Winter of the World (Century Trilogy 2)

by Ken Follett

They started work on the next hole but, before they broke through, they were halted by a major called Marquez, who came along the row of houses by the route they had made through the walls. ‘Forget all that,’ he said in Spanish-accented English. ‘We’re going to rush the church.’

  Lloyd went cold. It was suicidal. He said: ‘Is that Colonel Bobrov’s idea?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Major Marquez non-committally. ‘Wait for the signal: three sharp blows on the whistle.’

  ‘Can we get more ammunition?’ Lloyd said. ‘We’re low, especially for this kind of action.’

  ‘No time,’ said the major, and he went away.

  Lloyd was horrified. He had learned a lot in a few days of battle, and he knew that the only way to rush a well-defended position was under a hail of covering fire. Otherwise the defenders would just mow the attackers down.

  The men looked mutinous, and Corporal Rivera said: ‘It is impossible.’

  Lloyd was responsible for maintaining their morale. ‘No complaints, you lot,’ he said breezily. ‘You’re all volunteers. Did you think war wasn’t dangerous? If it was safe, your sisters could do it for you.’ They laughed, and the moment of danger passed, for now.

  He moved to the front of the house, opened the door a crack, and peeped out. The sun glared down on a narrow street with houses and shops on both sides. The buildings and the ground were the same pale tan colour, like undercooked bread, except where shelling had gouged up red earth. Right outside the door a militiaman lay dead, a cloud of flies feasting on the hole in his chest. Looking towards the square, Lloyd saw that the street widened towards the church. The gunmen in the high twin towers had a clear view and an easy shot at anyone approaching. On the ground there was only minimal cover: some rubble, a dead horse, a wheelbarrow.

  We’re all going to die, he thought.

  But why else did we come here?

  He turned back to his men, wondering what to say. He had to keep them thinking positively. ‘Just hug the sides of the street, close to the houses,’ he said. ‘Remember, the slower you go, the longer you’re exposed – so wait for the whistle, then run like fuck.’

  Sooner than expected, he heard the three sharp chirrups of Major Marquez’s whistle.

  ‘Lenny, you’re last out,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s first?’ said Lenny.

  ‘I am, of course.’

  Goodbye, world, Lloyd thought. At least I’ll die fighting Fascists.

  He threw the door wide. ‘Let’s go!’ he yelled, and he ran out.

  Surprise gave him a few seconds’ grace, and he ran freely along the street towards the church. He felt the scorch of the midday sun on his face and heard the pounding of his men’s boots behind him, and noted with a weird sentiment of gratitude that such sensations meant he was still alive. Then gunfire broke out like a hailstorm. For a few more heartbeats he ran, hearing the zip and thwack of bullets, then there was a feeling in his left arm as if he had banged it against something, and inexplicably he fell down.

  He realized he had been hit. There was no pain, but his arm was numb and hung lifeless. He managed to roll sideways until he hit the wall of the nearest building. Shots continued to fly, and he was terribly vulnerable, but a few feet ahead he saw a dead body. It was a rebel soldier, propped against the house. He looked as if he had been sitting on the ground, resting with his back against the wall, and had gone to sleep; except that there was a bullet wound in his neck.

  Lloyd wriggled forward, moving awkwardly, rifle in his right hand, left arm dragging behind, then crouched behind the body, trying to make himself small.

  He rested his rifle barrel on the dead man’s shoulder and took aim at a high window in the church tower. He fired all five rounds in his magazine in rapid succession. He could not tell whether he had hit anyone.

  He looked back. To his horror he saw the street littered with the corpses of his platoon. The still body of Mario Rivera in his red and black shirt looked like a crumpled anarchist flag. Next to Mario was Jasper Johnson, his black curls soaked in blood. All the way from a factory in Chicago, Lloyd thought, to die on the street in a small town in Spain, because he believed in a better world.

  Worse were those who still lived, moaning and crying on the ground. Somewhere a man was screaming in agony, but Lloyd could not see who or where. A few of his men were still running, but, as he watched, more fell and others threw themselves down. Seconds later no one was moving except the writhing wounded.

  What a slaughter, he thought, and a bile of anger and sorrow rose chokingly in his throat.

