Текст книги "A Broken Land"

Автор книги: Ludlow Jack

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Having brought his map with him, Cal was able to bring it up to date, and it was not looking good despite Hemingway’s confidence. To the north, the Nationalists, having in fact secured two bridges, should have been able to push deep into the University Quarter, a place of little domestic occupation, large buildings and lots of wide open spaces, sweeping grassy areas, plazas and wide boulevards, perfect for an army intent on avoiding the heavily built-up areas.

The key now was to first contain them there and hold the rest of the bridges to the south, then to counter-attack, though he had no idea if the Republic had the means – it would not have done his thought process much good to have known neither did the Madrid military commanders. He had no concept of the depth of the fog surrounding operations but it took little time to find out.

Alverson took him out just before dawn, the time when any assaults planned overnight would be launched, and they joined a stream of fighters crossing the wide Segovia Bridge, passing through sandbagged emplacements equipped with heavy machine guns and mortars and, only just visible, a pair of heavily camouflaged T26 Russian tanks. Cal was very tempted to look them over out of professional interest, they being some of the best of their kind in the world and reputedly more than a match for the German Panzers, but there was no time.

The signs of actual battle were not long in showing: trees shattered by artillery fire, shell craters and even deeper, wider depressions where the Casa de Campo had been heavily bombed, and, incongruously, little bunches of flowers, no doubt marking where some relative had fallen, their bodies carried back into the city along with those merely wounded. Then there was the smell, of burning and cordite mixed with the gassy odour of churned-up ground, the only one seemingly out of place the strong stink of petrol.

Florencia, when they found her, looked haggard, her face not only grubby but having lost its total fullness, and with bags formed under her eyes. Nor did she possess her usual fountain of energy; the kiss she gave Cal Jardine was as weary as the clasp she managed with her arms, and that was not easy, she being festooned with grenades attached to her overalls with sewn-on thread. Tyler Alverson merely got a nod.

‘Who’s in command?’

She just shrugged and waved a lazy arm, this as the first distinctive phut came of a discharged mortar. Habit made Jardine duck low, which got him a look of disdain from those around Florencia; he would find out later they had endured days of this. The shell passed overhead to land with a crump on the road that led to the bridge; hitting the metalled surface the explosion was made more deadly by the lack of absorption in the solid roadway.

The screams that arose were mixed; some from those caught in the blast, others shouting to get into the trees. Several more landed with a small radius behind them and Cal knew instinctively what was coming. The mortar team were isolating those in the front line preparatory to an infantry assault, and overhead they could hear, too, the drones of approaching bombers. Reassuringly the higher pitch of fighter engines soon materialised as they tried to engage the bombers well away from the city centre.

‘Where’s the store of grenades?’ he asked; if that was what she was doing, he would work with her.

‘There are no more, querido. Me and my fellow dinamiteros are wearing the last of our supplies.’

‘Ammunition?’

‘Low,’ she sighed, ‘very low.’

‘Then you should withdraw across the bridge and get behind the machine guns.’

Some of the fire he knew so well resurfaced then, as she spat out, ‘Never.’

The mortar fire had not ceased but the range was steadily dropping, and as it did so he saw some of the men present throw back a canvas cover to reveal lines of dark-green wine bottles, each with a bit of protruding rag.

‘Petrol bombs, Cal,’ murmured Alverson.

Never having seen them used, Jardine was thinking that fuel would have been better used laying a trap for what was coming: a shallow trench into which it could have been poured, then set alight once the enemy was over it. There was no point in that now, for it was obvious these worker fighters were not going to wait to be attacked – they intended to go forward first.

‘Have the Regulares got automatic weapons, Florencia?’

‘A few, not many.’

‘Any spare rifles?’

She called to someone, another young woman, dark-skinned and just as weary, who came towards him with a Mauser and five rounds; even he understood the Spanish for ‘that is all’. Tactical sense made what they were planning to do – not just stand and fight, but attack – utter madness.

It was made worse by there seeming to be no directing brain; the decision to move seemed like one arrived at by some collective osmosis. No order was given, but a mass of fighters, hundreds in number, armed with what weapons they had and many of these unreliable petrol bombs, began to move, not with haste but with a palpable and steely determination, several lit torches flaring in the line, this while Alverson’s camera clicked.

