A Broken Land

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘Where the hell has that come from?’ Vince whispered.

‘Who cares, it’s here and it changes everything.’

What followed was a period of several seconds while both men made separate appreciations of what lay before them.

‘It’s a fair guess,’ Vince responded, eventually, ‘that the exit from the square opposite leads to the canal.’

Cal was thinking his original plan was dead and it was time to formulate another. There was no point now bringing his lads forward to launch any attack from the rear or a flank and throw the defenders into a panic. That cannon, which looked to be another 75 mm Schneider, would not be visible from the other side of the bridge, but wheeled, it would take seconds to alter that. As much to clarify his own thinking as to inform Vince, he explained the way the road on this side came arrow straight into the town.

‘So, shunt the sod out as Laporta begins to cross, and — splat.’

A shell fired over open sights and at point-blank range would demolish that armoured van and probably kill anyone advancing behind it. Had it only just arrived? Was the anticipation of that the reason they had sacrificed three men and a machine gun to keep the column away from the bridge until dark? It made no odds; it was here, and with enough shells, they could make that crossing impossible.

‘Let’s go,’ Cal hissed.

They moved back across the road and down the alley, careful as they exited into the street by which they had entered the town, then moving as swiftly as they could back to where the lads had gathered at the end of the storm ditch, with Cal making plans on the hoof. There was no time for a lengthy briefing; that cannon either had to be taken, rendered useless, or prevented from firing before the sun rose.

When he outlined what each squad would do, not everyone was happy; half of his boys would have to stay still, a strong group in the storm ditch acting as a backstop just as there was one at the canal crossing. That was in itself tactically sound, but in part the real reason for taking less than the total number forward was the problem of control.

His original plan had not been rigid, based on the very sound principle outlined by Carl von Clausewitz, the man who wrote the tactical bible, that no plan ever survived contact with the enemy. Once the recce was complete and he and Vince had some idea of what they faced and where they could best do damage, he had envisaged them taking two squads each into the town to attack as Laporta began to move, the noise of that advance the signal to proceed.

He had then anticipated they would very likely be required to withdraw, possibly run, maybe fighting as they went, but at the very least drawing off some of the defence and easing the numbers facing the Barcelona column. The objective was to sow uncertainty, not to win any outright victory, while making the best of what chances presented themselves; if the Falangists abandoned the bridge, the column could move again.

Now he envisaged a firefight in an open square, in which he and Vince could handle only so many problems, and those in an engagement where improvisation was a must — actions that the Olympians did not have either the skill or experience to know how to react to. Using the whole group as one unit would be too unwieldy and lead to more potential casualties, not fewer.

‘Look, son,’ Vince said, cutting across Cal Jardine as he addressed the men who would be left behind, four of whom were his boxers, and using language he knew they would understand. ‘Our arse could be up in the air if this all goes to shit, so we will need you lot to rescue us.’

‘And,’ Cal added, ‘we have only a guess at the numbers we will face. If they can bring up a cannon, they can also bring up more men. This is a smash-and-grab job and if anyone wants to pull out this is the time to speak up.’

That got a series of negative growls. ‘Good! Now, we have no more time to talk, so let’s get moving.’

If the sky had the first hint of daylight inasmuch as the stars had lost some distinction, it seemed even darker in the streets now, Stygian in the alleys. Cal tried to imagine what was happening over the bridge, for that had a massive bearing on what could be achieved and when. Would Laporta move as soon as the sun rose or would that famous Spanish laxity regarding time surface to delay the assault, exposing his lads to action in full sunlight?

He stayed on the main road while Vince took another squad down the alley they had used previously, both aware that there was no way to coordinate what they would do. They would have to act on an individual appreciation of what they could see, but they had posited various scenarios and agreed that if the Barcelona column did not move at the right time, they would have to think about an immediate withdrawal.

Looking skywards it had begun to go grey, the deep blue of night now fading to the west, the stars no longer visible. Crawling forward and using what shadow remained, Cal tried to get a sight of the cannon, thinking any sign of it moving would be a signal that Laporta was on his way. The first indication lay in the number of men around the gun — he counted a dozen, and he could see one fellow at the corner of the building, an officer of some sort, he suspected, his hand held up to halt any movement, while at the same time looking down the roadway to the bridge. Behind the men set to manhandle the cannon, along the base of the wall, shells stood like a row of sentinels, enough ammunition to turn that bridge into a charnel house.

In the still morning air, the sound of the Republican motor engines starting up and revving carried, not loudly, but with a deep soft beat that seemed to move the warm dawn air, for which Cal was grateful; this was a bonus on which he could not have calculated, nor could he have wished for more from that watching officer, required to pump his halting hand to stop those on the cannon who had set their shoulders to the wheels, obviously eager to push.

Creeping back, he issued his orders in a soft voice, then led his squad along the wall of the last building to the point at which the road joined the square, his eyes naturally drawn first to the line of vehicles, then to the tower of the church, a spot from which he and his men could be easily seen, his hope that, if there was a spotter up there, and there should be, his attention was on what was coming from the east.

