A Broken Land (11 page)

When Vince had them gathered, Cal dropped back slightly to a point where they could observe the obstacle but be in a position to
quickly fall back, and explained quietly what they faced, having first pointed out those starkly white tree stumps and what could be read from them. With the ground rising to one side, that was the most likely spot to set your shooters, given it gave dominance over the killing zone and slowed any counter-attacking force obliged to move uphill.

Not that you could assume – that was stupid, he continued. Both sides had to be checked but any ambush could only be set to one side of the road; not to do so was to risk killing your own men once the bullets started flying. The way to check it out was simple – three squads would be left as support, while the others would be led into the woods at a right angle, then forward in extended order moving from tree to tree.

Selecting the two who would play out what had been proposed presented a problem; he needed to leave Vince in charge of the main body, just in case his assumptions proved false. So he took one squad on the left-hand route and gave young Jock from the Broxburn mines charge of the other, on balance the less likely to pose a risk. When they moved out there was no joshing; they took it seriously, moving in near-silence, careful where they placed their feet.

The sudden sound of breaking undergrowth was instructive; every one of Cal’s party immediately sought cover and aimed their weapons towards the source of the noise, for there was nothing to see until the wild boar showed itself between two patches of thick bush. That was enough for Cal, who already had his rifle at his cheek, the muzzle moving slightly ahead of the rushing game, habit for a man who had shot pheasant and grouse, as well as been taken stag hunting by his father in the Highlands.

The single shot took the animal in the head and dropped it, the
sound echoing through the forest. Slowly he moved forward, another bullet in the chamber, for a boar was a dangerous animal and not always alone, followed by his extremely curious squad of lads, to stand over the twitching body of the wild pig.

‘That’s dinner taken care of,’ Cal said, well aware that the presence of the beast was a sure sign there were no other humans present. ‘We need a runner to go back and bring on the others.’

Bernard the marathon man was only too keen to volunteer.

By the time the first trucks arrived, the slow armour-plated van first, the animal had been gutted and tied onto a pole, the sight enough to give Laporta another discipline problem: half his men wanted to go hunting for what was a highly appreciated local dish. Cal did not bother to explain that them blundering about in the woods would drive every boar into hiding, and if they got close, especially if there were piglets around, it might be them that suffered and not the animals.

Using ropes, the route was cleared and within an hour they were on their way, soon once more in open rolling country following a depressing route of destruction as, in farmhouse after farmhouse and village after village, they found houses destroyed and people either shot or hung from trees, with the mood of the column getting increasingly gloomy and resentful, the desire for bloody revenge building at every incident, even if they were unsure which side had done the individual deeds – some of those farmhouses might have been gutted by peasants.

The bigger landowners in every case, and the priests in most, had fled with the Falange and, when survivors were questioned, it was clear that to the present squad of Civil Guards had been added
others, though not all. In one small town they found that the local semi-military policemen, having sided with those they lived amongst, had been the victims, not the perpetrators.

Nothing signified more the confusion that was to become commonplace than their half-dozen uniformed bodies crumpled against the wall where they had been shot. They, at least, had been given the last rites by a priest who, Cal was told, having tried to protect his flock, was lucky to survive.

Little time was spent in such places by the main body – enough to establish the strength of the fleeing enemy and to issue a few consoling words. Then they were back on the road and making good progress.

T
he first real obstacle to progress came at a town called Albatàrrec, marginally larger than the others they had passed through. It lay on a narrow canal close to the provincial border of Catalonia-Aragón, the water barrier providing a natural obstacle lending itself to defence, given the crossing was by way of a single bridge. Had a proper soldier been at the head of the column he would have stopped the convoy and sent forward a party on foot to assess the level of risk.

That was not the Republican way. In every town or village so far, the Falange had just pillaged the place, spread terror and passed through. Here, their enemies had determined to make a stand and, as they approached the first buildings, a blast of machine gun fire tore into the lead vehicles, first shredding the tyres on the armoured van and bringing it to a halt. It then set about those following, in one of which was Laporta.

Ten trucks to the rear, Cal Jardine, jumping out of his own cab, saw the fighters ahead of him abandoning their vehicles, as well as ground being torn up by bullets. Surrounded by ploughed fields, there was little cover, and given the road was bounded by deep ditches, which acted as storm drains, the only protection enjoyed by his own truck was the presence of those in front. Being within range, albeit near the limit for a light machine gun, he needed to get his men off, while the drivers reversed to get their vehicles out of harm’s way.

He got his own truckload, Florencia included, into one of the deep ditches, bone dry at this time of year and giving good shelter, the others behind taking that cue, till they were all safe, while on the road, with a mayhem of shouting, arguing, arm-waving and the odd sound of metal on metal, the trucks were grinding backwards.

Telling them all to stay down, Cal went forward at a crouch to find out what was happening. At the head of the ditch, where it joined a culvert that dropped to the waters of the canal, it was full of fighters, their leader amongst them, he having escaped from the cab of the second truck. On the road lay the cost of not being either vigilant or a professional, several bodies, while the vehicles in which they had travelled were now ablaze from end to end. The flames reached the fuel tank of one, creating a boom that made everyone duck their heads into their shoulders, as well as sending up a sheet of bright-orange flame.