‘Do you come forward, Tyler?’

‘No, Cal, this is as far as I go.’

A lone, young, male voice began to sing the anarchist song ‘A las Barricadas’, which Cal had heard in Barcelona, and it was soon taken up by others, rising to fill the woods through which they moved until it was being bellowed as they moved out into a large clearing, at the opposite side of which was the enemy, who, clearly under orders, fired off a rifle salvo. That it was effective made no difference; with a wild scream the mixed-sex militia just rushed forward.

Those with rifles were firing from the hip and shoulder on the move, those with bottles leaning into a torch-bearer to get lit their cloth fuses. As soon as they were aflame the run was at as much speed as they could muster, one or two crumpling at the knees as they were shot, others behind them picking up their dropped makeshift bombs, which had not broken on the soft uncut grass.

Seeking to stand still and aim, it was difficult for Cal Jardine to pick targets through a throng in front of him, that not made any easier by the dark-green uniforms of those he was seeking to kill, which in the trees made them indistinct. Five rounds did not go far even if they were effective and he had little choice but to go after Florencia, who had a grenade in one hand, with the other ready to pull the pin.

She had to be a target, so dropping the rifle he hauled out his pistol and began to fire at what lay right in front of her, his only hope in emptying it that he would disturb anyone aiming for what had to be one of their most dangerous opponents. At the same time, even if he thought her crazy, he had to admire the sheer fearless brio of her charge, not that she was alone in that, it was common to them all.

His curiosity as to why the bottles remained unthrown till the last possible moment was explained when they began to smash against the trees, the flames immediately spreading to the branches and the tinder-dry grass beneath, several inches long and untidy in clumps; they would not have broken otherwise. Florencia had thrown her first grenade, shouting as she did so to warn her comrades to duck down, immediately breaking the thread on another, and she hugged the ground.

Cal grabbed two off her, pulled the pins and threw them into the rapidly spreading flames of the burning petrol. These were sending up plumes of black smoke, which was working to obscure the anarchist fighters. It was also making life very uncomfortable for a unit whose attack had been forestalled, for with a slight easterly wind, the smoke and flames were being driven into their position. Shouted commands were coming out of the treeline and it was obvious the troopers were retiring.

Staying alongside Florencia, and after she had thrown another grenade, Cal was able to grab her and stop her entering the wood, where she would be isolated and a sitting duck – especially since her comrades’ forward movement had petered out through a lack of both firepower and wine bottles – not that he got much thanks.

It was only when she struggled to get free that Cal realised she was in a state of such exhaustion she must be near to hallucinating; her eyes were like those of a wild animal, her kicking and screaming the act of a mad creature, both of which stopped abruptly when he slapped her hard. She stood stock-still, in shock, staring at him for several seconds, then burst into tears.

With the edge of the wood now ablaze and forming an impenetrable barrier, it was a peaceful withdrawal, for not even the most rabid militia fighter thought they could hold what they had taken. If their enemy did not advance as soon as the fire died down they would move to left or right to take them in flank. The real question was could they hold their original position?

What saved them was not their bravery but the arrival of what Alverson had predicted was needed. Unbeknown to those in the Casa de Campo, as they had been fighting the first troops of the International Brigades had come into the city, marching in disciplined columns up the wide boulevards to the cheers and tears of the populace. They did not stop; one brigade headed for the University area, the other straight for the Segovia Bridge and the Casa de Campo.

They heard the clumping boots first as they crept back to their start point, and that induced a frisson of fear; marching boots meant soldiers and that meant Nationalists. But the singing of the communist anthem, ‘The Internationale’, soon laid that to rest and, with a swaggering fellow at their head, in a cap with his communist red badge very evident, they passed four abreast, staring straight ahead, through the muddled crowd of anarchist fighters. They then began to deploy for battle.

The man at their head, later identified as Manfred Stern, alias General Kléber, stood to one side and began to shout orders to the militias to disperse, to go home and rest. That was when it finally came home to them that these brigades had come to their rescue, and rescue it was, because there was no doubt a Nationalist counter-attack was in preparation, and it was one they could not have withstood.

