The Flour Mill, the Abandoned Guerrilla Base, and the Soldier: Archaeology of a Spanish Civil War Ruin

Unlike the USA, contemporary archaeology was a relatively new topic in Spain during the early 2000s. I remember how some professors considered any research linked to Spanish Civil War something more related to CSI rather than archaeology. In that context, some pioneers working in commercial archaeology like Jorge Morín de Pablos, Marta Escolà, Amalia Pérez-Juez and Juan Sanguino excavated the first sites using archaeological methodology, a reminder that changes and innovation do not always come from academic bureaus. One of these people that disregard any iron curtain between archaeology, history and the study of the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939) is my dear friend Luis A. Ruiz Casero. Luis called me a cold November morning of 2019 and told me that two colleagues, Alan E. Herchhoren and Julian Dueñas, had discovered a guerrilla base of the Spanish Republican Army mentioned in a series of archival documents and the diary of a Soviet female combatant. According to them, the base was still standing inside an old mill between the towns of Guadalajara and Alcalá de Henares. Days later, Luis, our friend Sara, and I took my car and rushed to what seemed like one in a million opportunity.

It was early in the morning of a grey 11th of November when we took a detour through an unpaved road until reaching a track blocked by a fallen tree. Once we crossed, we saw the old husk of an abandoned mill with its large windows. The original three-stories building dated back to the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th. As one of the doors on the façade was unreachable, we entered through a half-opened sliding metal door. The whole estate was bought in 1947 by a bullfighter nicknamed “the student” who renewed the complex adding the building we just entered. The place was full of broken furniture, glass and discarded tools. Soon after that we crossed the boundary to the original mudbrick building, entering an enormous room of more than 40 m in length built over a canal. Like chandeliers, the rusty machinery hung from the ceiling. At first, we did not pay much attention to the walls and began to explore the different rooms on the ground floor.

The documents from the Ávila General Military Archive by Julián were a summary written after the interrogation of guerrilleros in 1938 and 1939, when they disclosed the location of an ammunition depo belonging to the 300th Guerrilla Division base inside a mill called Moyarniz. After ascending the wooden stairs to the first floor, we reached an enormous columned hall with a small dark space in its center. Some columns were covered in old posters announcing bullfighting shows and a wall was partially covered by marks using stencils with the brand “Moyarniz flour factory”. We were in the right place but artefacts from the war like shell cases were yet to be found. What happened to the base? Maybe the guerrillas packed everything and left in the spring of 1939? We kept searching.

From this area, we entered the room that we first tried to access. Suddenly, everything we were looking for unfolded in front of us. The plaster walls were covered in political paintings from the time the guerrillas occupied the mill. A big red star of the Republican Army was present as well as the less-known anvil with a book, inkwell and writing feather of the Spanish Socialist Party, the shield with hammer and sickle of the Spanish Communist Party a black and red flag of the anarchist CNT-FAI, and a red revolutionary flag. Furthermore, another five-point star with the hammer and sickle, and a three-point star of the Popular Front electoral coalition were present. Interestingly, some of the symbols were deliberately picked, leaving them partially erased. We hit the jackpot!

Since that moment, we paid more attention to the walls and the numerous writings on them. Some were names of visitors, numbers and sums. We took a look at the second floor and found out how precarious it was, with a big gaping hole in the ceiling open to the sky and partially collapsed floor. Instead of exploring it, we continued surveying the lower floors. A storm was approaching, so we proceeded to take as many pictures as we could of the symbols and the graffiti inside the dark space in the hall. Once on the ground floor again, we entered a little side room. Using our lights, we discovered a drawing of an artillery shell and a graffiti saying “105-22 shell”. If it was not clear enough that we had stumbled upon the ammo depo mentioned in the documents, another graffiti stating “Powder room” appeared near the entrance. Finally, we encountered the silhouette of an officer or commissar with its distinctive cap.

