American Commander in Spain

Robert Hale Merriman and the Abraham Lincoln Brigade

Marion Merriman, Warren Lerude

• Verlag: University of Nevada Press
• Jahr: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781948908757
• Thema: History
• Thema: Military Biographies

The Spanish Civil War (1936—1939) was a confrontation between supporters of Spain's democratically elected Republic—including peasants, communists, union workers, and anarchists—and an alliance of nationalist Army rebels and upper-class forces, including the Catholic Church and landlords, led by General Francisco Franco. In the political climate of the time, this civil war became the focus of foreign interests advocating conflicting ideas of democracy and fascism. Spain became a training ground where Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy tested military techniques intended for use in a yet to be declared wider world war. Although most Western nations embraced a neutrality pact, individual volunteers from around the world, including the United States, made their way to Spain to support the Republican cause.Among the Americans was Robert Hale Merriman, a scholar who had been studying international economics in Europe. He and his wife, Marion, joined volunteers from fifty-four countries in International Brigades. Merriman became the first commander of the Americans; Abraham Lincoln Battalion and a leader among the International Brigades. Now available in a new paperback edition, American Commander in Spain is based on Merriman and Marion's diaries and personal correspondence, Marion's own service at his side in Spain, as well as Warren Lerude's extensive research and interviews with people who knew Merriman and Marion, government records, and contemporary news reports. This critically acclaimed work is both the biography of a remarkable man who combined his idealism with life-risking action to fight fascism threatening Europe and Marion's vivid first-hand account of life in Spain during the civil war that became a prologue to the Second World War.

1

The Shattering News

“WOUNDED. Come at once.”

I was shocked. The cable gave no detail. It didn’t say how badly Bob was wounded, simply that he was in a hospital—somewhere in Spain. Despite the shattering news, I somehow felt relieved; the urgency of the cable meant he was alive.

The date was March 2, 1937.

I had received scattered letters from Bob in the two months since he left me in Moscow and headed for Spain. Each letter told how he was training the young American volunteers to help the Spanish Republic struggle against the Fascists of General Francisco Franco and his supporters Hitler and Mussolini. But the letters were delayed, sometimes for weeks, so they only assured me that he was all right at the time he wrote. For current news I had to rely on the English language reports in the Moscow Daily News, the paper published for the international community in the Soviet capital. But the dispatches covered only general news of the so-called Spanish Civil War. They gave no detail on the Americans who had volunteered to fight in Spain.

I dashed from the tiny apartment, clutching the yellow paper, and ran through the few short blocks of cobblestone streets to the Soviet visa office. A bureaucrat there quickly grasped the emergency—my husband, Robert Merriman, had joined anti-Fascists from all over the world to fight for the Spanish democracy, he commanded the American forces there, he was wounded, perhaps gravely, and I had to go to Spain to help him.

I handed him the cable, translating the English as best I could into Russian. “Ah, now we have something,” the burly Soviet official nodded as he examined the message. Raising a bushy eyebrow in approval, he assured me he would cut through governmental red tape as quickly as he could to get me the necessary papers for urgent departure from the Soviet Union.

Momentarily relieved, my thoughts quickly turned back to Bob. My God, what was his condition? The cable simply said he was in a hospital in Spain. But what hospital? Where in Spain? How would I find him? And how badly wounded was he? I shuddered as my mind touched the gravest possibilities: Was Bob blinded? Maimed? Disfigured?

Stop it, I admonished myself. Stop it! He’s alive. Don’t waste time and energy imagining things. Get going. Get out of Moscow. I’d find him, I steeled myself, wherever in Spain he was.

Within three days I stored or gave away everything we owned—Bob’s skis, our heavy clothing, artifacts we had picked up in the months we had been in Russia, and mementoes we had gathered during a sobering trip through Central Europe that summer of 1936. I got rid of everything I could not carry in one suitcase and booked passage on the first available flight that connected with Paris. As I hastily said goodbye to friends in Moscow, an embassy officer gave me a quart of scotch for comfort during the ordeal ahead. I packed the bottle into an overnight case I carried onto the plane.

The plane was a 40-seater with no attendants and no frills. We hit bad weather an hour out of Moscow. At our first stop, Riga, in Latvia on the Baltic Sea, the two other passengers got off the plane. Suddenly I felt terribly alone. The flight was delayed; an hour crept by.

There was nothing I could do. Frustrated, worried sick over how severe Bob’s wounds might be, I broke out the bottle of scotch. I looked around the plane but couldn’t find a glass so I took a swallow straight from the bottle. I was shaking, not so much from fear but from the suspense of not knowing what I faced. The whiskey warmed me. I took another sip, then another. Finally the engines spun to life and the plane taxied down the runway. Aloft at last, heading for Germany, I took another sip of scotch, then put the bottle away. The rest of the flight was so rough that at times I had to crawl to the back of the plane to the bathroom.

I spent the evening in Koenigsberg, having missed the air connection to Paris by two hours. I hurried to the railroad station to wait for a train to Berlin that would connect with Paris. I was alone, unable to communicate with anyone, and with no German money.

