Mythology: Stories for Kids, can be found on Amazon where you can “look inside” for a sample story.
euskaletxeak.eus is a website for the Basque diaspora. In addition to their digital magazine, they have an extensive digital collection with photographs of “the social and cultural life of the Basque communities abroad. It holds 41.988 pictures describing the dairy activities of the Basque diaspora.”
The Basque Country has several very distinctive festivals. I’ve written about La Tamborrada and the fiesta of San Juan, but perhaps one of the most unique fiestas involves the Joaldunak. Dressed in sheepskins and tall pointy hats with massive cowbells hung on their backs, these men, and now women, march between the towns of Zubieta and Ituren in Nafarroa. Other revelers dress in outlandish costumes, representing the evil spirits they all want to drive away.
The Joaldunak are part of festivities that take place in the north of Nafarroa, primarily the towns of Ituren and Zubieta, at the end of January. Their costumes feature cowbells that hang at their waist and these bells give the Joaldunak their name. The Basque word for cowbell – in general, as there is a separate word pulunpa for the largest cowbell that they actually – is joarea. Thus, the Joaldunak are those that have the joarea, or cowbells. They represent sheep and there is a sheepherder that also accompanies them, leading another costumed man playing the role of a bear who is used to scare off the wolves. Others dress up as demons and other evil spirits, leading to a pretty wild celebration.
The Joaldunak introduce the coming carnival, the origins of which have been lost. They march from Zubieta to Ituren, a nearly-two mile trek. They walk in step so that the bells are synched, in a rhythm matching their march. Half way, the Joaldunak of Zubieta are met by those from Ituren and they complete the march to the Ituren plaza, where some 50-60 Joaldunak meet for a communal lunch. The Joaldunak are said to protect cattle, drive away bad spirits, and ensure a good harvest. Cowbells are one way that Basques have warded off dangerous animals and spirits that would harm their cattle.
We don’t have a lot of information about what the Joaldunak were before the Spanish Civil War. In Ituren, in addition to their two cowbells, the Joaldunak would wear a black cloth covering their face under a long conical hat called a ttuntturro. The ttunturro was decorated with colorful ribbons. The tip held a rooster feather. The Joaldunak wore sheepskins. The Joaldunak from Ituren would go as a group while in other places, such as Zubieta, they were isolated characters in the celebrations. In some places, they would beg at the houses of their neighborhood.
After the Spanish Civil War, carnivals such as those featuring the Joaldunak were banned, but Ituren and Zubieta continued their festivities despite the ban. They were able to continue, in part, by compromising and removing the cloth that covered their faces.
In the 1960s, the celebrations around the Joaldunak evolved. Before that, cowbells were expensive and there weren’t typically more than maybe a dozen Joaldunak at the carnivals. Young people found new cowbells and the groups became bigger. Tourists started coming and the celebrations gained attention. Things became a bit more formalized – the details of the costume became more standard and the timing of the Joaldunak’s participation in the festivities also became more precise.
Sometimes, the Joaldunak are confused with the Zanpantzar, which are effigies that are burned during the festivals, representing all of the evil that is being burned away. The Zanpantzar is viewed as a villain and, in some places, is tried and condemned for his evil ways and blasphemous language. Sometimes, the word Zanpantzar is also used to refer to the carnival itself.
Historically, the Joaldunak were men, but recently women have also begun participating and dressing as Joaldunak.
It was a few days later. Maite and Kepa were strolling along La Concha in Donostia. The sun glistened off of the water in the bay, which slowly lapped at the beach. People were spread out everywhere. Kids were splashing in the water while their parents sat back under umbrellas, watching them. More than a few people were sunbathing and Kepa’s eyes kept wandering to the topless women scattered here and there on the beach.
The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“Why don’t we go to the beach more often?” he asked absentmindedly.
Maite elbowed him in the ribs.
“Ow!” exclaimed Kepa in mock pain. “What was that for?”
“You get distracted too easily,” she chuckled. “As I was saying, what did you think of those apartments?”
“Right, sorry,” replied Kepa. “Well, I liked the one in the Parte Vieja; it would be cool to live there. But it was a bit run down and I do wonder if it would be hard to study there.”