Laporta was swearing, a continuous stream of Spanish invective that was as useless as his military prowess, and the look he gave Cal Jardine dared him to even think of alluding to that lack of foresight, but he did agree that it was nonsense to just stay pinned down in the ditch; something had to be done to silence that machine gun and it could not be done from where they were cowering. When
Cal indicated he would seek its precise location, the anarchist leader nodded with real gratitude.

In short controlled bursts, bullets were now pinging off the plate armour of the van, making noise, but posing little real threat, while the smoke from the burning trucks was blowing across their front to obscure the location from which the enemy fire was coming. The only person in that makeshift tank was the driver and he had changed places with another several times; no one wanted to travel on a July day in what was close to an oven, and that included the riflemen allotted to it.

If that meant no return fire, its bulk, added to the billowing black smoke, allowed Cal to get forward to the rear of the van and, between bursts, get a snatched view of what lay ahead – a kind of big barn to one side of the road, probably the place where the crops from the surrounding fields were stored after harvest. In construction, it conformed to a type of which the convoy had seen hundreds on their travels: probably two-storey, with rough-hewn sandstone blocks held together by untidy layers of mortar.

Rectangular, it sat right by the edge of the road and it should, Cal thought, be a single layer of wall surrounding an interior open area, which triggered a possible solution, if not an easy one to execute. But first it was necessary to think through the portents of what had just happened. As far as he could make out it was a single weapon, probably operated by two men, so where were the rest of the party they had been pursuing and why had it been employed? To keep them away from the bridge perhaps?

With enough ammo that machine gun could keep them here until the light faded, and if it was speculation to assume the hold-up was a deliberate tactic, that perhaps even less charming surprises requiring
time to be completed were being prepared on the other side of the canal, then that was what war-fighting was like; you had to use what knowledge you had, add it to experience, then make assumptions on which you could act.

Sporadic fire was being returned from the ditches, but a few single rifles were not having much impact on a well-concealed
machine-gunner
, firing from an elevated position. Crawling under the truck, closer to the ground than normal on its flat front tyres, Cal managed to get a look at what lay ahead: more red sandstone buildings on the other side of a narrow bridge, then a road that went straight on into the town, though from such a low point he could see nothing more that looked like a threat.

Getting across that bridge, if the rest of the Falange decided to contest it, would be tough and it could be mined. A fair amount of dynamite would be needed to blow the thing when the first vehicle was halfway over, though he doubted they had the means, doubly so because only a fool would start a fight on the far side of the bridge with that killer option up their sleeve.

Yet it would make sense if you were waiting for explosives, or you had them but not the time to set both charges and the means to fire them; hold up the enemy till it gets dark, deploy enough firepower to keep them to the east of the canal and use the night to mine the bridge. Dodging back to Laporta he gave his opinion, glad that the anarchist leader did not seek to challenge what could only be assumptions; there could be another case to make: that their enemies were as militarily naive as the man to whom he was talking.

‘I need an interpreter and that has to be you.’ Laporta nodded: fiery as she was, what was proposed was no task for Florencia. ‘Send someone back to Drecker; I think he has grenades and I need them.’

‘He might not give them up, my friend,’ came the reply. ‘The communists like to keep their own weapons for their own use, and not just that – this morning, after you were gone, I had to threaten to take fuel for our trucks by force if he did not give it up.’

There was no time to be shocked or surprised at that, no time to ask for an explanation either. ‘Then tell him he will have to sacrifice some men if he does not want to give up the weapons I need. His choice!’

The Spanish was rattled off quickly and Cal followed a crouching runner down the ditch to where Vince sat, his back propped up against the side, smoking a fag, eyes closed and his face turned to the sky. One of his lads nudged him to say Cal was approaching.

‘This is no time for forty winks, Vince,’ Cal joked; if anything he was pleased with Vince setting such an example of sangfroid.

‘Just working on a suntan, guv.’

‘Where’s Florencia?’

‘She’s gone back to the trucks to set up a field kitchen, in case we’re stuck here for a while.’

‘And we might be unless we give that machine gun Johnny ahead something to think about.’

Cal looked over the rim of the ditch, first to where the transport had withdrawn, well out of range, then at the field on the right-hand side of the road, seemingly recently ploughed, a fact he pointed out to Vince.

‘The furrows will give some protection at long range, so let’s get a squad across and deployed in extended order and looking as if they are there to advance. It will split his attention and, if he fires, I think he will be lucky at the distance to do much damage.’

‘You?’

‘I’ve got to try to get inside and silence the bugger.’ Vince was then given the same assessment as he had passed to Laporta, the notion he had formed lying under the armoured van. ‘I have a suspicion we have to get across that bridge as quickly as we can.’

‘You need two at least for a job like that, guv.’

He was right, and by the look on his face, Vince was suggesting that he be the second person. ‘But can we leave the lads to work on their own?’