With Florencia between them in a state of near collapse, Cal Jardine and Tyler Alverson took her back to the hotel, where her lover got her up to their room, took off her filthy clothes, ran her a deep hot bath and lowered her in, then gently washed her body and hair. Having left her to soak for only a minute, he re-entered the bathroom to find her sound asleep, her blonde hair streaming out in the bathwater like the Burne-Jones painting of Ophelia.

Lifting her out was difficult, but when he had, Cal wrapped her in a towel and put her to bed.

The brigades had looked impressive, with their uniform dress and sloped arms, but it took little time to show that they were far from properly trained and nothing demonstrated that more than their losses. Knowing Florencia would sleep for an age, Cal went out to see if any of his boys were present in the other units, knowing he had not seen them at the Segovia Bridge.

He made his way to the University area, where he expected to find fierce fighting, and he found plenty. He also came, at a crawl, across Ernest Hemingway, well forward, right in the thick of a fierce firefight and too close for a non-combatant.

All he got was a nod of recognition and the American’s attention went back to the battle before him; what Cal did not find was any of the Olympiad athletes, the men fighting being Italian communists, part of what was called, he discovered from those at the rear, the Centuria Gastone after their leader.

From what he could observe, the Centuria was attacking without much tactical nous; it was all frontal and fast up against a stout and well-organised defence made up, he suspected, of the hard elements of the Spanish Foreign Legion – odd that it should be non-Spaniards on both sides. Once back out of the fighting zone he noted the number of men being fetched back either as corpses or seriously wounded, and he also ran once more into Hemingway, he likewise observing the numbers.

‘They’re brave enough,’ Hemingway said, as if he was damning with faint praise.

‘They’re taking casualties to no purpose.’

‘Happens in a shooting war, friend.’

‘The first people I would shoot are their commanders.’

That got a wry smile and a question. ‘You figure you could do better?’

‘They’re not trained to the requisite standard for such an assault, anyone can see that, and you do not send forward men like that. You form them into a defence and get them to hold ground.’

‘So how do you win a battle?’

‘Attrition and on-the-job instruction in field tactics, not that those who command them seem to know how.’

‘You a soldier, Mr Thomas?’

There was a moment when Cal wondered who he was talking to, until he recalled that was how Alverson had introduced him. ‘I was once.’

‘That does not surprise me.’

‘Why?’

‘You look like one, that’s why.’ Hemingway was staring, but not in an unfriendly way; in fact it was as if he was amused. ‘So tell me where you soldiered?’

‘Maybe over that drink,’ Cal said, stalling, for no good reason he could think of; it just seemed right, or maybe it was habit.

In streets of some fairly smart apartment blocks, obviously the homes of well-heeled madrileños, they heard the sounds of echoed commotion, this explained as a small knot of black-clad men emerged from a doorway, dragging in their midst a struggling middle-aged fellow, clearly being arrested. Something he was seeing for the first time made it remarkable, but not so much as what followed next.

Out of the same doorway came Manfred Drecker, as usual smoking one of his long Russian cigarettes in between the wrong fingers, hand held aloft and full of that arrogance and righteousness that Cal recalled so well, while it was obvious, as he glanced in their direction, he immediately recognised him – not hard, he was dressed as Drecker had seen him last – the face screwing up with what looked like rage.

Cal rated that as a bit of an overreaction but he automatically put his hand to his pistol holster and the German’s eyes followed it – Drecker would not know it was empty – a move also noticed by Hemingway.

‘Friend of yours?’

‘Bosom pal.’

The middle-aged captive had been set against the wall of the apartment block and was clearly pleading for mercy, not that it seemed to affect the men who had put him there; they merely stood back and unslung their rifles, shifting the bolts to put a bullet in the chamber.

‘What’s going on?’ Cal yelled in German, which had everyone looking at him, not just Drecker.

‘My, you are full of surprises,’ Hemingway said laconically.

‘What business is it of yours, Jardine?’ Drecker demanded.

Aware that the American’s thick black eyebrows had gone up in surprise, Cal ignored that and concentrated on what was obviously taking place in front of them, the clear prelude to an execution. Fighting to keep any anger out of his voice – Drecker was a dangerous man – he said slowly, again in German, ‘This gentleman with me is an important American journalist. I do not think it will aid our cause for him to see what it is you are planning to carry out.’

‘This man is a traitor, a class enemy and a fifth columnist.’