On the cannon, no one was looking anywhere except at the man in command, still with his hand held up and palm flat. He obviously had a very good idea of how long he needed to deploy the Schneider, which, no doubt, already had its first shell loaded, while to aim it was simple, the barrel being at a very low elevation. All that was needed was to push the gun into place in the middle of the road.

The sound of motors had increased — the column was moving, but no shots were fired. Cal was watching a classic ploy to draw your enemy on, but nothing could be done. He needed the defenders to be engaged; the last thing he could cope with, and that had applied from the outset, was that they should know about the presence of his boys until they were committed to the forward battle.

The hand was now doing a sort of bouncing movement, clearly he was eager, which was the point at which Cal motioned for his lads to spread out across the roadway, his admonition, with a finger at his lips for silence, received with nods. There was enough light now to just see the faces of these youngsters and it took him back years to observe no fear, just determination. It was the same look he had seen on the faces of the men he had led into battle in 1918 and it had not lasted long.

He had five kneeling, five standing, Cal to one side with his rifle raised. He held his aim on that observer, and as soon as his hand moved from stop to go, Cal pulled the trigger and dropped him. The sound of his shot had no sooner filled the square, oddly sending aloft a flock of flapping pigeons, than the front rank of his Olympians followed, their target the bunched figures around the cannon wheels, their instructions five rounds rapid. As their standing oppos opened fire, they were busy reloading.

Vince and his lads emerged from the left to rush into the square even before Cal’s squad had got off one mag apiece, yelling like banshees as they attacked what remained of the men set to push the gun — not many, for they had suffered badly. Those remaining were trying to spin the light field gun round, one man on the lanyard that would set off the charge; he was Cal’s next victim, taking a bullet in the chest that sent him flying back, the rope still clasped in his hand.

The cannon went off and the shell tore uselessly into the front of the church, doing, at such short range, massive damage. But there would be no reloading; Vince and his lads were too close and those still standing abandoned the cannon and ran, this while Cal brought his squad out into the square, eye ranging over the tops of the buildings, the church in particular.

He shouted to them to get forward and grab the line of artillery shells while he put a full magazine into the bell tower as a precaution, the ring of the cast metal adding a mournful cadence to what was now a cacophony of noisy gunfire, which included at least one machine gun, as the defenders attempted to stop the Republican advance without the use of the weapon on which they had been relying.

Vince’s lads had tipped the wheeled cannon on its side and his boys were running back to where Cal stood, rifles now slung, with the artillery shells cradled like babes in arms, so far without anyone taking a hit. Broxburn Jock yelled at him, his face alight, asking to disable the vehicles by taking out their tyres, but Cal shook his head and indicated it was time to withdraw.

With no trucks or cars the Falangists would be forced to stand and fight, but that might mean him having to take on a number of them in a fight he could not control, which in a maze of buildings and alleyways was inevitable. Better to get out of the way of an enemy who would probably take the chance to retreat, some of them highly capable Civil Guards. There was also the problem of some very fired-up Republican fighters whom, when they got inside the town, he did not trust not to kill their own.

Vince was with him and, as was right and proper, he made no attempt to question Cal’s orders, he merely formed his boys up in a way that allowed them to fall back in good order and act as a rearguard for the squad in front, loaded with shells, forming a line of five, then a second the first could retreat through, always with a set of rifles ready to shoot anyone who showed their face, until they were back at the ditch.

‘Dump the shells,’ Cal shouted, before he began to organise the whole party for what he expected was about to happen, lining them along the ditch in squads so as to concentrate their fire, Vince taking up position at the mid-point. He was shouting orders; there was no need for quiet now.

‘If they are pushed back they are going to bugger off out of here in their trucks and maybe we can give them a fright.’ The cheers that got annoyed him. ‘But only fire when ordered, and that might mean letting some of the bastards through.’

Tempting as it was to ambush the whole lot, it would be too much to expect that he could so decimate them that he would have greater numbers than they. He would have instead what he had already avoided, a battle with people who were desperate and motivated, who probably outnumbered him, were probably better armed than his lads and who, even if he beat them, would kill or maim a number of the boys he led.

Cal knew better than most that you could not fight without the risk of casualties and he had often said he had seen too many in his time. Yet he had a bunch of untrained enthusiasts under his care and it was more important to him to keep up the spirits of these young Olympians, rather than have them ruined by seeing their mates die. They had done really well on this mission, their morale was high and that was the way he wanted it kept for now.

The sounds of battle were still audible, including the boom of explosions that indicated grenades were being employed, but by whom there was no way of telling. The fight at the bridge was continuing, but if Laporta pressed home his attack, and everything Cal had seen up until now indicated he would, there could only be one outcome. The sound of the first car, an open-topped Hispano Suiza packed with blueshirts with weapons held aloft, some sitting on the body, had been masked by the noise of gunfire, but it burst out from the last of the houses at speed, well ahead of anyone following.

