A Broken Land

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

There was no time to wait for a smuggler’s boat — the arrangement had been a loose one and might mean waiting several days or even a week. Cal sent a cable to Florencia at CNT headquarters, bought a car in Marseilles and made straight for the main eastern crossing of the Franco-Spanish border at Le Perthus, where he found a town in some ways like those Wild West frontier settlements so beloved of American film-makers, the only thing missing being ten-gallon hats and shoot-outs.

Thanks to the war, the place was booming, bursting at the seams with those seeking to profit from Spain’s misery, the road to the border post lined with endless overstocked shops, and where there was a gap traders had set up stalls overcharging for everything, especially gasoline. Somewhere among them he knew there would be those tasked to get fighters over the border, if necessary by taking them through the surrounding high Pyrenees on foot.

He had less trouble than he suspected; international communists and Republican sympathisers did not, it seemed, arrive on four wheels, but on foot, though the car was searched to ensure it was not carrying contraband. Besides, he had a British passport and was assumed to be just one of those mad Englishmen so beloved of European caricaturists; if he wanted to go into a war zone and get himself killed, why should a French customs officer stop him?

What news he had garnered from the newspapers indicated that the battles to the west and south of Madrid were bloody and favoured the Nationalists, with the Republicans launching furious counter-attacks only to have them broken up by air and artillery attacks. The French press reported aerial battles as well as those on the ground, and high casualties on both sides.

This did raise the question of the wisdom of his actions — might it not be better to wait until he saw which way the battle went? But then there was Florencia — if the city was lost he would take her out of the country, regardless of any protests; if Madrid fell so would the Republic, and someone like her, taken by the Nationalists, would suffer more than just a summary execution.

When he got to Barcelona, it was to find a woman even more fired up than she had been when he departed, sure that Madrid would hold and even more determined that the political fight should be carried to the communists; there was even talk of the anarchists, pressed by their more pragmatic syndicalist allies, joining the National government on the grounds that they suffered from being outside a leadership in which the communists were exercising influence.

The first thing to do was get travel papers from the Catalan government and that took an age, given there was a long queue at the Generalitat of people needing the same thing. The time taken, nearly a whole day, had to be accepted — it was going to be too dangerous to travel anywhere in Spain without documentation; there were too many armed men out in the country just itching to shoot anyone they suspected of not being for the Republic.

The next morning Cal, dressed once more for fighting, was back on the road, Florencia by his side, speeding towards Madrid, where Andreu Nin had gone to seek allies and to plead with the government for the funds Cal Jardine might need. Juan Luis Laporta had gone back to the Saragossa Front.

There was no doubt many were fleeing the city, already subjected to air attack, and it was not surprising to find that in the streaming refugee column there were poor people from the provinces to the west pushing carts or leading donkeys carrying everything they possessed, fighting for road space with those wealthy enough to afford motor transport, as well as armaments and truck convoys seeking to go in the opposite direction. Progress was slow and a night spent sleeping in the car was necessary.

The city, when they reached it, had a strange air — sandbags in the streets, signs for air raid shelters posted over the entrances to the metro, armed men, rifles slung barrel down, on street corners, who, to Cal’s mind, would have been more use at the front — yet still a bustle that went with its station as the nation’s main metropolis, though many an eye was cast skywards, this being the first European capital city to face aerial bombing.

It was still the seat of government, with the ministries working flat-out, full of the functionaries necessary to support the work of those and the parliament, diplomats who had yet to abandon the capital and, of course, those men from the worldwide press covering the front line.

Many hotels had been taken over by workers’ organisations as well as the extra official bodies needed to fight a war, and even with wealthy clients scarce, getting accommodation was difficult. Luckily they got a room in the Hotel Florida, set aside for the foreign press; with its Edwardian luxury, it seemed to be something that might be taking place on another planet.

After lunch, Florencia wanted to sleep; not being Spanish, Cal went to the bar, which was quite busy and noisier than the numbers would indicate, making for a quiet corner well away from the hubbub of the raucous conversation of the journalists, which ebbed and flowed as they came and went.

‘You know, they say there is no such thing as a bad penny, but looking at you, Callum Jardine, well, I ain’t so sure that’s true.’

Alverson’s deep, slow, West Coast drawl was instantly recognisable, so smiling, Cal put down his whisky and turned to face him. Dressed in a slightly crumpled pale linen suit, his panama hat in his hand and a small camera over his shoulder, Cal’s first thought was that he had not changed, but then why should he, it being only months since they had last parted?

