A Broken Land

CHAPTER FOUR

Not knowing the words in either Spanish or Catalan meant a great deal of finger-pointing, as each rifleman was allotted a target he thought might be the spot from which fire would come — the smaller windows to the side of the classical portico and the parapet on the roof. Just as troubling was the level of noise coming from those preparing to rush forward, a ringing howl of determination mixed with what had to be cursing; they might as well have sent a telegram to say they were about to attack.

Oddly, it was that noise which brought the first shots from the building, caused by either indiscipline or the mere fact of the defenders being unnerved by the rising crescendo of screeching. Judging by the cry that went up, at least one of the bullets found flesh, but instead of dispersing the attackers it galvanised them — or was it Laporta? They rushed out from what little cover they had, those with weapons firing them off with wild abandon, those without brandishing bits of wood or metal or nothing but their fists.

The result was immediate: controlled fire from the front windows, which sliced into the mob and took out at least a dozen people, two of them middle-aged women. Vince’s orders, which he only hoped were fully understood, had been to follow Cal’s lead. When he fired, they should all let off a couple of bullets at their chosen targets, then pause to spot which areas showed the smoke from the defenders’ rifles, the idea to immediately switch to the one nearest each rifleman’s original window and fire off single shots aimed at the spot. To kill anyone would be luck, given their level of cover; the idea was to get them to keep their heads down.

Four of the six men allotted to him did as they were bid; the other two, in their fury at seeing their comrades dropping as volley followed volley, stood up, stepped forward and emptied their five-round magazines without selecting anything. Stone chips flying off the building might look impressive but they achieved very little, except that some of the defenders, no more disciplined than their opponents, turned their fire towards these useless assailants, now standing exposed as they sought to reload.

If suicidal bravery was a virtue — and to Cal Jardine it was the opposite — these Catalan workers had it in spades. So fired up were they that they ignored their casualties, only a few of them stopping to aid the wounded or examine those who might already be dead. Sheer numbers overwhelmed the attempt to stop them getting to the triple-arched doorway, and inside that was cover into which they huddled in what was effectively, as Cal had already surmised, a trap; they had no means to batter down the door and to withdraw promised more death.

When the firing died away, Cal was pleased to see the more astute were following him and Vince in making sure they had a full magazine ready. Within seconds all were aimed at those columns and the row of french windows, Cal fully expecting his pre-imagined grenade-throwers would show.

What did appear, and this shocked him even more than the desperate attack, was a body flying from the roof, a man in a dark-blue uniform, alive, flaying and screaming as he fell, till he splattered into a bloody pulp on the flagstone of the esplanade, that immediately followed by a furiously waving white flag.

The sound of shots did not cease, only now they were muffled, confined within the building, with Cal examining several possibilities on how to gain access and join what was obviously a fight between two factions of the Spanish navy, none of which he could execute. The bars on the lower windows were too thick, the distance to the next level too high without ladders, and all the while that white flag was waving, the man moving it not prepared to stand up, a wise precaution when facing people lacking any notion of restraint.

The solution arrived as a truck came slowly grinding up the road, covered in plating that had to weigh several tons, one great piece with horizontal slits across the windscreen, other plates down the sides with vertical firing slots. More important was the height of its plated roof, and shouting to Vince, Cal ran out, frantically waving that it should get alongside the building so that it could be used as a means of gaining entry.

It was a good job the men Laporta had left with him followed; dressed as he was and waving a rifle, he could have been anyone, but they had on their sleeves the red and black armbands of the CNT-FAI, which ensured the rifle muzzles which came out of the side of the truck held their fire. From then on it was sign language and yelling, which led Cal Jardine to the absurd thought, at this time and in this situation, that he was behaving, in dealing with the locals, like the typical Briton abroad.

Whatever, it worked; the driver turned his wheel and ran the truck down the side of the building. Cal, followed by Vince, was already clambering up the side, and once on top he yelled that the man on the wheel should stop, this as he used his rifle butt to break one of the panes that made up a casement window, reaching through to search for the catch that would keep the frame shut. Vince just pushed; it wasn’t locked.

Through, with his feet scrunching on broken glass, Cal looked back to ensure his party had followed, as well as the occupants of the truck, before he examined the first floor room, not well lit given the windows were small. Unadorned desks, chairs, no quality to either, lots of filing cabinets, a closed door to the rest of the building, an office for no one important, while two floors up were what had looked like more spacious rooms with balconies of their own, no doubt the preserve of senior officers.