  Where were the other units? Surely Lloyd’s platoon was not the only one involved in the attack? Perhaps others were advancing along parallel streets leading to the square. But a rush required overwhelming numbers. Lloyd and his thirty-five were obviously too few. The defenders had been able to kill and wound nearly all of them, and the few who remained of Lloyd’s platoon had been forced to take cover before reaching the church.

  He caught the eye of Lenny, peering from behind the dead horse. At least he was still alive. Lenny held up his rifle and made a helpless gesture, pantomiming ‘no ammunition’. Lloyd was out, too. In the next minute, firing from the street died away as the others also ran out of bullets.

  That was the end of the attack on the church. It had been impossible anyway. With no ammunition it would have been pointless suicide.

  The hail of fire from the church had lessened as the easier targets were eliminated, but sporadic sniping continued at those remaining behind cover. Lloyd realized that all his men would be killed eventually. They had to withdraw.

  They would probably all be killed in the retreat.

  He caught Lenny’s eye again and waved emphatically towards the rear, away from the church. Lenny looked around, repeating the gesture to the few others left alive. They would have a better chance if they all moved at the same time.

  When as many as possible had been forewarned, Lloyd struggled to his feet.

  ‘Retreat!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.

  Then he began to run.

  It was no more than two hundred yards, but it was the longest journey of his life.

  The rebels in the church opened fire as soon as they saw the government troops move. Out of the corner of his eye, Lloyd thought he saw five or six of his men retreating. He ran with a ragged gait, his wounded arm putting him off balance. Lenny was ahead of him, apparently unhurt. Bullets scored the masonry of the buildings that Lloyd staggered past. Lenny made it to the house they had come from, dashed in, and held the door open. Lloyd ran in, panting hoarsely, and collapsed on the floor. Three more followed them in.

  Lloyd stared at the survivors: Lenny, Dave, Muggsy Morgan and Joe Eli. ‘Is that all?’ he said.

  Lenny said: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus. Five of us left, out of thirty-six.’

  ‘What a great military advisor Colonel Bobrov is.’

  They stood panting, catching their breath. The feeling returned to Lloyd’s arm and it hurt like hell. He found he could move it, painfully, so perhaps it was not broken. Looking down, he saw that his sleeve was soaked with blood. Dave took off his red scarf and improvised a sling.

  Lenny had a head wound. There was blood on his face, but he said it was a scratch, and he seemed all right.

  Dave, Muggsy and Joe were miraculously unhurt.

  ‘We’d better go back for fresh orders,’ Lloyd said when they had lain down a few minutes. ‘We can’t accomplish anything without ammunition, anyway.’

  ‘Let’s have a nice cup of tea first, is it?’ said Lenny.

  Lloyd said: ‘We can’t, we haven’t got teaspoons.’

  ‘Oh, all right, then.’

  Dave said: ‘Can’t we rest here a bit longer?’

  ‘We’ll rest in the rear,’ Lloyd said. ‘It’s safer.’

  They made their way back along the row of houses, using the holes they had made in the walls. The repeated bending made Lloyd dizzy. He wondered if he was weak from loss of blood.<
br />
  They emerged out of sight of the church of San Agustin, and hurried along a side street. Lloyd’s relief at still being alive was rapidly giving way to a feeling of rage at the waste of the lives of his men.

  They came to the barn on the outskirts where the government forces had made their headquarters. Lloyd saw Major Marquez behind a stack of crates, giving out ammunition. ‘Why couldn’t we have had some of that?’ he said furiously.

  Marquez just shrugged.

  ‘I’m reporting this to Bobrov,’ Lloyd said.

  Colonel Bobrov was outside the barn, sitting on a chair at a table, both of which items of furniture looked as if they had been taken from a village house. His face was reddened with sunburn. He was talking to Volodya Peshkov. Lloyd went straight up to them. ‘We rushed the church, but we had no support,’ he said. ‘And we ran out of ammunition because Marquez refused to supply us!’

  Bobrov looked coldly at Lloyd. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said.

  Lloyd was puzzled. He expected Bobrov to congratulate him for a brave effort and at least commiserate with him over the lack of support. ‘I just told you,’ he said. ‘There was no support. You can’t rush a fortified building with one platoon. We did our best, but we were slaughtered. I’ve lost thirty-one of my thirty-six men.’ He pointed at his four companions. ‘This is all that’s left of my platoon!’

