The Spanish Expedition
By Tony Nauroth
(05 January 2025)
The “Stars and Stripes” needed someone to harvest stories from the fields of Spain where isolated U.S. military outposts of varying sizes served a variety of NATO missions, often related to gathering intelligence or supporting foreign “in country” military units. The newspaper had no permanent presence in Spain. Instead, the editors would occasionally send a reporter and/or photographer to glean as many stories as possible. News stories would be published quickly, but the bread-and-butter of the paper was its “green stories” that could be written at leisure and published over a period of weeks, months, or even years. The goal was to make it seem as though we were always there.
The best trips were handed out to reporters like carefully rationed candy. A reporter whose work was above par was rewarded with such an assignment. If a reporter also had special skills for a particular assignment, such as knowledge of the local language, that also helped to snag a sugar-plum trip.
In September of 1985, my editor, Grace Blancett, phoned me at my news bureau office in Nuremberg, and asked, “Tony, what are you doing in the last two weeks of this month?”
Although suspicious about what she had in mind, I responded in my signature laid-back way, “Grace, I don’t even know what I’m doing tomorrow!”
She laughed.
Grace knew I could always be counted on to find stories in the most unpromising of situations. I had a knack for uncovering great stories in the most unpromising situations. I was the Rumpelstiltskin of journalism, turning straw into gold.
Grace paused, then said, “I’m going to send you to Spain for two weeks. You know some Spanish, right?”
“Yeah,” I said to myself; “from my high school years.” All I could remember from that time was Donde esta es el Estacion del Ferrocarril? (Where is the railroad station?), only because it sounds really cool in Spanish if you roll “railroad” off your tongue just right.
At the time, though, I wasn’t in the mood for an extended assignment away from home when Mary and I were trying to work through several issues. Still, how could
I pass on a trip to Spain, on the government’s peso, no less?
“We haven’t covered that area in a while,” Grace continued, “Not in person anyway. You’d be on your own and the stories you find are your own. I have no actual assignments. You’ll have to do some research before you leave.”
Right away, I could feel the excitement rise in me. I loved road trips, especially open-ended ones limited only by my imagination and resourcefulness.
“Send me, Grace. Oh, please send me!” I begged, but only within the confines of my head. Yet, at the same time, I was already feeling the fear of the unknown, my usual traveling companion.
“I’ll cut your orders for you,” she said with finality, meaning my trip would be official.
The days between Grace’s offer and my flight out trudged along oh so slowly. I uncovered 23 potential stories and was packed and ready to go.
(NOTE: There are actually several chapters to be written and placed in this spot. They are unfinished, but in the works.)
‘Beer’
I had been driving for several hours after leaving Palos de la Frontera, where Christopher Columbus launched his three ships – the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria – searching for a shortcut to India. Instead, he discovered America. Decades after I learned this “truth” in grade school, I discovered that Columbus had only found that he was lost. That’s how I felt – somewhat lost – as I sailed my rental car across the dry central plains of Spain.
It was late September 1985, and I was wrapping up a two-week exploration of the Iberian Peninsula in search of travel stories to write for my newspaper, the “Stars and Stripes.” My work was done, and I was on my way to Zaragoza in the northeast corner of the country to catch a military flight back to Germany, where I was based.
Although the landscape along the route I took supported some greenery, most of the trees were hemmed in yellows and browns, and rock outcroppings stuck out like islands in a sea of sand. As I piloted my rental car across the bright low-slung hills southeast of Madrid, I caught a glimpse of a group of people off in the distance. When I reached where those figures should have been, they were gone.
“Was that a mirage,” I thought, then out loud I said, “Maybe I need a break,” adding, “Maybe I need a beer.”
I came over a small rise, God knows where exactly, and before me stood an oasis of sorts – a glorified shack, book-ended by two gnarled trees that looked as if they had been demoted to bushes. The building seemed as if it had fallen to its knees. It had a faltering neon sign on the roof that announced, “B**R”. I thought it odd that it was in English. It wasn’t like this region was a tourist destination like Barcelona or Madrid. There were a couple of houses, a barn, a garage, and a few other nondescript structures hanging on to dear life around that Spanish cantina, but that was it. The missing lights that would have completed the word “BEER” were broken.
I pulled my car – my trusty steed – up to the cantina. A single parking meter stood in front, looking like an old hitching post. It was the only one on the street. I didn’t bother feeding it. As I walked toward the saloon doors, I felt like Clint Eastwood throwing his multi-colored poncho over his shoulder and squinting into the harsh sun on the set of “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.” I wondered if I should be carrying a pair of six-guns on my hips. I decided that perhaps I had watched too many TV westerns in my youth.