He opened the door to the landing cautiously, hearing shots, but not close, echoing in what was a substantial and open staircase — they were fighting on the upper floors. That body coming off the roof indicated that those sent up there to defend the place from that location had decided they were on the wrong side. Guess number two was that they were fighting those who had been on the lower floors who disagreed, probably officers who had chosen to fight in the shade, versus lower ranks ordered to stay out in the midday sun — reason enough in itself for antagonism.

‘Main doors, guv, it’s got to be.’

The signs Cal used, two silent fingers to him, two repeated to Vince, were those he would have made with trained fighters, yet so obvious the men with him nodded that they understood. Vince’s duo, following him to the staircase going up, knelt and aimed their rifles to take on anyone descending, this while Cal was already slipping downstairs.

Slowly and silently, his pair following, he edged round a staircase bend that revealed a large hallway. At the very bottom of the stairway sat two men, in white naval hats and blue shirts, on a light machine gun aimed at the great double doors which shut off the outside world.

The right thing to do was shoot them without warning; that machine gun was no weight and could be swung round quickly if these two were determined to resist, but it is hard to put a bullet in another human being’s back if there is any chance they might surrender. The tap on the shoulder and the look he observed in the eye of the man who had made it, as well as his jabbing muzzle, told him that he, at least, did not share his scruples, but it was good that he was asking permission to shoot, not just doing as he pleased.

The shot Cal loosed off went right by the ear of the man on the right, hit the marble floor, then slammed into the bare stone wall of the main hall, the noise reverberating round the whole chamber. Ducking initially, the two sailors looked over their shoulder, but as they did so the one on the left was already lifting the weapon to swing it round, and as it had to be, given their situation, the safety catch was set to off.

Time has a separate dimension in such situations: it seems to slow, so that a second takes on the appearance of an age. There were those naval caps flying off as the two sailors spun, the realisation that their faces were very young, probably those of cadets, that one was very blond like Florencia in a country where so many had hair of the deepest black.

In their eyes was a mixture of terror and resolve and it was the latter which proved fatal, though it was moot whose bullets killed them, for all three rifles fired at once, sending them spinning away, the muzzles following as shot after shot tore into their bodies. Then, there was silence.

Cal reloaded while his two companions rushed down to open the double doors, one aiming an unnecessary kick at the twitching body of a youth who was almost certainly doomed. There was no time to look further; having slipped down to pick up the machine gun, automatically seeking out and clicking on the safety, Cal then rushed up the stairs to join Vince, while behind him the roar of the crowd as they stormed into the building grew to drown out every other sound, including the upstairs shooting, which meant they must have heard it too.

Some sense prevailed; there was a stream of shouted commands to the mob to stay on the ground floor and a minute later Laporta and the rest of his riflemen joined him and Vince on the first landing. Now, behind them and below, they could hear things being broken: wood and glass. The machine gun was handed over, with Cal showing the set safety catch to the man who took it, as well as ensuring he was holding it properly in a way it could be used without a tripod.

He got a nod from the leader, but if it was thanks it was not heartfelt, more one that implied Laporta had expected no less. Ascending the stair, pistol out and rifles behind him, the Spaniard showed some skill: there was no rush this time, he kept his back to the wall to give himself maximum vision and slid upwards, his balance so precise that he could dive back down if threatened. At a corner, he waved up the fellow with the machine gun, with a sharp hand signal for the other riflemen to kneel and cover, all this while gunshots still echoed throughout the higher parts of the stairwell.

‘Shall we leave this to them, guv?’ Vince asked.

Cal replied, with a wry grin, ‘Might not be a good idea to steal all the glory.’

Remembering that twitching cadet, Cal indicated to Vince and went down the stairs; the kid might still be alive — he had known people survive multiple shot wounds too many times to assume automatic death.

The young cadet might have lived through those, he could not have lived through what the fired-up crowd had done. The uniforms of the two cadets had been ripped off and they were bloodily naked, their faces unrecognisable, their bodies broken so badly that their bones, all at impossible angles, were showing as people stepped over them, taking from the building anything they thought of value.

