by Peter Watt
As they passed through the streets of Madrid they saw signs of devastation everywhere. On the streets were dead animals. The sobering sight made them aware for the first time that they were going into combat. Many reflected death might visit them before the sun even went down.
Their section leader was a grizzled German veteran of the Great War, now self-promoted Sergeant Otto Planke, who had opposed Hitler as an avowed communist on the streets of Munich. He had taken David and Horace under his wing, as well as a young American, two Frenchmen, two Czechs and a Canadian. Otto spoke passable English and decent French and Czech. David mostly conversed with the tough former soldier in German. All except David had belonged to left-wing movements in their own countries and were bemused that someone who wasn’t a communist would volunteer to fight in Spain. But David would counter with the simple statement that he had experienced at first hand the terrible truth of Dachau and thus he was accepted as one of their own.
‘What’s happening?’ the American volunteer called to the sergeant. ‘Are we going to get some grub?’
The American was a short, solid young man from Chicago named John Steed. He was twenty-five years old and had worked in the meat industry as an abattoir worker. He was single but had a girlfriend back home. John Steed always seemed to be thinking about scrounging food, and his skills in this area had already come in handy for the self-appointed section.
‘Nein,’ Otto replied. ‘Ve go to fight, Comrade.’
Within the hour David and Horace found themselves in a suburb where barricades had been constructed across the streets and rudimentary trenches dug. Otto distributed his section along a small length of the trenches that covered the road, and both Horace and David shared a firing pit with one of the Czech volunteers, who once served with the French Foreign Legion in the twenties. All three men were armed with old German Mauser bolt-action rifles and a mere ten rounds each. David was familiar with the rifle as he had used one on the plantation in New Guinea and had proved a crack shot. He had shown Horace how to use his own Mauser and while handling it had found it to be defective. David had set about repairing the weapon while they had waited to travel to Madrid and he had managed to fix it. Such mechanical problems were endemic to the volunteers, who were poorly trained and ill-equipped.
David laid his rifle on the low earthen mound in front of the trench and leaned forward, adjusting the rear sight to cover the range to the end of the long street. In the distance he could hear the crackle of small-arms fire and thud of bombs exploding. Overhead he could see the occasional aircraft seeking out targets. David realised they were the targets those Italian aircraft sought to strafe and bomb. It hit him then that he was very far from home and family. Until now he had been caught up in the cause of fighting fascism, but now he truly realised that there was no going back. The bittersweet memory of Natasha was still with him but the reality of facing possible death made her a distant figure in his life at this moment. Horace had put forward the idea that she had been recalled to Moscow because someone in Paris had reported her sleeping with a non-communist. From what Horace knew, that was reason enough to have her recalled from Paris, such was the paranoia of the Russian regime. Although Horace was aware that the system being exported by Stalin was full of dangerous inconsistencies, he rationalised that all revolutions had their casualties until the system settled down. David didn’t agree, but there was no use arguing now.
‘Get down as low as you can in the trench if you see the Italians fly down against our position,’ the Czech said in German. ‘Tell your English friend to do the same.’ His name was Jaroslav Zeravek and he was a handsome man in his early thirties, strongly built and around six foot tall. His presence in their trench gave David and Horace a small amount of confidence as the former legionnaire had seen much action in North Africa against the fierce Bedouin tribesmen.
When David next looked up he saw a lone Italian fighter circling overhead.
Suddenly an armed volunteer tumbled into the trench beside him and David was shocked to see that she was a young girl, barely sixteen. She was a striking, grim-faced beauty with olive skin, long raven black hair and large eyes, wide with fear. David guessed she was from the city’s local militia and not the International Brigade. She found herself next to David, and when he turned to her he found that he was smiling as if to reassure her that she would not join the ranks of dead in the forthcoming battle. The young woman returned his smile and said something in Spanish.
‘Check their rifles,’ Otto called from down the line.
David reached over to the girl and gently took her rifle. He slid back the bolt and noticed that there was no bullet in the chamber. He pushed the bolt forward to ensure that the rifle was ready for action, and handed it back. Does she even know where the trigger is? he asked himself in despair.
‘Damned amateurs,’ Jaroslav grumbled beside David, who wondered if he was included in that list.
‘She’s a real looker, your one,’ Horace said to David with a note of envy.
‘I don’t even know her name,’ David replied, a little embarrassed at his own attraction to the girl. ‘Besides, she’s a soldier and we treat her as such.’
Otto dropped into the trench to take stock of their preparations.
‘What’s the situation?’ David asked him.
‘From what I know we have twice as many fighters,’ Otto said in German, reaching for the packet of cigarettes he had in the top pocket of his battle jacket. ‘The Manzanares River is an obstacle to the Nationalists for a direct assault on the city centre. But if I were the Nationalist commander I would try to avoid street fighting by launching an attack through the Casa de Campo Park on this side of the river. But the Republican idea of keeping secrets is not so good – I heard that the Nationalist commander’s plan was found on a dead Italian tank crew member yesterday. We’re smack in the middle of a diversionary assault while the Nationalists attempt to establish a bridgehead just north of the city centre around the university. We are on the south-west. You can expect to use up all your ammunition when the time comes for Franco’s assault.’
