A Broken Land rtw-2

by Jack Ludlow

  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 alo
ne, 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.

  It took three hits to dislodge enough of the stonework and, not surprisingly, when the base blocks were removed, a good number of what they were supporting came down too, creating a cloud of choking dust and a fall that would have crushed the van had it not been plated in thick metal. As it was, reversing, because of the rubble created, took several jarring attempts.

  The gap left when it did get clear was just a narrow and dark dust-filled hole with no way of knowing what was concealed behind it, and it was into that Cal tossed his grenade, on the assumption that whoever was on that machine gun, and there might be more than two, could not fail to figure out what they were trying to do, not knowing that once they were inside it was a very different kind of fight.

  The two men were on the points of their feet waiting for the blast, which when it came pushed the heavy van into their backs. There was no time to even think on that; Cal spun out from behind, pistol raised, and fired off three rounds, before rushing for the hole, stumbling over the rubble, aware that Laporta was likewise firing into the gap, also that Vince was coming behind him.

  Once through he went left and dived for the floor, Vince going right and doing the same. Neither stopped for more than a split second; both were up, hunched and moving in opposite directions, weapons out, knowing that, with eyes unaccustomed to the gloom, if there was an enemy close he could see them more clearly than they could see him. Cal found some stacked bales of hay as protection and stopped, breathing heavily and seeking clarity of vision.

  The body lay against the opposite wall, nearer to where Vince was moving, his aim to get behind a long cart, loaded with sapling-type poles for making frames; that would give him some cover. As soon as he was there, Cal gave him the signs for one man down and his location and got a nod in return. Then, with his eyes adjusting to the gloom, Cal held up a trio of fingers, the sign that as soon as they disappeared he would move on three, that also acknowledged as Vince would move immediately after, his rifle ready to use.

  When Cal came out from behind the hay it was as a dive into a forward roll in which he spun up onto one knee, pistol out and moving in search of a target. The bullet aimed at him passed his ear with a crack and he began to squeeze on his trigger, aiming at the hatless man in Civil Guard uniform on the open staircase, only to hear another shot and see him jerk backwards. Naturally he looked to Vince; he just twitched his head back and chopped to the rear with his hand.

  Looking over his shoulder, Cal saw Laporta standing in the gap created by the armoured van, silhouetted against the sunlight at his back, a sitting duck of a target for anyone who wanted to shoot him. The shout, in French, which included the words that told him he was a stupid arse, at least moved him till his back was against stone. By that time Cal and Vince were moving rapidly for the stairs and, once there, taking them three at a time, though there was a slight pause to make sure the man Laporta had shot was no longer capable of being active.

  At the top of the staircase there was just an open floor space, better lit than the ground floor, below which they stopped. With Cal crouching and aiming, Vince laid aside his rifle, pulled the pin on his grenade and tossed it in the general direction of where he thought the machine gun might be, before they both dropped several steps and covered their ears, the thud of the thing landing and rolling audible.

  The blast passed overhead, but no other sound came, and with great care Cal lifted his head to the point where his eyes were level with the floor, his pistol horizontal to it and ready for use. In air full of dust he took his time but it was soon clear there had been more than two men on a weapon; number three lay against the outside wall, just below the window from which he had been firing, his face covered in blood, with more, from some other wound, seeping from his body.

  Even so, it was with some caution that Cal and Vince moved upwards and onto the first-floor planking, eyes searching in case there was an unknown threat. Not Juan Luis Laporta; he had followed them up, having stopped only to strip the man on the stairs of his weapons: a rifle and a pistol on a leather belt.

  He came right up as if he were in his own home and marched noisily over to where the other body lay, looked at Cal and Vince, nodded, then went to the window, holding up the pistol belt to show his comrades. The second he came into view, stone chips began to fly, as did he as he dived b
ack into safety, screaming curses at his own men, who could not hear him, damn them, for nearly killing him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Taking the machine gun out of the equation did not solve the problem completely; that bridge still had to be crossed and it was very quickly obvious, indicated by the level of movement, that whoever was in command over the other side had decided to hold his position. Shadowy figures carrying weapons, scurrying about, seeking cover and good fire positions were not about to withdraw. The light was going too; it would be dark soon and the decision had to be made whether to try a crossing immediately or wait until dawn.

  Canals throw up different military problems to rivers, which, when not in spate, usually present crossing points, fords or flood plains where the water level is low. Add to that the banks are slopes, not walls. A lack of maps had been bad enough before; now it was crippling, because no one knew if there was another bridge within marching distance — there was certainly on this side no lateral road they could use — by which they could outflank the defenders, and nor did they have boats; if those had existed, owned by the locals, they had either been sunk or removed.

  The answer lay in a forced crossing at another point, but for people who lived in a port it was shocking how few of them could swim, and in truth, to get them across the canal would require they march to a point out of sight of the town without alerting the opposition — not something Cal Jardine thought the anarchists capable of; moving in formation on foot was no more their forte than silence. Also, they would have to get across without mishap and that too, given the aversion to discipline, seemed unlikely.

  They would have to fight their way to the bridge and help to secure it intact, because without the vehicles they would be moribund and on foot: any notion of going on to Saragossa hinged on the column remaining fully mobile. The option of moving back to find another route and another bridge foundered on the same problem; they could travel miles and find the road just petering out, and it had been obvious from the outset that few of the people they could question knew anything beyond the confines of their own village and their nearest neighbours.