Word: hoyos
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...newsmen were permitted to witness last week's executions in Spain. TIME Correspondent Gavin Scott, however, was one of two foreign journalists in a group of reporters allowed to travel to Hoyo de Manzanares, where three of the men accused of killing policemen, Alonso, Sanz and Sánchez-Bravo, were shot by a firing squad. Scott's report...
...scene was the office of Alonso's defense lawyer, a modest hut in the Madrid suburb of Vallecas. "There is no hope," sighed the lawyer, his eyes red with fatigue. He turned to a telephone and dialed the number of an undertaker in the old Castille village of Hoyo de Manzanares, 18 miles north of Madrid. "Can you take care of a death?" the lawyer asked. "Where is the body?" the undertaker asked. "Haven't you been listening to the radio and television?" the lawyer insisted. "We don't handle these cases," the undertaker coldly replied...
Show of Force. Shortly before 8 o'clock, as fleecy pink clouds gave way to a dull sun, motors revved ominously within the prison compound. A motorcade of 15 Jeeps, paddy wagons, buses and police cars wheeled out and off into the traffic, headed for Hoyo de Manzanares. Near that town was a conveniently isolated artillery training facility in rolling, rocky hills. "Orson Welles has a house up here somewhere," remembered one of the reporters trailing the entourage. "It used to be a great place for making westerns." Guardia Civil lined the routes in pairs at intervals and also...
...Hoyo de Manzanares, the convoy disappeared up a twisting, rutted dirt road. Barred from following, we turned off the car motor and listened. Off below, down the road among the boulders and scrub brush, there was a sudden volley of rifle fire. It was 9:25 a.m. At 9:40 a.m. there came a second volley and at 10, a third. Armed police shuffled up and down the dirt road, calmly puffing cigarettes. By 11, the gray vans carrying the remains appeared, en route back to the village. A black car also loomed into view; it contained the local priest...
Critical Cascade. Sheed, who is married and has three children, does his writing in a studio on Manhattan's West Side. With one of his cherished Hoyo de Monterey cigars always within reach, he scribbles in longhand with a No. 2 pencil. He half-consciously removes his clothes as he works. Precisely why he does that is a mystery but, whatever the reason, it enables him to produce a cascade of critical pieces in addition to his fiction. He is book editor of Commonweal, film critic for Esquire, and a freelance reviewer for at least half a dozen other...