‘Hey, Tyler, you drinking?’ a basso profundo American voice called from the other end of the bar, a big fellow with thick black hair and a heavy moustache.

‘I just met an old friend, Ernie, be with you later.’

The American’s eyes turned back to Cal and looked over his clothing, his now slightly battered leather blouson, scuffed twill trousers and sturdy boots, which was of the kind that, prior to the present conflict, would have got him stopped at the front door of a place like the Florida Hotel. They then dropped to the belt at Cal’s waist and the very obvious holster.

‘Since I see you’re packing a gun, I can guess your presence in Madrid is not purely social.’

‘I know yours won’t be.’

‘I’m a reporter, Cal, it’s my job to be where the trouble is.’

‘Right now I’m told that’s on the other side of the river.’

‘I’ll leave the front line to those crazy photographers.’

Cal indicated the knot of his fellow reporters at the other end of the bar. ‘Same go for them?’

‘Some, not all.’

‘Drink?’

‘Bourbon.’

Cal signalled to the barman and ordered that and another whisky for himself, while Tyler Alverson’s head rotated slightly to acknowledge their surroundings, all dark wood, leather and comfort, with a white-coated barman fronting gleaming glasses and bottles.

‘You staying here, Cal?’

‘The fellow at reception was happy to see us, not too many people are checking in right now.’

‘Us?’

‘Florencia.’ Cal grinned. ‘My Spanish interpreter.’

That got a raised and amused eyebrow. ‘Interprets dreams, does she, brother?’

‘Disrupts them, more like. Right now she’s having her siesta but I’m sure she’ll be down in a bit and that will cause you to have dreams, Tyler.’

‘A looker is she?’

‘And some!’ Cal nodded to a set of leather banquettes. ‘Let’s sit, shall we?’

Comfortably accommodated, though slightly too close to the loud journalistic banter, Alverson examined his companion with a languid eye. That and the habitual half smile, if anything, made Cal more guarded, he being well aware that the American possessed a razor-sharp mind and a manner that invited unwitting disclosure.

‘So, brother, are you goin’ to fill me in on what you’ve been up to since our last little adventure?’

‘You first, Tyler.’

There was calculation in that; given his reasons for being in Madrid, he was not sure whether to be open or keep matters to himself. Tyler Alverson was close to a friend — they had shared much danger in each other’s company — but he was a newspaperman first and foremost, and there was no knowing where disclosure would lead. Thankfully, he seemed happy to oblige.

‘What’s to tell? When we parted company in Aden I went back home, told my Abyssinian stories in great depth and waited for the nation to rise up in disgust at the horror of Italian atrocities there. Sad to say, I’m still waiting.’

‘London’s no better. My people seem more interested in keeping Mussolini happy than the gassing of the African natives.’

‘Then this little brouhaha blew up and the agency asked me to cover it.’

Cal Jardine had first met the American in Somaliland when in the process of seeking to smuggle guns into Ethiopia. Keen to get to a battle zone barred to journalists, Alverson had hitched a ride with him and over the weeks that followed there had grown a degree of mutual respect. Only months past, it seemed like years, but Cal was happy to indulge in a bit of reminiscence about dodging not only Italian bullets, but also clouds of air-delivered poison gas, until inevitably the conversation moved on to where they were now.

‘So, come clean, are you involved in this war too, Cal?’

‘Might be.’

The pistol holster got another meaningful look. ‘I’m not sure you’ll like it much here.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know you and the way you like to do things, but you’ll find yourself dealing with a bunch of military misfits as well as a whole heap of Russian so-called advisors.’

The look Cal gave was meant to imply this was news to him. ‘So-called?’

‘From what I can see they are running the show, with the Spanish commanders acting as nothing but a fig leaf. Not that it’s admitted, of course, but a guy I spoke to a bit lower down the command structure says the locals can’t get a tank or a plane to move without Ivan’s say-so.’

‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Cal replied, his face decidedly bland.

Right then the other American, who had called to Tyler, raised his voice to finish off a particularly noisy anecdote to do with the price of a whore, which gave Cal an excuse to seek to change the subject.

‘Seems quite a character, your friend.’

‘That’s Ernie Hemingway.’

‘The Hemingway?’

