Non-Pacifist Fist Anti-Fascist: A Tale From My Family’s History

Like many men, I have always been fascinated by tales of courage especially in the theatre of war. I was thrilled when, at an early age, my father gave me the barest bones of a story concerning a member of his Treherbert family who was apparently executed in the Spanish Civil War.  My father didn’t know how this man had been related to us, didn’t even know his name, and believed this unlucky ancestor to have been a journalist.  When I began to become interested in my family history, my research, in the main, was to corroborate this tale but was to uncover a much more intriguing account.

Thomas Isaac Picton was born in Treherbert in 1896 and came from a family of Pembrokeshire miners.  His father, also called Thomas, shows up, aged 18, in the 1881 census living at 8 Tynewydd Huts in the Rhondda Valley, with his uncle John Coles who had been born in Landshipping, Pembrokeshire.  Landshipping was a heart-breaking landmark in the journey of the Picton family for on Valentine’s Day 1844, forty miners including women and boys died there in the Garden Pit Colliery when the eastern Cleddau river (Cleddau Ddu or Black Cleddau) burst into the shaft 67 yards below. Included on the monument to the dead erected by local people are the names of six Pictons and five Coles. Four of the Picton dead were a father and his three sons. Such bad luck doesn’t always encourage you to stick around.

Thomas Isaac Picton was also a miner.  When The Great War broke out,  he enlisted and stayed working with coal, becoming a stoker on the mighty battleships. He was twice decorated for his bravery including during the Battle of Jutland where he spent some time in the water.  His Royal Navy service record measured him at 5 feet 4 and a half inches with blue eyes and dark brown hair and swarthy complexion. It noted that he had a tattoo commemorating his mother in a cross on his right arm. He was discharged with “defective teeth” and had spent 24 days in cells during his war years and 14 days in detention.  The crammed calligraphy of a busy war observes in brackets that he “broke out” of the latter.

He was an avid boxer who was Wales amateur middleweight champion and he had also been the Navy light heavyweight champion.  He managed to get a small number of professional bouts but was primarily a bare knuckle mountain fighter. At least one of his confrontations led him to prison. On one occasion, he left Cardiff jail after serving a short sentence for assaulting a police officer, wearing the boots of a prisoner who had recently been hanged.

As was the case with large numbers of working class people of the inter war years, he became radicalised and was a close friend of Communist Councillor George Thomas of Treherbert. In his early forties, Tom joined the International Brigade, older than the typical volunteers, most of whom were also swapping the uncertainty of their blighted industrial zones for the uncertainty of the Spanish Civil War.  In common with hundreds of fellow miners from the South Wales coalfield, he made the choice to illegally leave his country to fight the rising tide of Fascism in a country he had never previously visited. For entertainment on the journey through France, he was put into a ring to wrestle a bear.  This seems an almost cartoon-like scene to the modern mind, a form of larger-than-life existence we have almost forgotten.

On their arrival at the barracks of the International Brigade, they were issued with ill-fitting uniforms and ancient firearms with ill-fitting ammunition.   Some would go on to fight Fascists in another war, facing opponents who had honed their skills in killing machines above Guernica and other memorable places. Tom, due to his First World War experiences and his prowess as a boxer, may have been better equipped for the fight than many of his comrades.

He fought in the Battle of Teruel and was captured soon after and imprisoned in Bilbao.  He was murdered by his jailers in April 1938 after he had punched to the floor a guard who was beating a fellow prisoner with his rifle butt. The Rhondda Leader newspaper of 29 October 1938 reported that he had been “put up against a wall and shot”.  His body was never found.

These  warriors are still remembered, still commemorated. Their sacrifice and their willingness to enrol in “the march of History” are still revered by those on the Left and their selflessness continues to haunt our unconfident, cynical age. I am proud that a member of my family was among them. Before I fully knew Tom’s story, I wrote a short poem, “Icons”, whose third line seemed to aptly describe his stance :

 

Not game footage

but I’ve outlived Stanley Baker

as non-pacifist fist anti-fascist

in humidity following Biblical rainfall

we all rust

They Came Home

Unsuspected cemetery

its thousand year sand graves

sifted away by storm

revelation

 

they had lived clasped

by the shore

and by the sea

vigorous and self-assured

that margin

 

on their oceanic trade routes

of exchanged objects

and the latest news from

beyond the dolphin-drawn horizons

 

of kings and their retinues

the gossip of far-flung tribes

precious stones and

famous sunsets

 

the bones of the infants

unusually survived

loved in the cuddle

of the cist

laid down with seared hearts

 

they said their toes pointed inwards

bunched that way

by the embrace of

disappeared shrouds

 

Another Delirium

Who will wear the turkey crown

for the people coming home for Christmas?

come home

 

the words written in the dirt

of unwashed winter vehicles

on poorly lit routes

could they show the way?

(no)

 

I have no industrial past

I’m just some kind of penis

 

grief as mental illness

mental illness as grief

 

you lost tribe

man your crannogs

woman your canoes

shoulder your loving

 

hey you damned

get ready for the fever

of your revelation

The Elixir of Preparation

The elixir of preparation

and the preparation of the elixir

the moving air

the flies on hot roof tiles

science as an aspirin

 

to be a crow

then one crow to another

an imagined conversation with Nick Cave

in the cemetery of celebratory dead

 

1.6%

c273

in Arden Forest

the view through a green glass sphere

“better do it now than wish it done”

Of The Fields

I am of the fields

the ones in which my grandfather

used to toil and hunt rabbits

to feed nine mouths

 

always close at hand

in the distance

the horizons

 

the cattle-hooved mud at gates

the perpetual feeling of trespass

among the thistles nettles

and cow pats

the trees the largest objects of that world

 

my parents had left the meadows

to live in brand new local

authority housing

and benefit from modern technology

and labour-saving labours

 

the fields followed them as

lawns borders hedges weeds

wallpaper and cemeteries

 

I am of the fields

I played at soldiers there

and honed the loneliness

of the imagination

and learned how to die

 

No Harps

I am not a harper

I am not a Fisher King

I am neither of these things

I am not a father

I am not a feather wing

I am neither of these things

I am not a player

I am not a fiddle string

I am neither of these things

I am not a piper

I am not a diamond ring

I am neither of these things

I am not a singer

I am not a playground swing

I am neither of these things

I am not a sinner

I am not a waspish sting

I am neither of these things

I am not a swimmer

I am not a moorland spring

I am neither of these things

I am not a winner

I am not a rifle sling

I am neither of these things