Emotions were running high, and as soon as I arrived home, I began examining the images using the DStretch plugin for ImageJ. Developed by Jon Harman, it is widely used in rock art studies, allowing researchers to enhance colors that otherwise will remain hidden. The graffiti turned more nitid, but the biggest shock came when I filtered the images from the dark little space. Suddenly, the next sentence appeared: “Comrades, don’t be undisciplined so that you don’t get caught in this damned cell” and underneath another message specifying that two “comrades” called Rosendo and Giraldo were held here on 1938 for fighting each other. A cube sketched with a text stating that this was a cell appeared as well as a drawing of a guerrillero holding a rifle, a flag and wearing the traditional Spanish cap. One of the inmates, Giraldo, wrote that he was arrested for 8 days. When applying decorrelation stretching to the outside walls of the cell, an arrow with the phrase “take a good look” popped out alongside hurrahs to different labor unions. Apparently, the cell was turned into an educational space to show the consequences of insubordination.

The guerrilleros of the XIV Army Corp were no riffraff. They were very politicized special operation units that focused on infiltration, reconnaissance and sabotage within the Francoist territory. They were characterized by an iron discipline and insubordination was punished by officers and commissars. Nevertheless, not all felt happy about that situation and an “hurray to the commissar” written outside of the cell was deliberately crossed out.

After the first visit, we returned to the mill several times fearing the sudden disappearance of such a unique context. The structure was steadily rotting and on our third visit the old machinery had disappeared completely, stolen by scrap dealers that nearly burned down some wooden beams and destroyed some points. At that time, we were negotiating possible funding from the town hall to perform an archaeological intervention, without any positive outcome. We let them know that we were still documenting the mill. To properly documented it, we drew methodological inspiration from studies of rock art sites. We began by creating plans and 3D models of the cell (https://skfb.ly/6QWqn) and the room with political symbols, as well as taking detailed pictures with scales until we managed to record all Spanish Civil War symbols and some of the previous graffiti. During our visits, we met dozens of people, even a carpenter collecting wood to make furniture, that told us stories about the mill. Alan, whose great-uncle Mariano was a guerrillero, accompanied us on one of our visits.

Further explorations of the side rooms allowed us to discover a door with a painted red star and a room with two gunslingers with charro hats. One had the name “emiliano Zapata” written on. In fact, we know that during the war, the guerrilla units edited journals named after historical guerrilla leaders. Another day we finally risked exploring the second floor. Inside a side room we encountered a “156” in outlined numbers. Archival documents indicate that there was in fact a 156 brigade quartered in Moyarniz. An outlined projection screen also appeared in one of the rooms. The base was fully equipped, even with a cinema. Additionally, we surveyed the outskirts of the mill and found a discarded Pedro Domecq Jerez wine glass bottle and remains of an ammunition box.

However, the mill had an even bigger surprise for us. While checking the lists of members belonging to the 156 Brigade, we discovered a soldier named “Benito Juberías Bartolomé”, grandfather of the person who writes these words. It was a big surprise, since he did not talk about the war. His sister Simona, a teenager, was sent to a prison in northern Spain where she died. After the Republican defeat, he was subjected to force labor by the Francoist dictatorship and put through continuous beatings that left him half deaf. The second big reveal came when my uncle, Ángel, showed me a glasses’ case with Velo-dog revolver that belonged to my grandfather. Originally a personal defense weapon against angry dogs by postmen in Europe, it was extremely easy to conceal. As soon as the revolver came to light, my grandmother, Elisa, and her sons began to remember that there was always whispering about Benito being “very communist” and that he was spying nearby.

It is amazing how objects and testimonies allow our minds to connect and empathize with the people long-gone, people that we have never met. This characteristic is emphasized with materials from recent contexts and events closely related to warfare, repression and suffering. Sadly, we did not manage to conduct a financed project inside the mill, although we deposited the door with a painted red star in the regional museum and gathered enough data that soon will be published in the Journal of Contemporary Archaeology titled: An Invisible Front. Towards an Archaeology of Special Operations During the Spanish Civil War. Now, the only thing left for us is to imagine the words and stories that were shared inside the walls of Moyarniz. Stories about warfare, loss, love, family and death. Their tellers departed a long time ago and only the walls speak to us now. How long until they too get buried under the rubble and time?