‘Yep, and he’s not a friend, but a rival, reporting for the New York Times and a total pain in the ass, but he does love to be where the bullets fly. Never mind Ernie, are you goin’ to tell me how you come to be in Spain?’

‘Maybe I love the climate and the food.’ Alverson’s eyes were not languid now, they had a distinct glint; with his hound’s nose he was beginning to smell something. ‘I was in Barcelona the day the balloon went up and sort of stayed. Helping hand, you know.’

‘See much?’

‘More than I bargained for, Tyler, like the fight for the Parque Barracks and the main telephone exchange.’

‘Care to tell me the story?’

‘It’s old hat, months ago now.’

Alverson eased out a notebook, though Cal noticed he took care to keep it on his lap, hidden from the knot of fellow reporters. ‘Never turn down a first-hand account from a trusted source. You have no idea how much bullshit we hacks get fed in our honest endeavours.’

Loud laughter came with the finish of the tale, which seemed to involve Hemingway in chastising some Spanish pimp with fists he was now waving around; it sounded remarkably like boasting to Cal.

‘Seems you can dish it out as well.’

‘I take it you were in Barcelona because of this dame.’

‘Not really, I had a brief to look out for the British athletes attending the People’s Olympiad and needed an interpreter. The anarchists supplied one and she just happened to be irresistible, so I stayed a bit longer than I should.’

‘You will forgive me if I say the People’s Olympiad and anarchists do not sound like “your cup of tea”.’ The last three words were delivered in a faux snooty accent.

‘I’ve got hidden depths and they’re good boys. A lot of them volunteered when the trouble started. A few of them stayed and are still fighting.’

‘Tell me more.’

Willing to talk about them, he needed to keep Monty Redfern out of it; the last thing he would want was to be identified in a newspaper, especially an American one, given he was always trying to get from the wealthy Jews of New York donations to help his and their co-religionists out of Nazi Germany. Vince was different; Alverson knew him from Ethiopia, so explaining his presence presented no problem.

‘He brought over some of his young boxers but he’s gone home now.’

‘So,’ Alverson said, sitting forward and over his notebook. ‘Tell me what you two witnessed.’

The pencil raced as Cal talked, with Alverson posing apposite questions to get a picture of what Cal and Vince had both seen and participated in, the Olympians as well.

‘That makes a good story. Plucky Brits taking on the forces of evil.’

Naturally, the name of Juan Luis Laporta was mentioned more than once and it was clear Alverson found him interesting too, so he built the man up a bit to keep the talk going and promised an introduction.

‘So what happened after you and Vince saved Barcelona?’

‘Aragon happened.’

That story ended with the disappointment of being stuck in front of Saragossa, the command problems and infighting not helped by the ineffectiveness of the militias and the deviousness of people like Drecker, which had inevitable led to the break up of his unit. Alverson related what he had witnessed and already investigated, written up and cabled back to his agency. In essence, Madrid was as confused as anywhere else, just more so, the fight for control more vicious given the city’s strategic importance.

‘The communists are the best equipped and organised here too.’

‘And the most miserable bunch of shits I have ever met, Drecker especially.’

Alverson laughed. ‘Marx banned smiling as well as capitalism.’

‘What’s the latest on this front?’

‘It’s not going well for your side.’

‘Not our side, Tyler?’

‘Regardless of where my natural sympathies lie, Cal, it’s my job to send my editor all the news fit to print, without bias, which is damned hard ’cause every bastard I talk to tells me lies.’

‘Do your bosses have a reporter on the Nationalist side?’

‘Naturally, everybody does, and before you ask, that guy Franco is not telling him any more truths than Largo Caballero is telling people like me.’

‘You met the prime minister?’

‘Power of the press, brother.’

‘What’s he like?’

The way Alverson paused for a second told Cal he had asked that question too eagerly. Largo Caballero held the purse strings and was, according to Florencia, one of the people he might be required to meet.

‘He’s pretty smart, a politician to his toes, who wants help from the USA.’ He nodded towards those at the bar. ‘And talking to me and other Americans he hopes will aid that. It won’t, any more than talking to the London Times or Le Temps will get anything from London or Paris.’

It was time for Cal to change the subject again and that comment of Alverson’s gave him an outlet. ‘That Anthony Eden sounds like a real slippery bastard.’

‘Unlike Fatso and Adolf.’