Pushing through them to go out onto the esplanade and the roadway, now covered by that armour-plated truck, they were confronted by women keening over bodies of both sexes. It was not just hindsight that underlined the stupidity of what they had done, it was the fact that those still trying to hold the building were now facing fire from their own; all that had been needed was a demonstration of intent. Once the riflemen on the roof turned their guns against their comrades they could have walked out of the cover of the trees without losing a soul.

At least some of those shot were surviving, being borne away on makeshift stretchers. Sitting down, Vince pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit up, puffing away and ignoring the waving hand of his companion trying to keep the smoke from blowing in his face, this while he reprised in his mind what had just happened, those ruminations distracted by the rattle of the machine gun. When silence followed, and was maintained, Cal and Vince exchanged glances; the job was done.

The so-called magazine yielded little more than what had been used in the defence, but the building served up a line of sorry-looking prisoners who were marched out through two lines of locals spitting at them, their hands on their heads, their uniforms bloody and filthy, and their faces showing the capture had not been gentle.

Jeers and spittle turned to cheers as the sailors who had rebelled, obviously lower deck by their uniforms, came out to handshakes and female kisses, a beaming Laporta behind them, who immediately climbed onto the truck and began to make a rousing speech.

The gist was easy to follow; even without a smattering of Spanish you just had to watch his eyes and the reactions of his audience. He was, Cal was certain, telling them they were brave and wonderful instead of excited and imprudent, praising what they had achieved and ignoring the cost in lives lost to their revolutionary fervour.

The whole farce ended up with a raised fist and a huge oratorical cry of ‘Revolution!’, taken up and raised to an echoing yell. Then, once he had pointed back to the centre of the city, sending his unruly cohorts on their way, Laporta jumped down and came to rejoin his own fighters.

‘Well, Englishman?’ he said as he approached Cal, still sitting, back to a tree by a smoking Vince.

‘Escoces!’ Cal replied sharply; he was not a rabid Scot, but enough of one to want to be properly identified.

‘We had success.’

‘You had luck.’

Laporta’s face changed as soon as Cal uttered the words la chance, and the man he was addressing knew why. He was full of his own rhetoric, still in the warm mood of his victory speech, and he was talking to a realist, not a follower, and one speaking in a voice deliberately devoid of emotion.

‘The mode of your attack was not just foolish, my friend, it bordered on the stupid! The building is now yours because the ordinary sailors turned their guns on their officers and we were lucky an armoured truck happened by. Had those two events not occurred you might have lost everyone you led. If you continue to treat your enemies like that, they will beat you every time.’

Even if they could not comprehend what was said, Laporta’s men picked up the tone and it showed on their faces; they too were basking in the glow of victory. Vince had come to the same conclusion through observing those same faces, not least that of their leader, which was bordering on thunderous.

‘This might not be the moment to tell him he’s a stupid bastard, guv.’

‘I can think of no better time, Vince. We might just save a few lives, yours and mine included, if we are going to stay with this.’

‘And you would have done it without loss?’ Laporta demanded.

Reverting to French, Cal replied. ‘I will tell you now that if I was leading any men in this anti-fascist fight and you ordered that kind of assault, I would not allow them to take part.’

A shrug. ‘If they do not want to fight-’

That got a response which cut right across the Spaniard, and one which had Vince dropping the muzzle of his rifle, not threateningly, but enough to cause a few eyes to flicker towards him, given it was pointed at their leader’s heart.

‘They do want to fight, friend, but they do not want to die as uselessly as the poor souls who are still waiting to be carried away from here. There are ways to kill your enemies without dying yourself and that is called good soldiering. It is possible to admire your zeal and still be unhappy with your method. Now, tell me if you want the Olympiad volunteers or not, tell me you will listen to sense, or I will go back to the hostel and tell them they would be best going home.’

Laporta flicked a hand to indicate his men. ‘Perhaps it is you who is being foolish.’

‘Look, Laporta, you are a revolutionary, yes?’ That got a nod. ‘How many real battles have you been in?’ Cal had to hold up his hand then and speak quickly, his passion obvious. ‘I don’t mean demonstrations, I don’t mean workers’ uprisings, I mean real battle, fighting trained soldiers who know what they are doing.’

That got a dismissive wave, replicated in the tone of the voice. ‘Where are they, these soldiers?’

‘On the way, I should think. Rule number one is never underestimate your enemy. I’ve told you, if you know the metropolitan army is useless, so do the generals who began this revolt, which means they also know, if they are to have any chance of success, they must get the only proper soldiers they have across the Gibraltar Straits. That means they would not have fired the starting pistol until they were sure that was possible.’