David was impressed with the sergeant’s professionalism. ‘What do we do if it looks like we’re going to be overrun?’ he asked as the sergeant lit his cigarette and took a long puff, smoke curling into the clear chilly air.
‘The Republicans are broadcasting a slogan over their radio station,’ Planke replied, gazing down the deserted street where only a skinny dog sniffed through bomb-damaged homes. ‘“No pasaran!” Which means, “They shall not pass.” That means we’re supposed to stay at our posts to the death.’
David felt a cold chill of fear. He had never seen combat but he had seen death and he instinctively looked to the beautiful young woman in the trench beside him. It was beyond comprehension that such beauty and innocence could be killed.
Otto could see David gazing at the Spanish girl. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, puffing on his cigarette. ‘You and the boys stick with me and none of us will die. I have never been a great believer in standing to the last man.’
David found some reassurance in his words. He was recognising that he was only nineteen and that he had a whole life to live ahead of him. He needed every fragment of hope to prevent his hands shaking and his bowels loosening. The gunfire and crump of bombs was getting closer and the earth shook with small jolts under his feet. The sergeant finished his cigarette and flicked the stub down the street before departing for the left flank of their section.
David returned to his position, leaning on the edge of the trench, rifle forward on the small earthen mound. He thought that he could smell the freshness of the young woman beside him, distracting him from thoughts of what lay ahead. The waiting was terrible but it ended within a few minutes when movement down the street caught everyone’s attention. They were uniformed men with skin as black as pitch. They came forward, crouched low, bayonets fixed.
‘The Moroccans!’ Jaroslav yelled and David had one square in his sights. He squee
zed the trigger and saw the man collapse. His shot was followed by a crackle of deafening fire on either side of him. David did not have time to realise that he had just killed a man for the first time in his life. All that mattered now was that the enemy be held back – or they were all surely dead.
On that chilly day in Madrid blood ran as rivers in the streets of the old city and death came to attacker and defender alike.
12
David’s world had come down to the feel of the rifle butt against his cheek and the shape of the figures moving in front of him. His fear was forgotten as he fired and worked the bolt to chamber another round of the high-velocity ammunition. He sensed that most of his bullets were hitting their mark on the advancing Moroccan troops, who now retreated to the safety of street corners out of the line of fire.
‘Get out, pull back!’ Otto yelled.
The young Australian glanced over to the Spanish girl and suddenly felt sick in the stomach. She lay in the dirt at the bottom of the trench, her face smashed by an enemy bullet. Her wide eyes stared at the clear sky and David thought he could see utter surprise in them.
‘Get her ammunition,’ the sergeant yelled at David, who stood transfixed by horror. ‘Snap out of it, Comrade,’ Otto shouted, shaking his shoulder. ‘Just get her weapon and ammunition, we need every round.’
In a daze David crouched down to search the pockets of her trousers and found eight loose rounds. Her rifle lay by her side and David could see that it had not been fired – the safety catch was still on. He picked up the weapon and scrambled from the trench, following the rest of his section back up the street just as an artillery round exploded behind him. Red-hot pieces of steel took chunks out of the buildings either side of the narrow cobblestoned street, and over his shoulder David saw one of the French volunteers throw up his arms, dropping his rifle. David’s instinct was to keep running, following the example of the experienced German soldier, but instead he stopped, turned back and ran to the Frenchman lying on his stomach. Wisps of smoke hovered over the Frenchman and blackish blood spread across the back of his tunic. David bent down and rolled the comrade over to see that he, too, stared with vacant eyes into the Spanish sky.
‘Macintosh, get over here!’ Otto bawled just as another artillery shell slammed into the street, exploding with enough force to bowl David over from the blast. He lay winded for a moment and wondered if he had been hit, but after a few seconds realised he was still intact. Scrambling to his feet, he snatched up the two rifles but noticed that the Frenchman’s weapon had been severely damaged by shrapnel. It was useless. With all the strength he could muster, David sprinted down the street towards the doorway of a small residence and was hauled through the door by the sergeant.
‘Damned fool,’ Otto snarled at David. ‘You can’t help the dead.’
David passed the spare rifle to the sergeant and looked around to see his comrades huddling against the stone walls as if they could be absorbed by the bricks, protected against the artillery shells now raining down on the neighbourhood. Houses were blasted to rubble either side of the street.
‘The girl . . .’ David said, not knowing why.
‘The girl is dead,’ the sergeant said harshly. ‘And we just might join her if you don’t snap out of it. Make sure that your rifle is ready for the next attack.’
David knew that he had used all his rounds defending the trench and so felt in his pocket for the Spanish girl’s spare rounds. He reloaded with them and had a strange thought that they were like some kind of jewellery of death. The brass cases were new and shined like gold.
‘What’s happening, Comrade Sergeant?’ the remaining Frenchman asked, clutching his rifle and staring with wide eyes at the doorway. ‘Are they going to kill us?’