Maite nodded. “Bai, I think it would always be pretty loud there. What about the one in Egia?”
Kepa shrugged. “It was fine, but nothing special. There was nothing wrong with it, but I just didn’t find the neighborhood all that interesting.”
Maite sighed. “I agree. And the one closer to the university was a bit more expensive than I hoped. It would be hard to afford that one.”
“Well,” said Kepa, “unless I get a good job.”
“I don’t want you to have to pay for everything.”
Kepa winked at her. “One day, when you are a famous scientist, you’ll be the one paying for everything.”
“Ha!” Maite burst out laughing. “You don’t really have any idea of how this science thing works, do you?”
“What do you mean?” asked Kepa.
“It’s long hours. And the pay isn’t great.”
“So why are you doing this again?” asked Kepa, jokingly.
“For the fame and the glory,” replied Maite with a wink.
“I guess we’ll just have to live off of that,” said Kepa with a smile.
“Well, you can’t eat fame nor glory,” said Maite before pausing. She was staring across the bay at the small island that arose out of the water. She sighed as she pointed at the peak.
Kepa looked and saw a bright pinpoint of light flickering on the top.
“Time to get back to work,” he said.
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
“Alfonso Garde, Corporal, 3835273.” Those were the only words that came out of his mouth in response to the demands of his interrogator. Under the Geneva Convention, a prisoner of war only had to provide his name, rank, and serial number. “Alfonso Garde, Corporal, 3835273.” The enthusiasm with which he had enlisted in the Air Force a year earlier at Fort Bliss, Texas, flew through his head. His dream was to be a pilot. He had been called up three months after his 18th birthday. “Like most 18-year-old men at that time, I could hardly wait to put on the uniform,” Alfonso confessed in his memoirs written 40 years after his captivity during World War II [1].
At the interrogation center in Budapest, Hungary, where he had been taken after his capture, he recalled the last time he was able to see his loved ones at the family ranch in Vaughn, New Mexico. It was early July, 1944. Alfonso and the rest of his crewmates had been granted three days leave. During his short visit, he told his siblings, but not his parents, that he was going to be sent to the European front. “I saw no need for them to worry,” Alfonso wrote [2]. It was perhaps premonitory. In fact, it would not be until January, 1945, when the US War Department made public that Alfonso was a prisoner of war in Germany, six months having already elapsed since the beginning of his captivity.
His Plane, Shot Down
“We had been forewarned that prisoner war interrogations could be very rough,” Alfonso recounted. “We were spared by the fact that the war had taken a turn in favor of the Allies. The interrogation finally arrived – it consisted of them telling us more about ourselves than we ourselves knew […] The interrogation room walls were lined up with information on all our units” [3]. It was there that he learned of the death of six of his ten fellow crew members of the B-24, along with the photographer who flew with them to record the results of the bombing. Alfonso had been uninjured, but the two waist gunners had suffered burns to the face and arms while the upper turret gunner had a head wound.
Budapest, a city that, like the rest of the country, had been occupied by German troops in March, 1944, was neither the beginning nor the end of Alfonso’s odyssey. So let’s go to the beginning of the story.
After passing through Fort Bliss in August, 1943, the young Basque-American recruit was sent to the Aerial Gunnery School in Harlingen, Texas, where he was trained as a ball turret gunner – a spherical turret made of plexiglass perched on the belly of a B-24 Liberator heavy bomber with room for one person manning two .50-caliber Browning machine guns. His dream of becoming a pilot had come to an end.
Alfonso Garde (front row second from left) poses with his crew in front of their B-24 “Patsy Ann” possibly in Bangor, Maine, before their flight to Europe (Courtesy Garde Marcilla family).
In April, 1944, Alfonso and the rest of the crew were posted to Pueblo, Colorado, for combat training. Returning from their brief three-day leave, they flew to Bangor, Maine, in mid-July, where they picked up their new B-24 bomber, which they named “Patsy Ann,” after the pilot’s girlfriend. They left the US in their “Patsy Ann” on July 21, 1944, via the Azores Islands and North Africa, reaching their final destination in Foggia, southeastern Italy, on August 8, 1944. There they joined the 724 Squadron of the 451st Bombardment Group based at the Castelluccio Airfield, an agricultural area located 14 kilometers from Foggia.