It was Cal’s turn to flick a hand at Laporta’s men. ‘Now tell me, these fellows of yours, who are brave, certainly, and some of them are steady, can they stand up against soldiers, half of whom are not Spanish and a fair number of whom are criminals on the run or out-and-out adventurers, men who have spent years fighting Riff tribesmen in the mountains of Morocco?’

The sun was dipping in the sky, less fierce than it had been but still emitting heat, and Cal Jardine’s voice was dropping too, the passion cooling enough for him to smile.

‘That, my friend, can be changed, it has to be changed, but it will take time. As you so rightly said, in the coming days the job now is to hold on to Barcelona.’ Cal stood up and went right up to a still-irritated Juan Luis Laporta. ‘And that we will help you do, but after that, we will see. Now, I believe there is a job to do, some ship in the harbour that needs to be captured.’

The response was not warm; the man was still smarting from the lecture. ‘You take risks, my friend. For a moment I was tempted to have you killed, and if my men had understood a word you said I think one of them might have shot you.’

It was superfluous to point out he would not have survived either; he had not missed the line of Vince’s rifle and neither had Cal Jardine.

‘If I thought your men understood I would not have uttered them publicly. As for risks, they are part of war-fighting, the trick is to know which ones to take.’ The smile he used now was aimed at everyone, their eyes then drawn to the wad of pesetas he produced from his inside pocket. ‘Now, even if you are anarchists, I suggest we go back to the Cafe de Tranquilidad, where I can buy us all a drink.’

For a group that, politically, were supposed to hate the mere thought of money in any form as a means to corrupt society, the result was surprisingly convivial. Only Laporta seemed to disapprove, but that Cal put down to the wigging he had just administered.

In the end both he and Vince were shoreside observers to the taking of the explosive-carrying cargo ship, as well as an old hulk — a former cruiser being used as a prison — a target because the warders were armed. The vessel carrying the explosives was hauled into the quayside by tug and quickly unloaded, the job now to turn the raw dynamite into weapons they could use to stop the army when they debouched from their barracks.

Every hand was employed, socialist athletes from every nation had now gathered in the city centre, lashing together sticks of dynamite and attaching detonators to some for static use, and lines of fuses to others for use as makeshift grenades, these sent out with an instructor to the various barricades.

No one slept, there was too much to do; a watch had to be kept on the various military installations to prevent a surprise — including the as-yet-uncommitted Civil Guard. Every defensive location designed to canalise them when they did emerge must be supplied with ammunition, runners selected to take and deliver messages as well as locating stocks of food and water, enough so that those facing the generals’ uprising could fight all day in the heat.

Vince was engaged in basic training, showing his young athletes how to grip, aim and fire a rifle, while Cal Jardine was one of those tasked, in moonlight and aided by Florencia, to identify the best rooftop location from which rifle fire could enfilade the soldiers as they marched out to do battle with their enemies; what machine guns they had captured were kept for use on the barricades.

And there were the conferences, of which they were thankfully not a part, though what was discussed was disseminated; the officials of the Catalan government wanted to be in control, the various left factions equally determined they should not be bound by the politicians, especially the anarchists, who held as a principle the need for individual responsibility and the right to choose.

The small communist party, the PCE, backed the government on the grounds of the need for central political control of the forthcoming fight; the Trotskyists of the POUM faction opposed that motion just because the lackeys of Moscow insisted it was essential.

As reported, they talked and argued and shouted and stormed out, only to be dragged back to the negotiating table — sometimes, apparently, too willingly for their objections to be taken seriously, but eventually a consensus emerged: there would be a general plan, an outline, but each faction would control its own fighters in an agreed tactical area; basically they would take on the army unit by unit and try to keep them from coming together, not an outstanding strategic goal, but a workable one.

As the sky to the east was tinged with the first hint of light, the sun was about to arise on a huge city in which nothing was moving in the streets, though tongues were still furiously wagging in the various outposts, given agreement was never arrived at. Vince led his boys to the agreed location, now with rifles and sporting black and red armbands, to the place they had been allotted to fight, overlooking the gates of the massive Parque Barracks.

In there, as well as in the other military locations, the soldiers were being fed enough rum to give them the courage their officers did not think they would need; how could mere workers and peasants stand up to the regular soldiers of the Spanish army?