A Broken Land rtw-2

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘Why would he think that?’

  Laporta laughed out loud, albeit low and hoarse. ‘My friend, he is a communist. They are convinced everyone is plotting against them.’

  ‘And the road ahead?’ The nod was slow, but positive, so Cal asked, ‘Sentries?’

  That killed off any humour and Laporta once more looked grim.

  ‘Look, if your men are going to behave like soldiers, that is the best place to start.’

  The answer did not come immediately; it was the same as sitting on that wall outside the Ritz Hotel. The anarchist suspected he was out of his depth and in need of advice, but he was too proud to ask, yet hanging in the air was Cal’s threat to take himself and his men away.

  ‘Tonight, they will be my men,’ Laporta said, finally and with confidence.

  Later on, when the time came to execute such a promise, it turned out to be a lot less simple, only solved after a noisy discussion, which seemed again to involve every one of the Barcelona anarchists who had an opinion and the conviction of their right to air it. Cal stayed well out of it, but he did observe that Laporta finally began to lay down the law, in essence to begin to act like a proper commander and not the chairman of some revolutionary committee.

  Not that his orders were accepted with grace; it was a sullen bunch of anarchists who went out into the gathering gloom, while their leader continued to argue with his senior underlings as to whose job it was to ensure both that the necessary changes were made and who should be responsible.

  Vince summed it up in one well-worn phrase. ‘Fred Karno’s Circus, guv.’

  ‘It’s a new tactic, Vince, you make so much noise arguing the toss you frighten away your enemy.’

  * * *

  Another salient fact was the way the atmosphere was noticeably changed by the arrival of the chain-smoking Drecker and his men; they kept themselves separate in a way that did not apply to the British contingent, made up of youngsters who had a sunny disposition on life, took the ribbing they had received earlier in good humour and generally showed their Spanish compatriots a comradely attitude.

  The communists were not given to smiling at anyone, not even each other, seeming like a particularly committed set of monks in their sense of purpose. They had appropriated one corner of the square and they stayed there, being subjected, after eating, to what looked like lectures that had to be about politics, given by their squad leaders, and Cal, seeing Laporta was still with Drecker, wandered over to listen, though it was more the tone than the words, given he could not understand them; he could tell by the gestures it was all about purpose.

  So intent were they that no attention was paid to him, which allowed him to look over their stacked equipment. With the eye of a professional he did not have to get too close to their rifles to recognise them as Mosin-Nagants, the standard rifle of the Russians since czarist times; bolt action and magazine fed, they were a pretty useful weapon.

  Idling on, he walked behind their trucks, and with the rear flaps down he could see they had ample ammunition and what he thought were boxes of grenades, all with Cyrillic script lettering to denote their Soviet provenance. It was not too surprising that communists looked to Russia for their weaponry, but it was just another indication of the state of the nation; how easy it had been over the years for such a group as the PCE to smuggle in their own armoury.

  Back out in the open, Cal, in reacting to a shout, was dragged into having dinner with Drecker and Laporta — he half suspected the Spaniard could not abide that he should eat with the German alone. That was a sore trial; if the anarchist was given to an excess of pride in the company of his lieutenants, he was positively barbed by the new arrival. Not that he was alone in that. Both were eager to air their differences in a dialectical debate on competing principles, and the German bugger smoked incessantly, holding his cigarette in that affected manner.

  What it came down to, as far as Cal could make out — not easy in a three-way language discussion — was the difference between the communist ideal of central control and the anarchist view, which was the precise opposite. For Juan Luis Laporta, centralism was an abomination and he made no attempt to keep hidden his repugnance of the notion, the idea that the leadership was not only always right, but that it had no need to explain itself to those who followed.

  Listening to them argue, it was worrying how this would play out in action, and not only in the tripartite relaying of orders; Laporta, by dint of his numbers, was the leader, and if Cal Jardine was determined to educate him he must seek to do nothing to openly undermine his position in the process.

  Less certain in that regard, and it was only an impression, was Drecker, a humourless prig who also had, as well as his beliefs, an air of arrogance recognisably German and of the most intolerant Prussian hue, which went against his rough Ruhr accent. He created the feeling that he might question every instruction given, which would be fatal in an engagement.

  It was a relief to get away and meet up with Florencia, who had found an abandoned house into which she was eager to drag him, though he was obliged to keep her waiting while he checked on his charges, making sure they were ready for the morning, pleased that they seemed eager to undertake the task outlined, for, given a chance to engage in some on-the-job basic training for the Olympians, there was not even a suggestion that any of the Spaniards should undertake the reconnaissance.

  Rejoining Florencia, and she linking her arm with his as they began to move, Cal was very aware of Drecker. He was smoking another of his long cigarettes and watching them from the communist section of the square with what looked, in the torchlight, like narrowed eyes; so was Florencia and her response was typical.

  ‘He is like,’ she said, with a slight giggle, relishing the chance to use an idiom that Cal had applied to one of the Ritz receptionists, ‘a man with a broom up his arse, that is what you English say, yes?’

  ‘Not in polite company.’

