The escape of 18 soldiers in Palma: 30 years of silence regarding the mistreatment of military personnel

Andreu Matamalas Fons, a 51-year-old from Manacor, had kept silent for three decades. A few months ago, he received an unexpected call from a television program. Saved"They suggested," he says, "that I meet up with four old comrades from my military service in Palma. They got us talking about the biggest military desertion in the entire country, which a group of 18 soldiers staged in 1994 to protest the mistreatment we suffered. My brain had completely erased that trauma."

In October 1993, Matamalas was 18 years old and set himself a challenge: "I've always been a left-wing separatist and justified violence in defense of my ideals. Since I had to do my military service, I asked to be assigned to one of the most demanding units in the army. It was the COE, the 'Green Berets' unit [operational since 1966]. I wanted to act as an 'infiltrator' to learn about the enemy from the inside, their weapons and explosives, since perhaps in the future I too would have to use them for my cause."

Many islanders from Matamalas's previous generation used to do their mandatory military service on the mainland. "Those of us in my year," he says, "had the opportunity to do it in Mallorca. I was able to go to the COE base at the Asensio headquarters in Palma, on the road to Genoa." The man from Manacor encountered a truly testosterone-fueled atmosphere dominated by psychological terror. "There was a good rapport among my comrades. The superiors, however, were fascists and despots, who constantly reminded us that what mattered wasn't the individual, but Spain and the flag. The one who was truly frightening was the second lieutenant. He was like 'Rambo,' born to kill. The most common insult for the weakest was... among us, they punished us with 100 push-ups."

Stockholm syndrome

Matamalas was shocked by the army he encountered. "It was a structure inherited from the Franco regime. And we'd had 17 years of democracy! If, in case of war, we 'Green Berets' had to be the first to go to the front, we were in for a rude awakening. Our formation was a joke, and that of our officers even more so." The man from Manacor, however, would eventually become steeped in that climate of violence. "I suffered from Stockholm syndrome. When I rose to a leadership position, I became one of them. One day I found myself punching a soldier in the chest. Then my brain short-circuited. I said to myself, 'What are you doing?' After that incident, I knew exactly what to do. I've felt guilty for hitting that comrade. Now I'd really like to find him again and apologize."

The most violent moment occurred during the infamous 'beret test,' in which, to earn the coveted 'green beret,' soldiers had to endure a series of humiliations. "It was terrible. We had been doing maneuvers for two days, without having slept a wink and having run 30 kilometers each day with our backpacks fully loaded. At night, when we arrived back at the barracks, they took us prisoner. They blindfolded us, put us in a truck, and took us away for interrogation. To every question, we could only answer by giving our name and rank in the army." The worst was yet to come. "They were worried that whatever they did to us wouldn't leave marks on our bodies so they couldn't be accused of anything. They didn't always succeed, though. With firm hands, they dunked our heads in a bathtub full of water and played loud music to keep us awake. They'd hit us from behind and slam my head against the wall. I, however, would fall back asleep. I know all these details from my comrades.

The Great Escape

That ordeal would end on February 21, 1997. "I," says Matamalas, "had already been enduring it for seven months. Being from Mallorca, I could go to Manacor on weekends to be with my girlfriend and my family. I didn't tell them anything about the torture they were suffering. Those who were from the mainland, participating in weapons exercises, feared a tragedy. To avoid it, a group of 18 soldiers planned the location. 'Pajares and Esteso'."

The improvisation of that escape is evident in the group's reaction once they were on the street. "We looked at each other and asked, 'What do we do now?' Our intention wasn't to desert, but to denounce the violence we were suffering. Someone suggested contacting a journalist." Yellow Pages The phone number for the Antena 3 office in Mallorca was dialed. The cleaning lady answered. She assured us that she would pass on the information as soon as someone arrived. The assignment reached journalist Juan Carlos Palos, who suddenly appeared with a cameraman at the apartment of the rebel recruits. Palos still remembers that day: "I was astonished by their testimony. I had been doing my military service for 11 years. I hadn't suffered physical violence, but I had experienced verbal abuse. After interviewing them, I said, 'Are you sure about what you want to do? This is a bombshell!'"

The next step was to file the appropriate complaint with the Military Government, on Avenidas. "While we were waiting in the building's courtyard, a policeman warned us that they were saying on television that we would be charged with sedition, which carried a 15-year prison sentence. Hearing that, fear gripped us all. Out of nervousness, I smoked the five cartons of cigarettes I had with me." For the first time, we became aware of the magnitude of our actions. The case received significant media attention. We appeared on the programs of Nieves Herrero and Pepe Navarro. Faced with that pressure, the Military Government decided to transfer us to the Illetes military prison (Calvià), where we were held for the remaining two and a half months of our mandatory military service.

"Now we are more feminist"

In 1995, a year later, the trial took place against the superiors accused at the General Asensio base. Only the second lieutenant was convicted, receiving a one-year prison sentence. "The sentence," says Matamalas, "surprised us greatly. How could mistreating someone be so cheap?" The bravery of those "heroes" was widely applauded by the antimilitarist movement. Since its inception in 1977, it had steadily gained followers, whom the State classified into two groups: the "good" ones (the conscientious objectors) and the "bad" ones (the draft dodgers), also portrayed as "traitors to the nation." In 1984, the PSOE government was forced to regulate the Law of Conscientious Objectors. The legislation provided for the creation of a Substitute Social Service (PSS) lasting 18 months (six more than mandatory military service). These were unpaid positions in non-profit organizations.

Soon, however, the situation spiraled out of control. The military courts were overwhelmed by the sheer number of applications from conscientious objectors. Likewise, the government found itself unable to keep creating more jobs for so many objectors. Finally, on March 9, 2001, seven years after the famous Palma prison break, the conservative government of José María Aznar approved the abolition of compulsory military service, which had lasted a total of 231 years – it was established in 1770 during the reign of Charles III. In Europe, the first country to take this step had been the Netherlands, in 1991. As an alternative, progress was made towards a model of professional armed forces.

Matamalas laughs at those who today clamor for the return of conscription because of the supposed discipline it instilled. "That was a waste of time. We spent most of the day doing nothing, and the atmosphere was one of violence and toxic masculinity. Military service didn't make me more of a man, as they used to say. It made me more of a feminist." That experience would leave deep psychological scars. "One of the soldiers who deserted with me couldn't bear the trauma and committed suicide a few years later. It seems my subconscious developed a mechanism to erase that trauma. For three decades I'd never spoken about it with anyone, not even my wife. It was a taboo subject."