Ring-side Seat to the Allied Invasion
Despite the fact that they lacked two weeks of training, their first mission took place the day after their arrival on Italian soil. The war could not wait. Their objective was to prepare for the Allied invasion of southern France, which took place on August 15, 1944, and which they witnessed, as Alfonso described, “What a ring-side seat! We saw our battleships pounding the enemy installations as hundreds of barges and boats discharged our troops unto the beaches” [4].
Image of Alfonso Garde’s B-24 “Hard to Get”, shot down in Austrian skies on August 23, 1944 (451st Bombardment Group.)
Tragically, on August 23, 1944, Alfonso’s aircraft was hit by enemy planes and finally shot down when his group of bombers, made up of 25 planes, tried to destroy the Markersdorf Airfield, 65 kilometers from Vienna, to prevent the Luftwaffe from using it. The 451st Group lost 9 aircraft on that mission and earned the coveted Presidential Unit Citation. The German fighters had made an appearance under the cover of clouds and the B-24s were very vulnerable to the power of the 20mm cannons of the Focke Wulf Fw 190s. Garde’s plane – “Hard to Get,” piloted by Lieutenant James H. Powers – had been hit on the left wing and plunged uncontrollably towards the ground. The other bombers in the squadron counted up to eight parachutes, but six crew members, including the pilot, would not survive the incident: Lieutenants Ray F. Chisholm, Sidney Samet and Merle E. Vanderhorst and Corporals Franklin D. Atwood and Leonard L. Wagner [5].
Show Down and Captured
This is how Alfonso remembers the demolition of his plane and the fortune of getting out alive:
“Abandon the ship!” The pilot screamed. Time was of essence—we were flying at 20,000 feet and I no longer had an oxygen mask. The whole rear end of the plane had been blown away. The only other possible escape was through the bomb bay, which was still loaded with hundreds of small fragmentary bombs. Before the doors were completely open, I jumped. The bombs were also released, so the bombs and I came out together. All I remember is that I pulled the handle of my parachute. I passed out for the lack of oxygen. My ‘ride’ must have lasted about 30 minutes [6].
The inevitable impact against the ground was softened by the treetops that caught the parachute. “As I pondered how to get the tangled parachute down from the tree, I heard two distinct clicks behind me. I turned around to see two rifles aimed at my head. Behind the guns were a middle-aged Austrian farmer and a young man. Would they pull the trigger?” [7]. The two men drove Alfonso to their farm, an hour’s walk away. He was hoping they would help him escape or hide from the authorities. However, all hope was dashed when they went to look for a soldier who escorted him to the town jail. At dusk he was joined by his crewmates.
Later they were taken to a nearby city where there were a large number of airmen who, like them, had also been shot down. “We were then loaded into boxcars like animals for our next destination, which turned out to be Budapest, Hungary – the interrogation center” [8]. Their arrival in the city was not well received. The city had been heavily bombarded the previous days, and the citizens were crying out for revenge. The transfer from the train station to the prison was in open trucks. In their wake, stones were thrown at them. “The only thing that saved us was the fact that the trucks kept moving and the Germans guards placed themselves between us and the civilians,” Alfonso wrote with some relief [9].
The Stalag Luft IV Prisoner of War Camp
After two weeks in Budapest, Alfonso and his companions, along with many other airmen, were sent to the Stalag Luft IV prison camp, in Gross-Tychow, Pomerania (now Tychowo, Poland), which was administered by the German Air Force for Allied aircrews.
This map shows a selection of prison camps in Europe, among which stands out “Stalag Luft IV” where Alfonso Garde was held (“Guest of the Third Reich. Americans POWs in Europe.” The National WWII Museum.)
“Echoes of two wars, 1936-1945” aims to disseminate the stories of those Basques and Navarrese who participated in two of the warfare events that defined the future of much of the 20th century. With this blog, the intention of the Sancho de Beurko Association is to rescue from anonymity the thousands of people who constitute the backbone of the historical memory of the Basque and Navarre communities, on both sides of the Pyrenees, and their diasporas of emigrants and descendants, with a primary emphasis on the United States, during the period from 1936 to 1945.