  ‘Is he polite company?’

  ‘No.’

  Taking a puff in the strange manner in which he smoked, Cal saw that the flaring cigarette end lit up the red star on his cap.

  Vince had his boys kitted up and ready to move in the hour before dawn and they were out of the built-up area before the sky turned grey, where they waited till there was enough light to move. Nor did they just march out of the town and straight down the road to be taken by the main body, to the point at which it forked south. They moved at an angle, as previously lectured, in extended order, five staggered squads deep, well apart, weapons ready, that took them towards the treeline, now bathed in low sunlight.

  Aware of the power of imagination and approaching a forest that rose before them, dark-green and menacing, the notion that this might be something other than an exercise was not mentioned, but it was drummed in that coming out of a low sun and advancing on a forest edge illuminated by the same strong backlight created the best conditions for the approach. The sunlight rendered them indistinct, while any movement in the trees should be obvious.

  Once in the shade, Cal explained what they must look for and where, outlining the same scenario as that with which he had regaled Laporta. ‘We will move on both sides of the roadway. There was rain the night before last, so look for disturbed ground at the edges, the same, as well as cuts, at the base of the bigger trees, wood chippings or sawdust, then wires leading to hidden explosives, but if you find any don’t touch.’

  As he was talking Cal realised he was probably addressing a load of townies — there was not a country boy amongst them; the best he could hope for was the likes of Jock, from a small mining village.

  ‘Anybody keep pigeons?’

  Two lads from Tyneside put up their hands, shipyard workers, he recalled. Even in what was close to the most depressed part of the country they still kept up their hobbies.

  ‘Well, Jack,’ Cal said, hoping he had the name right, ‘you know the noise a bird makes when disturbed, and that could signal an enemy moving if they fly towards you. Anyth
ing suspicious, it is hand up by the lead men and everyone else crouch down. Have your rifles at the ready but do not turn them inwards to the road. Remember who is on the other side — your own mates.’

  ‘What aboot the Spaniards, like, Mr Jardine?’ asked one of the Geordies.

  ‘They are coming behind us, when they have got themselves organised.’

  ‘Organised?’ came the heavily accented Geordie response. ‘Ha’way, man, they divn’t ken the meaning o’ the word.’

  ‘Right,’ Vince called, ‘let’s get moving and no more talking.’

  You cannot blame young and inexperienced lads for being excitable and a lot of the time was spent hushing them up, but once more, in such a situation, you can observe those who take the whole thing seriously, not joking with each other, but keeping themselves alert to possible dangers, and they are the ones you want to give responsibility. When the chance presented itself, both the pros took the time to show individuals where to look for tree-felling charges, first the larger one that would blast open the trunk, then the secondary explosion which, going off a fraction later, would ensure the tree fell the right way towards the road.

  Not that there were any, nor, for a long time, was there evidence that the men fleeing the town had come this way. It was one of the two lads on point, in this case Jock, holding up his hand and immediately crouching down, who first indicated some kind of threat, which led Cal and Vince to move forward from the position further to the rear where they were seeking to contain the exuberance of some of their charges — an inability to avoid whispered banter — all now silent and on their haunches. Once they joined the signaller they could see clearly the four large lengths of mature pine that lay across the road.

  The first thing Cal looked for was the stumps from which they had been felled, even in the gloom of the deep forest a stark white, the angle of the face showing they had been brought down by axes, not explosives; not surprising, for that would have been heard in the town where they had bivouacked.

  Given there had been no evidence of any laid charges through the parts they had already traversed it seemed unlikely they faced any threat from the rear, quite apart from the fact they were on foot; if there was a trap set it was for the motorised column, not those who could just leave the road and retreat through the trees.

  ‘Just a hold-up to help them get clear?’ Vince suggested.

  ‘Probably. They had no idea Laporta would stop.’

  ‘How do we check it out?’

  The question implicit in that was about the rawness of their recruits and whether the possibility of real danger existed, not a thing you could ever be a hundred per cent sure about. For them to lead a recce into the depth of the trees carried a risk, but here again was a chance to engage in a practical exercise. If he had been up against a wholly professional foe, one who could not only conceal themselves but also stay still and hidden, it would have been out of the question. But he was not; even the Civil Guard would not have been trained in the requisite tactics for this kind of scenario.

  ‘Bring up the rifle squads one at a time.’

  That took a while and was achieved in silence with finger and hand signals — each squad was now numbered — and if there had been any temptation to banter it was suppressed by their uncertainty about what was about to be asked of them, this while Jardine, just in case, ranged his eyes over the forest ahead looking for tiny signs of movement, a branch being twitched, a rifle muzzle jerking; even for highly trained troops it was hard for a large party of men to stay absolutely still. The more he looked, the more he was convinced there was no danger.

  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.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The first real obstacle to progress came at a town called Albatarrec, marginally larger than the others they had passed through. It lay on a narrow canal close to the provincial border of Catalonia-Aragon, the water barrier providing a natural obstacle lending itself to defence, given the crossing was by way of a single brid
ge. 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.