My mind raced back to the cold December night when Bob, insisting he must join the fight in Spain against fascism, boarded the train in Moscow and waved goodbye as the tracks and the steam separated us. Why did he have to go? I had implored him not to go, insisting that he was a scholar and a teacher, not a soldier, that this Spanish war was not his affair, that the risks were too great, that he owed the world his work as an economist, that sacrificing himself in Spain would serve no purpose.

Should I have absolutely forbidden him from going? Could my demands have triumphed over his own will? Would it have been right? He wouldn’t be wounded now if I had prevailed, I scolded myself. We would be safely bound for the London School of Economics, then back to the University of California at Berkeley for his teaching career.

But reality settled in as I waited for the midnight train. I hadn’t prevailed. Bob did go to Spain, and now he was wounded.

What to do? As dawn arrived, the train made its way to Berlin, where I caught another train for Paris. There, making my way through the rushing throng in the Gare du Nord, I found a telephone and immediately called the American embassy.

“You must help me!” I pleaded to an old friend from the embassy in Moscow who had been transferred to Paris. “I must get to Spain. Bob’s been wounded. I must get to him!”

Despite our friendship, the embassy officer was very curt to me. He suggested we meet in a nearby restaurant rather than at the embassy. He greeted me with a frown, quickly asking about Bob. He said he was sorry he had been so abrupt on the telephone, then explained that if he were to learn officially that I wanted to go to Spain he would have to take steps to stop me, including invalidating my passport for travel in Spain.

The United States, he explained, had agreed to stay out of the civil war in Spain, as had England and France, and the International Non-Intervention Committee had closed the border to all but official travel.

Fighting exasperation, I calmly told him I was aware of the neutrality act but that I was also aware that Germany and Italy were violating it by helping Franco. None of that mattered to me, however. I was not interested in international politics. I was desperate to find my husband, to get him out of Spain, with luck to the south of France to recuperate if his wounds would allow him to travel. If not, I simply had to be with him to help him until he could leave Spain.

Robert Merriman was, after all, a promising American scholar, studying international economics in Europe on a scholarship from the University of California at Berkeley. Surely the American government had a duty, I implored the embassy officer, to help us. He shook his head. His frown deepened, so out of character for the lively young diplomat whose high spirits I remembered from our American embassy party evenings in Moscow. He said he could do nothing to help, that he was violating the law by even discussing the matter with me, and that if I did appear at the embassy he would have to bar me from attempting to enter Spain.

American volunteers, he explained, were sneaking over the rugged Pyrenees through knee-deep snow to enter Spain from France, and every official eye was focused to halt such movement. The United States government was committed to enforcing its neutrality.

I made up my mind as we talked that if I could not arrange legal travel, I would somehow find the Americans who were filtering into Spain, and I too would find my way through the treacherous mountain passes, whatever the weather, whatever the danger. But I would go to Spain. I would find Bob Merriman.

I went to the French Surete, the security office, and applied for a French visa to Spain. I told a French official my story. The Frenchman, middle-aged, thinly mustached and neatly groomed in white starched collar and dark uniform, simply nodded. He was polite but promised nothing. Each morning, for days, I returned to plead my story. But the response was always the same: the official was sorry but nothing could be done. The Non-Intervention Committee had barred travel to Spain by Americans.

I was extremely careful not to antagonize the French bureaucrat, sensing that I could perhaps reach his sympathies through nonthreatening sincerity. Even so, I got nowhere.

I walked the Paris streets for hours, wondering about Bob, his wounds, and what had happened in the few weeks since he sent the cable. I tried to piece together details from his letters, which I read over and over. But the detail faded and I only found the letters emptier with each reading.

I went to the Spanish embassy. No one there could help me. I was stuck in Paris. I wavered between depression over not knowing about Bob and a forced elation as I insisted to myself that he was alive.

I called foreign correspondents in Paris whom we had known in Moscow. None had word of Bob. They had virtually no news of the few Americans who had arrived in Spain by early 1937. All they knew was that there had been terrible fighting in a valley called Jarama, not far from Madrid, and that American casualties had been extremely heavy.

The more impossible the situation became, the more my resolve stiffened. Abruptly, on my seventh day in Paris, the French relented. The officer at the Surete simply smiled and handed me a visa. He even kissed my hand, saying, “Good luck, Madame.” I never learned what changed his mind, though I suspect that during my week in Paris word found its way to the French government through my embassy and newspaper friends that my mission was purely humanitarian and of no threatening consequence to anyone.

I immediately boarded a train for Perpignan in the Mediterranean southeast of France, the stepping-off place to Spain. As the train sped through the rural French countryside, I almost burst with anticipation of finding Bob. To calm myself, I reached back to the memories of our life together.

It was strange there on that French train to think of the faraway little University of Nevada in Reno with its quadrangle of lush green summer lawn where we had fallen in love nine years earlier. How long ago, I thought, how far the distance from that ivy-covered campus where, on frozen winter evenings, we had skated on a small icy lake and had huddled to warm ourselves by bonfires as we sang our college songs.