Cal lifted his glass. ‘To hell with the lot of them.’

‘Amen,’ Alverson said, downing his drink. ‘Another?’

‘My shout.’

‘Hey, brother,’ Tyler said, raising his empty glass to the barman, ‘I’m on expenses.’

‘So no chance of aid for the Republic from the democracies?’

‘Can’t see it.’

Cal steered the conversation on to that subject. With total cynicism the British government — worried about upsetting Mussolini and Hitler — had made pious noises about non-intervention in what they called a purely national dispute, ignoring the obvious evidence of what those same dictators were up to, plumping instead for an international discussion forum called the Non-Intervention Committee while refusing arms to both sides — in effect, given Franco was getting everything he needed, denying the Republic vital support.

The French, fearful of acting on their own, as well as under pressure from their own right-wing zealots, having offered to supply arms to Madrid and sending a few obsolete planes, had supinely withdrawn that after political protests and street demonstrations and the lack of British support, while the USA was staying strictly neutral.

‘Yep, thanks to our so-called democracies Franco could be sitting in this bar in a week.’

‘It won’t be pretty if he does.’

‘And some.’

That provided another diversion; you could not have a conversation about the conflict without talking about the killing taking place, and often being boasted about in some kind of Spanish love of blood and death in a heated propaganda war in which it was increasingly hard to tell the truth from the exaggerations.

It was bad in the cities, but there was little doubt in areas where the peasantry had risen up — long the victims of rapacious landlord power — death and destruction were particularly acute, with manor houses torched and their owners and families butchered. The priests who had supported them were victims too, often locked inside burning churches with those of their flock considered class enemies, while the Nationalists claimed nuns were being raped and mutilated all over the country, stories vehemently denied by the Republican press.

Yet it was hard to believe even a ferocious, long-downtrodden and exploited peasantry and angry workers could outdo the forces of reaction who, if reports were true, were killing on an industrial scale, while allowing their Foreign Legion troops a free hand in how they terrorised the places they captured, leading to mass rapes and summary executions. It was said that the Nationalist commander who took Badajoz had ordered shot a couple of thousand people before he headed for Madrid.

‘Holy Shamolly.’

That emphatic and utterly incomprehensible outburst, given they were discussing murder and mayhem, made Cal Jardine spin round. He had failed to notice that the babble at the bar had seriously diminished; all eyes were on their banquette.

‘Querido.’

Tyler Alverson did not quite whistle, but judging by the look he gave Florencia as both men stood he might as well have. She was dressed in close-fitting jodhpurs and riding boots, while her leather coat was folded over her arm so that the silk shirt she had on showed her figure to perfection, and she was returning the look, waiting for an introduction, which was quickly supplied.

‘Tyler, you sly old dog,’ Hemingway hooted.

Alverson called back. ‘You can’t have all the ladies, Ernie, stick to Martha.’

A glass was raised and Hemingway was not looking at Alverson, but then neither was anyone else in a group which, with his size and bulk, he dominated, his response another call. ‘When the cat’s away …’

‘Cal tells me you’re an anarchist?’ Alverson said, his attention back on Florencia, with a look that implied disbelief.

‘Si.’

‘Tell me, honey, how do I join?’

There is a fine line between flattering someone and patronising them, added to which there was Florencia’s ability to see a slight where there was none intended and she had a temperament to match. Seeing her eyes narrow, Cal had to intervene quickly.

‘Tyler helped me get guns into Ethiopia.’ That gave her pause. ‘You should read some of his reports on Italian atrocities. He hates Mussolini.’

As a way of saying ‘he’s one of us’ it was perfect and the look on her face changed from impending anger to a dazzling smile. Quite out of character, because he was not the type for gallantry, Tyler leant over, lifted her hand and kissed it, then smiled.

‘I would be happy to read them to you.’

‘As bedtime stories?’ Cal interjected, not without irony.

‘Can I buy you guys dinner later?’

‘We’ll see,’ was the reply from Callum Jardine.

The look on Tyler Alverson’s face then was a curious one, almost wolfish. ‘We’re bound to run into each other; after all, I’m staying in this joint too.’

‘I’m sure we will.’

‘And then, Callum Jardine, you can tell what it is you are being so secretive about.’

Cal tried bluff. ‘Who says I am being secretive?’

Tyler Alverson tapped his nose. ‘This old buddy of mine, and it’s never wrong.’