There was no way the lads in the first squad, who had been obliged to sit it out in this ditch while their mates had disabled that cannon, could resist such a tempting target. On top of that frustration, they knew only too well what these fascists had done, had seen the results of torture, murder and rape, and had they not come to Spain and the People’s Olympics to send them and their ilk a message?

They let fly without any command being given, and if the volley that raked the car was ragged and did not much more than pepper the bodywork with holes, it was only the first, and those that followed, with a fraction more time to aim, were deadly and directed at the passengers, not the car. The driver was a clear casualty as his windscreen was shattered before his amazed and frightened eyes, then the car steered away and into the opposite ditch, throwing into the air, as it shot to the far side, all of those who had been extra passengers.

Cal had his pistol out and was running up from his ditch, half an eye on the road from the town. He raced across the road and stood arms outstretched looking for movement, barely aware that Vince was beside him, his rifle aimed into the field where lay the twitching bodies of those who had been tossed clear. They fired simultaneously, Cal at a passenger moving in the car, Vince at one of those figures who had got up and was staggering trying to run, this being no time for mercy.

‘Leave the rest,’ Cal shouted as he heard a truck engine, amplified by being in the narrow confines of the buildings that enclosed the street, and as he ran back his shout had both anger and volume. ‘Hold your bloody fire and get your heads down.’

The truck roared into view and Cal had a fleeting glimpse that told him it was a Civil Guard wagon, open-topped and packed. He knew he and Vince must have been seen by the driver and whoever else was either in the cab or on top of it, just as they would see the back of the Hispano Suiza sticking up out of the ditch. Would they stop, that was the question, and if they did how many men were they carrying and of what calibre would they be?

His entry into the ditch was an ignominious dive, Vince using more of a slither but both were close-run affairs as the ground behind them began to spurt up great chunks of earth. All Cal could think about at first was the noise of the roaring engine, but then he was listening for the sound of brakes, praying it was one he would not hear, but he had to be prepared.

‘Everybody ready?’ he yelled, spinning upright, his pistol poised.

Vince’s shout melded into his own. ‘Keep your heads down.’

Now the bullets were ripping into the back of the ditch, uselessly in terms of hitting flesh but a first real taste for these boys of what it was like to be under sustained fire, and damned unpleasant it was; nothing ever inures you to the crack of a bullet passing close and for them this was their baptism. The breath he had been holding left Cal Jardine’s body as the truck roared on; either they did not care about the blueshirts or they saw they were beyond salvation. Added to that, their fusillade had ceased; it was time to give them a little present.

‘Squad four,’ he shouted, raising his head just enough to see the cloud of receding dust, sure in his heart that they would not stop now, his instructions backed up by his hands. ‘Truck at ten o’clock, fire at will.’

The lads scrambled up the bank, too high in truth, showing too much upper body, but they did a good job of delivery in the parting shot, steady, trying to aim as well as fire, sending enough shots in through the truck tailgate to do damage, one clever enough to take out a rear tyre. Too keen to see how they had done, one or two then raised themselves, and it took a sharp command to seek to get them to take cover again.

Vince, in giving that, was a fraction too late. The return fire might have been from the back of a moving bucking vehicle but it was concentrated and probably came from highly trained men. One of the squad took a bullet in the shoulder, judging by the way he jerked sideways, then he tumbled back to lay inert at the ditch bottom, his mates crowding round him.

‘Leave him,’ Cal yelled. ‘Reload.’

Vince was on his way to provide first aid, and just before he blocked his view, Cal saw the look of shock on those young faces at the idea that one of their comrades should be left to suffer — but this was a battle, and how serious a one was yet to be made plain. Vince must have quietly backed up that command, given they attended to their empty rifles while Cal, looking back into the town, was aware that one thing that needed to be done to create a functioning fighting unit had not been fulfilled — the selection of who would act as medics.

A trio of cars were on their way, large, black and hardtops, nose to tail, not only packed inside but with blueshirts hanging on to the door rims, their feet on the running boards. His policy remained the same: do not stop them before they reached his position, let them pass, then put a fusillade into them to speed their flight, hopefully giving them wounded with whom they would be required to deal.

His hope played out well, his notion that people already in flight and past the real centre of resistance would not stop and retrace their route to engage, so a procession of cars, a few trucks and a couple of motorcycles with sidecars were afforded the same treatment, the second of the latter taking such deadly fire that it went over on its side spilling rider, pillion passenger and the two who had crammed into the sidecar.

Cal had the pleasure then of yelling to hold fire; the next vehicle through was carrying a great black and red flag and was crowded with Laporta’s men, the driver skidding to a halt as the fighters tumbled out to make sure that anyone wounded from both the overturned car and motorcycle combination were killed off.

Only then could Cal Jardine relax enough to go and see how the wounded man was faring.