THE AUTHORS Guillermo Tabernilla is a researcher and founder of the Sancho de Beurko Association, a non-profit organization that studies the history of the Basques and Navarrese from both sides of the Pyrenees in the Spanish Civil War and in World War II. He is currently their secretary and community manager. He is also editor of the digital magazine Saibigain. Between 2008 and 2016 he directed the catalog of the “Iron Belt” for the Heritage Directorate of the Basque Government and is, together with Pedro J. Oiarzabal, principal investigator of the Fighting Basques Project, a memory project on the Basques and Navarrese in the Second World War in collaboration with the federation of Basque Organizations of North America.
Pedro J. Oiarzabal is a Doctor in Political Science-Basque Studies, granted by the University of Nevada, Reno (USA). For two decades, his work has focused on research and consulting on public policies (citizenship abroad and return), diasporas and new technologies, and social and historical memory (oral history, migration and exile), with special emphasis on the Basque case. He is the author of more than twenty publications. He has authored the blog “Basque Identity 2.0” by EITB and “Diaspora Bizia” by EuskalKultura.eus. On Twitter @Oiarzabal.
Josu M. Aguirregabiria is a researcher and founder of the Sancho de Beurko Association and is currently its president. A specialist in the Civil War in Álava, he is the author of several publications related to this topic, among which “La batalla de Villarreal de Álava” (2015) y “Seis días de guerra en el frente de Álava. Comienza la ofensiva de Mola” (2018) stand out.
More than 120,000 Americans were taken prisoners of war during the bellicose conflict. Most of them, some 94,000, spent their captivity in the almost hundred camps built by the Nazi regime throughout their country and the occupied territory in Europe.
The journey to Stalag Luft IV took four days, passing through bombed-out Berlin, on a crowded freight train. “We could sit,” Alfonso related, “but we couldn’t lie down. There were no bathroom facilities, and, after a couple of days, it was hell to be in those cars” [10]. The prison camp consisted of four compounds – three for Americans and one for the British – for a total of 10,000 airmen.
Five Months in the Prison Camp
By Alfonso’s account, the German authorities respected the Geneva Convention, so there was no forced labor. However, the shortage of food was a serious problem. “We survived because the American Red Cross food parcels. Life in camp was not bad as long as we behaved. Since we were not forced to work, we had much time to kill. Life was dull, but at least we were ‘safe’. This went on for some five months. This situation was to suddenly change. The Russians began their offensive towards the west. The Germans had no intentions of letting the Russians liberate 10,000 American [and British] airmen” [11].
Faced with the continuous advance of the Soviet Army on the Eastern Front, Germany decided to evacuate the prisoners to the heart of the Third Reich. It is estimated that between January and April, 1945, 80,000 Allied prisoners were forced to walk west in the middle of one of the bloodiest winters of the war, without food or adequate clothing, and afflicted by disease. These forced marches were known as “the Black March” or “the Death March.” About 3,500 Allied soldiers perished as a result of them.
The Death March
On February 6, 1945, some 8,000 prisoners from Stalag Luft IV, including Alfonso, set out on a march of more than 800 kilometers – 500 miles – on foot, during which hundreds of soldiers died. The memory of that time remained very vivid in Alfonso’s mind for the rest of his life.
Early one morning we were informed we would be evacuating the camp. The next three months were to be three months of pure hell. We left camp with the cloths we were wearing, a blanket, and whatever we could carry on our backs. Our problems began almost immediately. The bitter cold brought much influenza and illness. We battle frostbite, fever, and pneumonia. Before long we were infested with body lice. Hunger was the worst part. Because of drinking impure water, dysentery ran rampant among the prisoners. I became quite ill but survived only because I was literally carried for a week by some of my befriended ‘cell’ mates. We walked from daylight to darkness when we would drop from exhaustion and hunger. For substance we had little to eat but boiled potatoes, kohlrabies picked up along the way and loaves of black brot (bread), which had to be divided twenty ways. We survived day-to-day from meager handouts given to us by civilians along the road. I traded my watch for a loaf of bread and a piece of sausage. My class ring went for a dozen boiled eggs [12].