  ‘Who ordered you to retreat?’

  Lloyd was fighting off dizziness. He felt close to collapse, but he had to explain to Bobrov how bravely his men had fought. ‘We came back for fresh orders. What else could we do?’

  ‘You should have fought to the last man.’

  ‘What should we have fought with? We had no bullets!’

  ‘Silence!’ Bobrov barked. ‘Stand to attention!’

  Automatically, they all stood to attention: Lloyd, Lenny, Dave, Muggsy and Joe in a line. Lloyd feared he was about to faint.

  ‘About face!’

  They turned their backs. Lloyd thought: What now?

  ‘Those who are wounded, fall out.’

  Lloyd and Lenny stepped back.

  Bobrov said: ‘The walking wounded are transferred to prisoner escort duty.’

  Dimly, Lloyd perceived that this meant he would probably be guarding prisoners of war on a train to Barcelona. He swayed on his feet. Right now I couldn’t guard a flock of sheep, he thought.

  Bobrov said: ‘Retreating under fire without orders is desertion.’

  Lloyd turned and looked at Bobrov. To his astonishment and horror he saw that Bobrov had drawn his revolver from its buttoned holster.

  Bobrov stepped forward so that he was immediately behind the three men standing to attention. ‘You three are found guilty and sentenced to death.’ He raised the gun until the barrel was three inches from the back of Dave’s head.

  Then he fired.

  There was a bang. A bullet hole appeared in Dave’s head, and blood and brains exploded from his brow.

  Lloyd could not believe what he was seeing.

  Next to Dave, Muggsy began to turn, his mouth open to shout; but Bobrov was quicker. He swung the gun to Muggsy’s neck and fired again. The bullet entered behind Muggsy’s right ear and came out through his left eye, and he crumpled.

  At last Lloyd’s voice came, and he shouted: ‘No!’

  Joe Eli turned, roaring with shock and rage, and raised his hands to grab Bobrov. The gun banged again and Joe got a bullet in the throat. Blood spurted like a fountain from his neck and splashed Bobrov’s Red Army uniform, causing the colonel to curse and jump back a pace. Joe fell to the ground but did not die immediately. Lloyd watched, helpless, as the blood pumped out of Joe’s carotid artery into the parched Spanish earth. Joe seemed to try to speak, but no words came; and then his eyes closed and he went limp.

  ‘There’s no mercy for cowards,’ Bobrov said, and he walked away.

  Lloyd looked at Dave on the ground: thin, grimy, brave as a lion, sixteen years old and dead. Killed not by the Fascists but by a stupid and brutal Soviet officer. What a waste, Lloyd thought, and tears came to his eyes.

  A sergeant came running out of the barn. ‘They’ve given up!’ he shouted joyfully. ‘The town hall has surrendered – they’ve raised the white flag. We’ve taken Belchite!’

  The dizziness overwhelmed Lloyd at last, and he fainted.

  (v)

  London was cold and wet. Lloyd walked along Nutley Street in the rain, heading for his mother’s house. He still wore his zipped Spanish army blouson and corduroy breeches, and boots with no socks. He carried a small backpack containing his spare underwear, a shirt, and a tin cup. Around his neck he had the red scarf Dave had turned into an improvised sling for his wounded arm. The arm still hurt, but he no longer needed the sling.

  It was late on an October afternoon.

  As expected, he had been put on a supply train returning to Barcelona crammed with rebel prisoners. The journey was not much more than a hundred miles, but it had taken three days. In Barcelona he had been separated from Lenny and lost contact with him. He had got a lift in a lorry going north. After the trucker dropped him off he had walked, hitch-hiked, and ridden in railway wagons full of coal or gravel or – on one lucky occasion – cases of wine. He had slipped across the border into France at night. He had slept rough, begged food, done odd jobs for a few coins and, for two glorious weeks, earned his cross-Channel boat fare picking grapes in a Bordeaux vineyard. Now he was home.

  He inhaled the damp, soot-smelling Aldgate air as if it were perfume. He stopped at the garden gate and looked up at the terraced house in which he had been born more than twenty-two years ago. Lights glowed behind the rain-streaked windows: someone was at home. He walked up to the front door. He still had his key: he had kept it with his passport. He let himself in.