‘Comrade Drecker, there is no such thing, it is a figment of General Mola’s imagination.’

The use of the word ‘comrade’ caused Drecker some surprise; Cal had rarely been so polite in the past, but it was necessary to save the life of what could well be an innocent man, now sobbing and on his knees. And even if he was not innocent, the poor fellow was entitled to a trial, but it did not soften Drecker up as he had hoped.

‘Then perhaps it is time the Americans, with their soft livers, saw what the revolution does with its traitors.’

‘We are not the revolution, comrade, we are the legitimate government of Spain. Those in revolt are the people we are fighting.’

‘We, Jardine?’ Drecker spat.

The idea of being on the same side as the prize shit he was talking to was anathema, but with a life at stake it was worth it. ‘You have seen me fight for the Republic.’ Then he turned to Hemingway. ‘Use your best Spanish, tell him you will let the world know that people are being shot out of hand.’

‘I’ll try.’

The language was not perfect, little better than Jardine’s, but there was no doubting the sentiment or the fervour; what was worrying was the way it seemed to harden a countenance that was already an exercise in humourlessness. Drecker barked a set of orders and up came the rifles. As they did, Cal Jardine’s hand went automatically once more to his holster.

‘Whoa there, friend,’ Hemingway hissed.

It was not that which stopped Cal, it was the look in Drecker’s eye, one which promised he would be next against that wall; maybe if he could have dropped him he would have chanced it, then turned the weapon on his men, but his pistol was empty, the means to reload it not available, and somehow it was clear that a threat would not be enough.

At a second bark the rifles came up and took aim at a wailing fellow now with his head near his knees. Drecker gave the order to fire and the bullets slammed into the poor man’s body, throwing it back. There was a gleam in Drecker’s eye as he stepped forward, took out his pistol, aimed it, then looked at Cal Jardine as if to say ‘this should be you’. Then he pulled the trigger, his final indignity the dropping of his used cigarette on the corpse.

The walk towards the pair who had observed this was slow, the words addressed to Cal, the blue eyes as hard as the lips. ‘Have a care, Jardine; if you seek to interfere with revolutionary justice you may find that you are the next to be shot.’ Drecker spun round, barked an order, and as he marched off his men fell in behind him.

‘Nice guy,’ said Hemingway.

‘I don’t see this as a time for irony.’

‘I thought you were going to drop him.’

‘What would you have done if I’d tried?’

‘Knocked you out, what else? He would have had to kill me too.’

‘Then you’ll be glad to know that my gun has no bullets.’

Hemingway’s shoulders were shaking with mirth. ‘Now that would have been a dandy trick to pull off. Time, I think, for that drink.’

Cal pointed to the crumpled body, with a deep pool of blood seeping from the shattered head. ‘What about him?’

‘Number of bodies laying around Madrid on a day like this, one more won’t make much difference, and the poor shmuck will never know we just left him to the crows. Besides, I have a pressing need. I want to know why it is Tyler Alverson introduced you by a name that’s different from the one that communist guy used, given he seemed to know you real well. I don’t know a heck of a lot of German but I take it your real name is Jardine?’

When Cal looked to demur, Hemingway added, ‘A dollar bill gets me the hotel register.’ It only needed a nod then. ‘In my experience a reporter only does that when he’s trying to hide a story from a rival.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It did not take long to realise that summary executions were taking place all over Madrid, and as far as anyone could tell, all over Spain, if the reports were true. If it was not politics – and there was a lot of that – it would be, Cal thought, all the usual historical reasons that surface when society collapses: the settling of old scores, the avoidance of a due debt or even retaliation for an imagined slight long past. To try and stop it was dangerous and actually futile; it had its own dynamic.

For all they were still amateurs, the International Brigades had halted the Nationalist advance, albeit at a horrendous cost in men wounded and killed, and then began a successful counter-attack. The Foreign Legionnaires – Franco’s best troops – were being pushed out of the University district and still the other columns could not breach the defences before the city centre.

There had been any number of crises, the whole defence a close-run  thing, with aerial combat daily and the front ebbing to and fro. On one black day, the militias before the Toledo Bridge broke, only the prompt action of the top Spanish general stopping a rout, he rallying the fleeing fighters, then leading them personally back into battle with nothing but his pistol as a weapon.