‘They have to start sometime, and provided they don’t get too pushy this is as good as any.’ Responding to the enquiring look, Vince added, ‘I’d put that kid Jock in charge, he comes across like a natural and I think the lads respect him.’

‘I never asked what he did.’

‘Field sports he was, pole vault.’ That occasioned a grin. ‘Come in handy if they do blow the bleedin’ bridge, eh!’

‘So will the swimmers.’

‘Here comes the Happy Hun.’

Drecker arrived at a crouch, machine pistol in hand, one of his squad leaders behind him, and Cal was glad to see his pockets were bulging.

‘Laporta,’ he demanded.

Cal jerked a thumb. ‘I’ll go forward with him, Vince; you come too once you’ve sorted out the lads.’

Getting in front of Drecker, Cal was struck by the fact that the communist commander was only heading forward now, once he had been asked for something, whereas he had done what would have been expected from a subordinate commander, gone forward immediately. There was no point in dwelling on that; it was necessary to deal with what they faced now. Over his shoulder, he explained
what they faced and how he intended to go about neutralising it.

‘Before I give you what you have asked for I must see for myself if it is a good use of such scarce and valuable weapons and that you will not just waste them.’

There was a great temptation to tell him he was ‘a cheeky bugger’; he was a military ignoramus as far as Cal could tell, but the need for diplomacy won out. Getting the grenades was more important than telling this sod he knew what he was doing. What Drecker’s response did tell him, though, was that the limited cooperation from the communists, which he had up till now only speculated on, looked as if it might be real.

When they joined Juan Luis, Drecker’s parsimony was not greeted by any Spanish restraint or diplomacy; indeed there was a loud and fractious argument, which only stopped when Cal interrupted in German to find out what was going on.

‘This man does not command me or my cadres,’ Drecker shouted.

Proving to Cal he was not the only one who could work by tone alone, Laporta addressed him in French. ‘This communist pig will wait till there is easy glory to be had, when half my men are dead, then he might do something.’

The use of the word ‘
cochon
’ was unfortunate – Drecker knew what it meant and the two began spitting at each other in Spanish, this reaching a crescendo as Vince joined his guv’nor, which was just as well, given he could translate most of what was passing between them, imparted with his usual laconic manner.

‘Seems, guv, that while both their mothers were no better than they should be, neither of ’em has a dad. ’Part from that there’s a load of guff about politics.’

‘Have you seen Decker’s oppo?’ Cal whispered. The squad leader had his hand on his pistol, the flap on the holster was open and his gaze was fixed on Laporta. ‘Now, has he been told to do that or is he just nervous?’

‘It’s me that’s nervous, guv, but I think they’ve agreed that we can have a couple of grenades.’

Still furious from his dispute with Laporta, Drecker pulled the grenades from his pocket and handed them over, his expression turning haughty as he indicated he would show Cal how to use them. So intent was he – or was it arrogance? – that he did not see the look aimed at Vince, which was one of frustrated impatience at his pedantic tone.

‘Tell him, guv, it’s only a bleedin’ F1 and Christ knows you’ve seen enough of them in your time.’

‘It would spoil his day, Vince,’ Cal replied, before adding, with Drecker still talking, ‘four-second fuses, he says.’

‘Just the job, then.’

The covering fire was no more than a distraction to draw a response, with the trio of Cal, Laporta and Vince racing for the back of the armoured van, then diving underneath, before crawling forward, the Spaniard to the front, his hand reaching out and up to bang on the cab door on the non-threatened side, an act he had to repeat three time before the driver responded and opened it. His unshaven face and half a naked body appeared right on top of that of his leader and some sharp words were exchanged.

‘Driver says his tyres are in shreds,’ Vince said quietly to Cal. ‘Golden boy is telling him to just do as he’s told.’

That was not the end of it, but Vince did not bother to say any
more, it was just variations, it seemed, on the same points. Eventually the face disappeared and Laporta, as previously arranged, slid his rifle onto the floor and hauled himself up into the cab in a snake-like motion, the engine bursting into life as soon as the door slammed. By that time Vince and Cal were standing at the back, weapons ready.

‘If this don’t work, we are going to be in trouble gettin’ back to cover.’

‘Vince,’ Cal replied, with fitting irony. ‘When have you ever known my ideas not to work?’

The sound of the van moving forward was horrible, the shredded tyres soon flaying and exposing the wheel rims to the hard road surface. Never a speedy vehicle, due to the excess weight, it struggled to get up to the kind of pace necessary, with Cal and Vince not required to follow at more than a fast walking pace, bodies low to ensure that as it got closer to the building the angle of fire did not expose them, with yet more shots coming from the ditch and the popping sound of Laporta firing his own weapon through the cab slit.

The metal plating that protected the engine hit the corner of the barn with a thud and the van stopped dead, though the cloud of dust that came billowing up was reassuring. Gears crunching, it began to reverse, with Cal peering round from the back to see if it had achieved the effect he hoped. There was damage, but not enough, and he could imagine the anarchist leader cursing and urging a repeat. Because of the need to do that, Cal had a grenade in one hand and a finger of the other through the pin.