  He dropped his backpack on the floor in the hall, by the hatstand.

  From the kitchen he heard: ‘Who’s that?’ It was the voice of his stepfather, Bernie.

  Lloyd found he could not speak.

  Bernie came into the hall. ‘Who . . . ?’ Then he recognized Lloyd. ‘My life!’ he said. ‘It’s you.’

  Lloyd said: ‘Hello, Dad.’

  ‘My boy,’ said Bernie. He put his arms around Lloyd. ‘Alive,’ Bernie said. Lloyd could feel him shaking with sobs.

  After a minute Bernie rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his cardigan then went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Eth!’ he called.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone to see you.’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  She came down the stairs a few seconds later, pretty as ever in a blue dress. Halfway down she saw his face and turned pale. ‘Oh, Duw,’ she said. ‘It’s Lloyd.’ She came down the rest of the stairs in a rush and threw her arms around him. ‘You’re alive!’ she said.

  ‘I wrote to you from Barcelona—’

  ‘We never got that letter.’

  ‘Then you don’t know . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dave Williams died.’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Killed at the Battle of Belchite.’ Lloyd had decided not to tell the truth about how Dave had died.

  ‘What about Lenny Griffiths?’

  ‘I don’t know. I lost touch with him. I was hoping he might have got home before me.’

  ‘No, there’s no word.’

  Bernie said: ‘What was it like over there?’

  ‘The Fascists are winning. And it’s mainly the fault of the Communists, who are more interested in attacking the other left parties.’

  Bernie was shocked. ‘Surely not.’

  ‘It’s true. If I’ve learned one thing in Spain, it’s that we have to fight the Communists just as hard as the Fascists. They’re both evil.’

  His mother smiled wryly. ‘Well, just fancy that.’ She had figured out the same thing long ago, Lloyd realized.

  ‘Enough politics,’ he said. ‘How are you, Mam?’

  ‘Oh, I’m the same, but look at you – you’re so th
in!’

  ‘Not much to eat in Spain.’

  ‘I’d better make you something.’

  ‘No rush. I’ve been hungry for twelve months – I can keep going a few more minutes. I tell you what would be nice, though.’

  ‘What? Anything!’

  ‘I’d love a nice cup of tea.’

  5

  1939

  Thomas Macke was watching the Soviet Embassy in Berlin when Volodya Peshkov came out.

  The Prussian secret police had been transformed into the new, more efficient Gestapo six years ago, but Commissar Macke was still in charge of the section that monitored traitors and subversives in the city of Berlin. The most dangerous of them were undoubtedly getting their orders from this building at 63–65 Unter den Linden. So Macke and his men watched everyone who went in and came out.

  The embassy was an art deco fortress made of a white stone that painfully reflected the glare of the August sun. A pillared lantern stood watchful above the central block, and to either side the wings had rows of tall, narrow windows like guardsmen at attention.

  Macke sat at a pavement café opposite. Berlin’s most elegant boulevard was busy with cars and bicycles; the women shopped in their summer dresses and hats; the men walked briskly by in suits or smart uniforms. It was hard to believe there were still German Communists. How could anyone possibly be against the Nazis? Germany was transformed. Hitler had wiped out unemployment – something no other European leader had achieved. Strikes and demonstrations were a distant memory of the bad old days. The police had no-nonsense powers to stamp out crime. The country was prospering: many families had a radio, and soon they would have people’s cars to drive on the new autobahns.

  And that was not all. Germany was strong again. The military was well armed and powerful. In the last two years both Austria and Czechoslovakia had been absorbed into Greater Germany, which was now the dominant power in Europe. Mussolini’s Italy was allied with Germany in the Pact of Steel. Earlier this year Madrid had at last fallen to Franco’s rebels, and Spain now had a Fascist-friendly government. How could any German wish to undo all that and bring the country under the heel of the Bolsheviks?

  In Macke’s eyes such people were scum, vermin, filth that had to be ruthlessly sought out and utterly destroyed. As he thought about them his face twisted into a scowl of anger, and he tapped his foot on the pavement as if preparing to stomp a Communist.