The American and British troops continued their advance towards German territory from the west. “The sound of war and the rumble of tanks were more evident every day. What a sight to behold as the British tanks appeared over the horizon! The day was May 2, 1945 – the happiest day of our lives after 250 days of captivity,” Alfonso exclaimed in his writings [13]. Five days before he had turned 20 years old. Left to their own devices, the prisoners of Stalag Luft IV began their last march towards the British zone. Alfonso’s tragic odyssey was coming to an end. Germany finally surrendered to the Allies on May 8, 1945. By the middle of that month, all surviving American prisoners were under Allied control. Evacuated to the French port of Le Havre, he boarded a troop transport ship for the United States. Alfonso arrived at the Port of New York on June 12, 1945. Thirty-two years earlier, his father, Mauricio Garde Echandi, a native of Urzainki, Nafarroa, had followed the same path, at only 19 years of age.
Back to Vaughn
Alfonso was discharged with honors on October 17, 1945, in Roswell, New Mexico, with the rank of sergeant. He was awarded the Bronze Star for the campaigns in Central Europe, the Rhineland, Northern France, Southern France, and for the Balkan Air Combat. He received the ribbons for the Theater of Europe, Africa, and the Middle East. He in turn received the Air Medal (awarded in October 1944 during his captivity) and the Presidential Unit Citation.
Alfonso Garde upon his return to the family home in Vaughn, Guadalupe County, New Mexico, after his release and subsequent evacuation (Courtesy Garde Marcilla family).
Upon his return, his parents and siblings were waiting for him at the family home in Vaughn. His mother, Emilia Marcilla Anaut, from Nafarroa and born in Isaba in 1901, had arrived in the US with her father in 1916. Her father tragically died in a snow storm while tending a flock of sheep in the 1920s. More than one hundred residents of Roncalese town of Isaba emigrated to New Mexico during the first two decades of the 20th century. Most of them worked in the agricultural and livestock sector.
Emilia and Mauricio married around 1919, establishing their residence in Vaughn, where Mauricio operated a sheep ranch. The distance that separates the hometowns of Emilia and Mauritius is less than 4 kilometers. Paradoxically, they met thousands of kilometers from their native Roncal Valley. During their marriage they had eight children, all of them born in Vaughn: Mariana (1920-1943), Jesusa “Susie” (1921-2011), Mauricio Jr. (1923-2003), Alfonso Justo, Inez (1927-1998), Emilia ( 1928-1975), Elena “Helen” (1930), and Raymond (1940).
Portrait of the wedding of Mauricio Garde Echandi and Emilia Marcilla Anaut, both from the Roncal Valley in Nafarroa, held in Vaughn, New Mexico, around 1919 (Courtesy of the Garde Marcilla family).
Mauricio Jr. was also called up for duty after graduating from the Vaughn Institute. During the war he served as a Military Police in the Army. All the children of Emilia and Mauricio graduated from college, which facilitated their entry into the middle class. The socioeconomic rise of the first Basque generation born in the country was evident.
Photograph of the Garde Marcilla family taken in June 1963 during Raymond’s graduation from New Mexico State University. From left to right (front row): Mauricio Jr., Mauricio Sr., Emilia, and Raymond. From left to right (second row): Inez, Helen, Susie, and Alfonso (Courtesy of the Garde Marcilla family).
In 1949, Alfonso married Delia Dávila and they had three children. He retired in 1981, after having developed a brilliant career in the world of education. In the 1950s he was superintendent of the Vaughn schools, and until the mid-1960s he was superintendent of the Belen, New Mexico, schools. He later worked for a year for the New Mexico State Department of Education in Santa Fe, and from 1968, Alfonso carried out his professional work as director of transportation and district business manager for Belen schools.
As his daughter Sarah told us, “My father never spoke about his experience at war. He would only announce the anniversary date of when he was shot down! My dad was typical of The Greatest Generation!” [14]. Alfonso last reviewed his memoirs in 1990. “After reflecting for forty years on my unusual adventure, I have decided to put my thoughts in writing,” Alfonso wrote. “Why? I really don´t know. It was not a feeling of guilt or shame for having been captured. It was probably more a feeling of sorrow for my crew mates who did not return, as well as the thousands of young men that gave it their all” [15].