Florencia, over the next few days, was in a state of emotional turmoil, a very changed person from the one Cal had known, given to sudden outbursts of tears during the day and nightmares later, and in no fit state to go back to the fight. There was no mystery to what he was observing, he had seen it too many times and had blessed his luck that though he could recall clearly the death and mutilation he had witnessed, he also had the capacity to contain it within himself.

She was seeing dead comrades, having visions of heads and limbs being blown off, of smashed bodies with staring eyes, while, on top of that, reliving every action of her own, every grenade thrown, the face of each enemy she had killed and many she had not, who would appear in her dreams like ravenous beasts ready to tear her apart. All he could do was hold her soaked-with-sweat body and comfort her with useless platitudes.

That meant he spent time in the hotel, his only action to acquire bullets for his pistol; he was waiting for Florencia to either recover or admit her problem so he could take her away from the front. If his days had their material comforts, they also brought forth a feeling he should really be on the way to Valencia to find out if the government were willing to buy arms from a source that would scare them rigid; they did not know old Zaharoff as he did – if he said it was safe to deal, that would be the case.

Then there was no avoiding Hemingway, or at least his probing. Tyler Alverson had been taken to task for his subterfuge and had come out fighting, telling his colleague, Ernie, in no uncertain terms that he would have done just the same, while admonishing Cal to stay shtum; not that ‘Ernie’, when not writing articles about what he was witnessing, failed to press.

‘You know, Jardine, I work for one of the best-resourced news-gathering outfits in creation, which has a phenomenal library, and as for contacts, well, you can imagine. So if you have been a naughty boy, it is either in the collective memory or the files. You can save them some dollars by just telling me what I want to know.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

Hemingway then tried to get him drunk and, given he had hollow legs and a big swallow, it had been a challenge to stay sober, or, in truth, to stay quiet when not. For all that, as a companion he grew on Cal; he had a fund of scabrous tales, many of them in which he was the fool or victim, and he was very much a man’s man, who promised that they would, one fine day, go hunting game in Wyoming and fish marlin together off the Florida coast.

‘Any man that can drink like you, Cal, I call good company.’

Ernie had been an ambulance driver on the Italian Front in the Great War, had a medal for bravery for saving a man’s life when wounded himself and, since publishing his first pieces, had covered as many wars as Tyler Alverson; he was a hard man not to respect, even if, when it came to bullfighting, a sport he extolled, Cal was on the side of the animal.

It was strange to observe these journalists; each day they would go out and seek a story, into the midst of a desperate battle, then come back to their reasonably safe haven – the city was still being bombed – and act as though it was just a normal day’s work. Tyler and Ernie ribbed each other but it was clear there was mutual respect, and Cal took pleasure in both their company, while keeping a tight lid on his own history.

Hemingway had checked up on Manfred Drecker, now a member of the so-called Fifth Regiment, which, once the Civil Guard had been purged, was now responsible for security in the capital. Wholly communist, they were committed killers, and he also pointed out one thing Cal had not noticed: the correspondent of the Russian newspaper, Pravda, did not reside with the other journalists in the Florida Hotel – he was accommodated in the Soviet Embassy.

‘Making up stories.’

‘Lies more like.’

It was all very chummy, but then came the day of the file, produced and waved over a dry Martini by Ernest Hemingway, unusually having stayed in the hotel when everyone else had departed to the front.

‘Cost an arm and a leg in cables, Jardine, but I have got you nailed.’

‘Can I see?’ Cal asked, nodding to the folder lying on the mahogany bar, hoping it did not contain too much.

‘Hell no! If you do you’ll find out who’s spilling your beans. But I now know you are more than just an ex-soldier, so what are you up to?’

‘I can’t be up to much, Ernie, I have spent the past few days eating, drinking and nursing my woman.’

‘Hell, I wish I was nursing mine. How is she?’

Cal looked into his drink. ‘You know, Ernie, that’s the first time you’ve asked.’

‘Don’t like to pry.’

‘She’ll recover, people do.’

‘You?’

‘Never had the problem, too callous probably.’

The folder was lifted and went to Hemingway’s nose, as though he was sniffing the contents. ‘What’s it like shooting a guy in cold blood?’