‘Not if I have my way,’ Otto Planke spat. ‘They will follow up the artillery barrage with another attack down the street, and we will be waiting for them again. You will find places on the level above us to take up sniping positions, while a couple of us cover downstairs. Listen to my orders and you just might live until at least tomorrow.’
The men of the section listened and obeyed. Had their self-appointed leader not pulled them out of the defences when he did, they would have been killed by the Nationalist artillery shells. It was obvious that Otto knew war and what to expect. He saw no sense in holding an exposed position in the street when they could use the buildings as shelter to retain the ground they had been tasked with defending.
‘You, Macintosh,’ Otto said as a few of the men made their way up a wooden staircase to the second level of the house. ‘You stay down here with me. I can see that you are good with your rifle, and I want you to cover the street from here.’
David nodded and pulled over a rickety wooden table and set it up as a barricade just inside the window. He guessed that if he poked his rifle out the window he would indicate his position to the enemy. But by keeping back and covering the street for a short distance, he felt that he had more of a chance. Otto noticed his preparations.
‘You have the instincts of a soldier,’ he said with a note of grudging admiration.
The shelling had stopped and an unnerving silence fell on the street.
‘They will come at us with grenades,’ Otto said to David and Jaroslav. ‘But they are not used to fighting in towns. The Nationalists are about to learn how dangerous urban warfare can be. We will make them pay for every brick in this town.’
David was aware that the terrible, almost crippling fear had returned as the adrenaline drained from his body. ‘God, what am I doing here?’ he groaned under his breath and used the back of his hand to wipe dirt away from his face. When he looked around the room he could see that it was simple but clean. Just four wooden chairs, a table, and religious icons adorning the walls. A sideboard contained a few kitchen utensils and a set of crockery, most now smashed on the floor from the earth-shaking explosions.
Jaroslav had taken a position covering the open doorway. He had placed two of the chairs as a prop to rest his rifle and had also set himself back in the room.
‘You did a brave but stupid thing on the street going back for the Frenchman,’ the Czech said in German, laying his cheek against the wooden butt of his Mauser and swivelling the rifle barrel to ensure a good field of fire across the limited area he could see from inside the room. ‘You have to learn that you leave the fallen until we have the chance of recovery later – or you will join the dead. It is the way of war.’
‘They are coming!’ a voice warned from upstairs. ‘They have a machine gun!’
The words had hardly echoed in the ears of the men downstairs when the machine gun opened suppressing fire, raking the street.
David’s heartbeat quickened and he stared down the barrel of his rifle at the empty space beyond the window frame. His heart almost stopped when the machine gun ceased firing and a figure loomed in front of him. David fired and the enemy soldier fell, dropping the grenade on the outside of the windowsill. After a couple of seconds it exploded, hurtling shards of shrapnel through the window and smashing into the table in front of David. Around him he could hear the crash of small arms and the yells of men fighting and dying.
Above the ear-splitting noise David thought he heard John Steed yell that their comrade, the Canadian, was dead. So much for Otto’s promise to keep us alive, David thought with a sense of despair as the machine gun opened up again, now raking their shelter in a hail of bullets. All David could do was wait, and pray that he would not join the Canadian.
*
The door to Sean’s office opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick greying hair stepped through. Sean rose from his chair and limped around his desk to extend his hand to the Queensland millionaire and former soldier.
‘So we finally meet again,’ Sean said, beaming a smile and feeling the man’s strong grip. ‘The last time was with the battalion on the Western Front in 1916. It is so good to see you, Tom Duffy.’
‘Good to see you again,’ Tom said.
‘I heard you lost your legs, but at least we’re both still alive, which cannot be said for a lot of good cobbers.’
‘Take a seat, old chap,’ Sean said and glanced past Tom to the clerk hovering at the door. ‘Inform any other clients who may be waiting that I will not be available for the rest of the day. I’m sure that they can be rescheduled.’
Tom sat down, glancing around the walls displaying military photos of Sean’s days on the Western Front in the same battalion that Tom had served with. Sean could see his interest and both men soon found themselves swapping stories of their time in the trenches. There was a brotherhood in such conversation and both men recalled the good times – and bad.
After some time of reminiscing Tom brought up the reason for his visit – his latest bid to buy Glen View Station.
‘I am aware that you have made many attempts to purchase Glen View from the Macintosh companies,’ Sean said. ‘Maybe you should have looked me up earlier. I’m sure that Sir George Macintosh has deliberately dismissed your rather generous offers because of your name. We know that over the past sixty years or so there has persisted an animosity between the two families. From what I can gather the seeds of the antagonism relate to a character, Michael Duffy, who had a romantic interest in the daughter of the Macintosh family. Rumours persisted that Patrick Duffy, the grandfather of David Macintosh, was actually the son of that Duffy–Macintosh union. But for some inexplicable reason old Lady Enid Macintosh took Patrick in. Sadly, time has muddied the reasons for that, and what we have today is a continuing tradition of resistance to anything attached to the Duffy name.’