Alfonso Garde Marcilla passed away at the age of 66, on February 17, 1992 in Albuquerque, New Mexico. May this article serve as a small tribute to Alfonso’s companions who lost their lives 78 years ago.
References [1-4, 6-15] Garde, Alfonso. (August 1984, revised August 1990). “Reflections 40 Years Later”. P. 3, 4, 9, 5-6, 6-7, 7, 9, 10, 10-11, 12, and 2. [5] Report of the mission on Markersdorf (Austria) of August 23, 1944 in nº 9 of the bulletin of former members of the 451st Bombardment Group (https://www.451st.org/Ad%20Lib/Pdfs/Issue%209.pdf). [14] Interview by the authors with Sarah Garde (January and February 2023).
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If you want to collaborate with “Echoes of two wars” send us an original article on any aspect of WWII or the Civil War and Basque or Navarre participation to the following email: sanchobeurko@gmail.com
Sometimes during my foraging of the Internet for interesting stories about Basque culture, I come across a cool tidbit like this week’s fact about Yolande Betbeze. Almost all references to her note her Basque ancestry. However, this is a case where I can’t really confirm her Basque heritage – it seems that her first immigrant ancestor came from nearby, but not necessarily from, the Basque Country. Regardless, given how ubiquitous the references to her Basque background are, I’m moving forward with writing about her.
Portrait of Miss America contestant Yolande Betbeze surrounded by her music, taken by Dick DeMarsico and found on Alabama News Center.
Yolande Margaret Betbeze was born on November 28, 1928, in Mobile, Alabama. Her parents, William and Ethel (nee Meyer) Betbeze, owned slaughterhouses – William was known as “Alabama’s Barbecue King.” William’s family is often noted as being of Basque descent, from Iparralde. Yolande often referred to her Basque ancestry – hence the nickname the “Basque spitfire.” It seems that it was her great-great grandfather, Jean Betbeze, that immigrated to the United States. Jean was from Chelle-Debat, Hautes-Pyrénées. Certainly close to the Basque Country, but I can’t tell if he was actually Basque…
Betbeze grew up in a strict Catholic household and attended a convent school before attending Spring Hill College in Mobile. She became an accomplished soprano and, as one way to get scholarship monies to continue her musical education, she entered her first beauty pageant, winning “Miss Torch” in 1949. She then entered the Miss Alabama contest as, in her own words, “one way to escape the South.” She was crowned Miss Alabama in 1950 and represented the state in the 1951 Miss America contest.
Betbeze wasn’t the standard Miss America contestant for the time. Most of the women were blond and fair-skinned – her darker complexion and hair stood out. Once, she found “hairy sits here” scrawled on her dressing mirror. However, her striking beauty and her amazing performance of the “Caro nome” aria from Verdi’s “Rigoletto” led her to be crowned Miss America 1951.
Her rebellious spirit immediately came through. One of the Miss America sponsors, Catalina bathing suits, pulled out as a sponsor of the competition when Betbeze refused to sign a contract demanding she parade around in a swimsuit – “I’m a singer, not a pin-up” she told them. Catalina went on to create the Miss USA and Miss Universe pageants as a result of Betbeze’s actions. Betbeze ushered in a new era of the Miss America pageant, in which scholarship, talent, and intellect were valued as much, if not more, than pure beauty.
Betbeze’s activism didn’t stop there, as she participated in the NAACP, CORE (Congress of Racial Equality), and SANE (The Committee for a SANE Nuclear Policy). She protested the executions of convicted spies Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. She became a fund raiser for the Democratic Party and at one time considered running for office herself. She also became an opera singer and co-founded an off-Broadway theater.
In 1954, she married movie mogul Matthew Fox, who died 10 years later. They had lived in New York where Betbeze studied philosophy at the New School for Social Research. Betbeze never married again, but she had a long relationship with Cherif Guellal, an Algerian businessman and diplomat who helped Algeria gain independence and served as an ambassador for Algeria.
Betbeze died on February 22, 2016, in Washington DC, where she had moved after Fox’s death, living in a house previously owned by Jacqueline Kennedy.