‘It’s like shooting an animal, and it was not cold blood.’

‘Kinda rough finding a guy in your own bed and with your wife.’

That image was one he saw more often than most: the terrified face of Lizzie’s naked lover, her just as fearful, just as he put a bullet through his eye. He shook his head and lifted it as Ernie responded.

‘Had a dame once who threw me over. Maybe I should have shot the bastard she married but, unlike you, I would not have been acquitted.’

The fact that Cal was now looking into the mirror behind the bar, and the expression on his face, made Ernie turn round, to see Florencia, still pale and drawn but nothing like she had been, standing a few feet away. Had she heard what Hemingway said, because it was not something Cal had ever told her about?

‘Good news. Juan Luis is on the way from Saragossa and he is bringing with him the Barcelona militia.’

‘I hope you’re not planning to join them?’

She nodded towards Hemingway. ‘This, what he said, is it true, querido?’

There was no point in denying it, so he nodded, unsure of her reaction given she turned and left. ‘Thanks, Ernie.’

The reply showed that for a man not easily embarrassed it was still possible. ‘I didn’t shoot the poor guy, you did.’

* * *

Florencia neither immediately mentioned what she had overheard, nor allowed herself to be swayed when Cal found her changing into her fighting overalls. His assertion that she was unfit for combat was not met with her usual temper, but quietly rebuffed.

‘Querido, sometimes you must just do things. These are my people coming to Madrid, men and women I have grown up with, and they are coming to drive the Nationalist pigs into a sewer, which is too good for them.’

‘OK. But I will be with you at all times.’

‘In battle?’ she asked, with just a hint of her old coquettishness.

‘No.’

The hand on his cheek was cool. ‘That pleases me.’

‘One promise: that once Mola’s columns have been thrown back, you will come with me to Valencia. You know why and I will need your help.’

She smiled. ‘For the cause, querido, as much as to be with you.’

‘I can’t marry you, much as I would like to. My wife is a Catholic and won’t consider a divorce.’

For the first time since he had brought her back from the Casa de Campo she laughed. ‘I am an anarchist, I don’t believe in marriage. Tell me about what the American said.’

‘How long before Juan Luis gets here?’

She accepted that he did not want to say. ‘Not long, and I want to meet him on the Saragossa Road. Let me come into Madrid as a Catalan.’

If anything, Juan Luis Laporta, as well as his men, looked hardened by what they had been experiencing, leaner and fitter, not that their efforts had produced much in the way of an advance in Aragón; that had become a stalemate, thus, on paper, the reason for the shift to Madrid where they could be of more use.

It did not take long to establish the real reason – the communists were taking control and needed to be checked; three thousand Barcelona anarchists were just the people to do it, this extracted from their leader as Florencia went down the long line of trucks to say hello to many of her old comrades. It was plain he was now trusted.

‘You must be careful, Juan Luis,’ Cal said, having told him of what he had witnessed: not just that one execution but clear evidence of others, hard to miss with their bodies left in the street or hanging from lampposts with placards pinned on their chests detailing their supposed crimes. ‘And don’t think they won’t suspect your reasons for coming here. I don’t have to tell you they are suspicious of everyone.’

‘Task number one, my friend, is to eject the Nationalists, then we can deal with Stalin’s lackeys.’ He had lost none of his bravado, Laporta, evidenced by what followed. ‘And when we have cleansed Madrid, we can go back to Barcelona and shoot their Catalan cousins.’

‘There’s a couple of war correspondents I’d like you to meet. Americans.’

Laporta’s eyes narrowed. ‘To tell them what?’

‘About yourself and the aims of your movement.’

‘In America they execute anarchists.’

‘They’re not in America, they are here.’

‘To the front first, let us see the eyes of Franco’s pigs, then maybe I will talk with these Yanquis.’

The stop on the Saragossa Road had been to form up the column on foot; like the International Brigades, they would march through Madrid to the cheers of the locals, to bolster their morale. They already knew which part of the front they were going to – their job was to throw the Spanish Foreign Legion back over the San Fernando Bridge.

Invited, he declined to join in the march, at the head of which would be Juan Luis, and behind him each company, for they had formed themselves properly into a quasi-military unit, each led by a commander. Quite apart from it being Laporta’s treat, he would have felt like a charlatan.