2

Together, From the Beginning

THE EVENING WAS TYPICAL of western Nevada in early summer. A glaze of stars brightened the vast dark sky. The nearly full moon illuminated the remnants of winter snow that highlighted the peaks of the Sierra Nevada.

We drove west of Reno, my girlfriends and I, on the old two-lane Highway 40 along the banks of the Truckee River. We parked the car in the village of Verdi and stepped into the chill June evening.

As we walked into the old dance hall I looked around and saw friends from Reno High School I had known for years. We drifted into conversations at the fringe of the dance floor, each of us looking about, wondering who the more interesting boys were that evening.

I noticed four young men watching us from across the dance floor. They were dressed in cords and argyle sweaters, brown and white saddle shoes, and long-sleeve shirts, neatly pressed, with sharp cuffs and crisp collars. One young man was very tall, well over six feet, I guessed. I watched as he talked with his friends and occasionally looked around the hall. He had a warm smile.

“Hi, I’m Bob Merriman,” he said as he and the others walked over and joined us. “Would you like to dance?”

“Thank you,” I found myself saying, a little nervously. “I’d be happy to.”

I had to muster self-confidence. I hadn’t dated much in high school or since. The orchestra was shifting to a foxtrot, and I was not a good dancer. In fact, I was quite timid and a long way from graceful. Bob Merriman turned out to be an excellent dancer, however, and I felt secure in his arms.

“Are you going to the U. this fall?” he asked.

“Yes, I am. I’m looking forward to it,” I smiled.

“Me, too.”

I felt, almost immediately, that most of the people in the little dance hall were watching us. Bob Merriman made me feel not only comfortable, something I didn’t always feel around boys, but even special.

“I thought I’d try it out, see how I like college,” Bob said. “If I don’t like it I can always go back to the lumber camps. There’ll always be trees to cut.” I thought I could detect, despite his uncertainty, a taste for adventure, as though he were talking about going off to China or Timbuktu rather than just up the hill to the campus overlooking Reno.

We compared notes. He was nineteen, I was eighteen. Bob had graduated at sixteen from Santa Cruz High School on the California coast. He bounced around Sierra Nevada lumber camps working hard and saving money for whatever purpose might come along. That turned out to be college in the fall.

I had graduated from high school at sixteen too, in Reno. I then took secretarial training so I could one day work my way through college.

While it wasn’t impossible for young women to go to college in 1928, the tail end of America’s flamboyant Roaring Twenties, neither was it easy for those of us without social position or some family financial stability.

My father had come from a Kansas farm family and, like so many farm boys, had joined the service before he had graduated from high school. After his marriage, he had learned French cuisine working in hotels in southern California and had become an excellent chef. For years he was in and out of the restaurant business, fighting the occupational hazard of alcoholism.

My mother had become ill and died that past spring. Not highly educated herself, she was determined that her children would attend college. She impressed upon me and my two younger brothers and two younger sisters that education would be our way to a better life. She not only encouraged me toward college but required me to go to secretarial school to learn a trade.

With her death and my father’s announcement that he planned to take the family to California, where he preferred to live, I had to make a decision: go with them or enroll in the university as my mother had urged me to do. I chose the latter course, though wretched about the separation from my brothers and sisters, who I knew would have a difficult time with the housekeepers my father would have to employ while he was at work.

I, of course, didn’t tell all that to Bob Merriman that evening in Verdi as we danced to the lively “I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead You Rascal You” and “My Blue Heaven.”

I noticed, between dances, how he moved around the hall. He had to be at least six-feet-two. His thick, sandy hair was brushed back off a high forehead. He walked with the easy grace of an athlete, showing strength he had developed in sports and lumber camp work. As he reached out to friends, he put a hand firmly on one boy’s shoulder and shook an outstretched hand with others. His white, even teeth flashed in a smile that created dimples below his rounded cheeks. His eyes twinkled with merriment.

Merriment Merriman, I thought as I sensed a warmth in his presence that relaxed people. My girlfriends, comparing notes, agreed that we all felt comfortable around him.

I was curious to learn more about him. I learned his full name was Robert Hale Merriman. His father had been a quiet but sturdy man, a mechanic and sometimes lumberjack who had moved his wife and child through a wholesome if not financially successful life in California’s seashore and mountain logging towns.

Bob’s mother wrote romances for lending libraries. She did not aspire to be a great novelist, but contented herself with turning out, one after another, not very risqué but interesting-enough potboilers that sold for a dime. The books were meant to take the humdrum out of the lives of their readers, who were mostly women quite like herself.

Bob had no serious commitment to remaining at the university even for the four years it generally took to get a degree. He simply thought college would be interesting to try. He could pursue his interest in student newspapers, perhaps. He had been the business manager of his high school newspaper, the Santa Cruz Cardinal. Or he might do some debating. He had placed fourth in a state public speaking contest for prep students at Stanford University.

I liked what I learned of his background th...