The swinging doors creaked as I pushed through them, and I stopped to size up the place. Nobody looked very threatening, except maybe for the waitress. There were four tables. Two of them were occupied. One fellow – a stereotype model of a hard-bitten Mexican bandit who had aged out of his chosen profession – was drinking whiskey and looked like he had been drinking whiskey all his life. He was about to fall off his saddle. I could see myself in the near future helping him to remount. The other occupied table hosted an elderly couple who shared a small meal and tender touches. Their dove-coos seemed more like soft sounds that might escape from the throats of much younger lovers, yet their displays of affection were just as loving as those seen in sweet youth. I wondered if they were married or if they were meeting in secret where his wife and her husband wouldn’t find them.
I took a seat at the empty table next to an ancient Coca-Cola refrigeration machine, the kind where you reach into the open top and lift out a traditionally shaped Coke bottle. The waitress approached and assaulted me with a grunt:
“Si?”
“Beer, Por favor,” I answered.
“Si.” she echoed and left. I didn’t even get a chance to ask for food.
She returned holding a brown bottle with a homemade sticker on it. It read, “BEER.” That’s all. Nothing else. It wasn’t even in Spanish; it was in English.
“Beer,” she announced as if she had just delivered the holy grail. Then she stood there, silent. A few seconds passed before she pointed at the bottle and repeated, “Beer!” louder, and I realized she was asking me to pay for it.
“Oh!” I said. I reached into my pocket, pulled out some pesetas, and dropped them on the table. She picked them up, firmly pinching each one between her fingers, and dropped them into the palm of her hand. Somewhat haltingly, she pinched up some more of my money. I figured that was the tip.
“Beer,” she said in a satisfied tone of voice, then left.
The bottle was warm and sticky. I pried the rusted cap off with the opener she had left with me. It didn’t make a sound. Something not quite liquid and not quite solid clung to the rim of the bottle. I drew my notebook out of my pocket where I had earlier holstered it to jot down my observations about this place. I figured it would make a good feature for the “Stars and Stripes.” I was glad I always had a notebook and pen at my hip. From across the room, whose walls were stripped down to splotches of dirty plaster, my waitress kept a sharp eye on my progress, making sure I didn’t pocket the bottle opener, I supposed. With suspicion in her eyes, she watched me write.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to drink the liquid of unknown origin, but then I remembered: “Well, I am, after all, looking for adventure on this trip.” I stole a cautious glance toward the waitress. She glared at me, and I wished I was wearing six-guns, for I was positive that hidden among the folds of her underwear, there lurked a derringer. Bravely, I took a swig from the bottle. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, just a little gritty on my lips. Cautiously, I continued drinking, except for the dregs which, swear to God, seemed to wink at me.
In the meantime, the waitress brought more whiskey to the “bandito” sloshing around in his chair as if he were riding a bucking bronco. She also took two bottles, also labeled “BEER,” to the lovers at the other table. Then she advanced on my table and asked, “Beer?”
“No, gracias senora. No mas, Por favor.”
Then she held out her hand and again said, “Beer.” It sounded like a command. Apparently, she wanted an additional tip for NOT bringing me more questionable beer! I sighed, reached into my pocket, clawed out some coins, opened my hand, and she pinched some into her palm … and then she pinched another. I felt sorry for her, for having to live in this empty landscape and wait on people like me. I wondered if she lived alone, and I wondered if whatever she drank from life was as bad as the beer. Maybe that’s why she seemed so cold and hard. Yet, there was a tenderness that came through in fire-fly fashion – brief, but bright, like the “B**r” sign out front.
“Si?” she asked, almost childlike, before hesitantly pulling the last coin from my hand.
“Si,” I agreed.
I gathered my notebook and pen from the table and stood up to leave. The wooden chair, with its different length legs, wobbled and scraped across the rough plank floor. I started toward the swinging doors, but as I passed the whiskey-guzzling “bandito,” he fell off his chair, so I helped the elderly lovers put him back in the saddle. The waitress came over and, for the first time, smiled. She gave me a peck on the cheek and warmly said, “Gracias.”
“De nada,” I responded with astonishment, and I wondered what the relationship might be between the waitress and the “bandito.” A husband, perhaps, or a brother? More likely her father, given his age.
I walked out through the swinging doors into the dusty street. Squinting against the harsh sun hanging low in the sky, I felt as though I was living through the best scene of a Sergio Leone spaghetti western, half expecting to get a bullet in my back, but now confident that the waitress would warn me. I holstered my notebook, hooked my thumbs over my belt, sauntered toward my trusty steed at the parking meter, tore up the ticket on my windshield, mounted, and rode off into the sunset with the theme song of “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” playing in my head.
* * *