English, as I christened him the moment I heard his posh British stammer, must have thought this to be the case. I became aware of him across the luncheon table at the Grand Hotel in Salamanca, Franco’s military H.Q., saying little, eating less, sucking on tablets he retrieved from a small tin, all the while smoking one of those vile French cigarettes favored by the working classes. He appeared to be mesmerized by the German military advisors decked out in a mixed bag of Gilbert and Sullivan frippery, eating at the long table reserved for them in the middle of the dining room. The Colonel Wolfram von Richthofen, a cousin of the legendary German ace from the Great War Manfred von Richthofen, was entertaining a cluster of young Condor Legion Messerschmitt pilots, using his hands to conjure up two planes locked in a deadly dogfight. Every now and then one of the Italian Fiat pilots at a nearby table would leap to his feet to toast his German comrades. Shrugging off the greatcoat draped over his shoulders, Richthofen, the Condor Legion’s chief of staff, would half rise out of his chair to acknowledge the salutation.
