On a hot afternoon of May 10th, 1931, some army officers grieving the end of the reign of their lately deposed king met in a clubhouse in Spanish capital of Madrid and took to drink.

They also took to song playing the Royal March on phonographs opening their windows

and blasting it out into the street. Passers by, typical of Medriolinos whose family's own no land and swore no oath of loyalty to the king,

were still giddy with the arrival of the second Spanish Republic.

The Republic promised a relief to the dire circumstances of their lives as exhausted laborers

or downtrodden clerks or henpeck waiters, a promise to dignify labor with recompense and banish the faint whispers of a hunger that never quite left them.

That bellowing royal march was a haughty reply from the forces of traditional order that none

of these promises would be kept.

The army, packed with monarchist officers, would see to that.

In the days heat fighting broke out between the Medriolinos and the army officers, the common people of the city against the armed

emissaries of the land owners of the country.

Soon the violence spread across the city as the people of that city mobilised to strike against

their enemies. The news of the riot shot

through fresh veins of communication infrastructure to cities and even villages across

the Spanish countryside. Fires alighted in thousands of ready hearts. They were out to assert

themselves against the one institution whose injustice and oppression

transcended geographic region or sector of employment. An institution that unlike the buildings of the government

was largely left unguarded.

So crowds gathered at the churches and convents that dominated the culture of Spain, were

God's spokesmen consecrated as holy, they are unending

suffering.

Now most city dwellers and the poor of the villages who had not inherited a trade from their

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