HE had no charm and no charisma. In his 83 years on earth, no one ever quoted him cracking a joke or saying anything remotely witty.
Yet, unlike Hitler, Mussolini or Stalin, he remained in power on his own terms – unchallenged throughout his long life – and died peacefully in his own bed.
There was always a streak of heartlessness about him. During a banquet in the Civil War, he was told of four teenage girls captured on the Madrid Front wearing republican scarves. What should be done with them? “Oh, shoot them,” he said, while ladling soup into his bowl.
Francisco Franco Bahamonde was born on December 4, 1892, into a middle-class Galician family. Awkward and stubborn from the start, he broke with the family’s naval tradition and joined the army instead.
In the early 20th century, a young officer had two choices: serve in a safe but dull town regiment with no prospects, or volunteer for action in the Moroccan war. Franco, ever the calculating machine, chose Morocco – and rapid promotion.
By 33, he was a general.
Two anecdotes reveal him perfectly. First, when he was severely wounded in Morocco, medics moved him to the ‘hopeless’ area to focus on saving others. Franco pulled a gun on them and ordered an operation, effectively saving his own life.
Second, once he’d risen to lead Spain, an old school friend visited him. “Should I call you tú or usted?” the friend joked. With complete seriousness, Franco replied: “You can call me Excellency.”
By 1936, Spain was at a crossroads. Would it follow Russia into communism – a path millions supported – or Germany and Italy into fascism? Franco, leading the young right-wing generals, launched a Civil War to keep Spain ‘Christian’.
It’s worth recalling Sanjurjo, Molà and Primo de Rivera. Each had a huge following, and any of them could have emerged as caudillo. But all three died violent deaths in quick succession, leaving the field open for Franco.
Luck – or something darker?
It was typical of him to accept massive military aid from Hitler and Mussolini – do whatever it takes to win – and just as typical that, once firmly in power, he refused to return the favour.
Franco realised that after World War Two, every European state would be pressured to side with either the USA or the USSR. He was determined to face both down.
Ironically, it was Spain’s salvation – and the beginning of the end for the dictatorship – that came from an unlikely source: tourists.
In the post-war boom, young Europeans suddenly had money, music, and a desire to travel. Spain may have been impoverished and backward, but it had sun and beaches. Airliners could bring people from Manchester, Mannheim and Maastricht to Málaga in under three hours. Tourism exploded.
Franco didn’t like it, but he needed the money. Then the US offered millions in return for naval and air bases in Rota and Morón. The mighty dollar prised Spain open to modernity.
By the 1960s, Franco was showing signs of dementia. His idea of fun was to sit in a wheelchair with a shotgun while turkeys and ostriches were herded inches from his barrel. Blasting defenceless birds had become his one remaining pleasure.
On November 20, 1975 – and they’ll no doubt show the clip all week – a weeping newsreader announced, ‘Franco ha muerto’. Franco is dead.
The system he built was swiftly swept away. And Spain deserves congratulations for the speed and gentleness with which it returned to life.
Viva España.
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