Текст книги "A Broken Land"

Автор книги: Ludlow Jack

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CHAPTER THREE

Dragging her man away from the heated discussions took time; it was clear he was important, a person whose views counted in the mass of conflicting arguments. In order that they could talk in relative peace, Cal and Vince moved to a corner window that looked out onto the wide and crowded pavement to wait. Coming towards them, edging past people in the bustling café, exchanging words with some and looks with others, allowed Cal to examine Laporta more closely.

‘He looks a bit useful,’ Vince said, before he got close, as a boxer, well used to observing a potential opponent.

Broad-faced and stocky of build, clad in a worn leather coat and a battered forage cap of the same material, with a pistol worn on his hip, he looked like a fighter – and not just with a gun. The way he held his hands indicated he was prepared to use his fists too, while the hunch on the shoulders pointed to a degree of power to back those up. But most of all, the steady gaze, once he had fixed on Cal Jardine, indicated a man who was confident in his own ability.

For all his physicality, the thing that impressed Cal most about Juan Luis Laporta, once they had started to converse in French, was his lack of excitability. Unlike many in the room he was calm and controlled, a man who could listen as well as talk, while it was obvious that, if he knew these two strangers were assessing him, he was doing the same to them.

It is little things that tell you a man is an experienced fighter, especially if you have been round the block a few times yourself. The scars he has and where they are located are the same ones you see in the shaving mirror or when you are washing your hands; another indicator the wary way they carry themselves, as if trouble is a constant possibility.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, once Cal had outlined the operation they had been volunteered for, as well as his objections. ‘None of the people you see in this room have such training.’

There was an obvious truth in that; those present were workers, but Cal was instinctively aware the man he was talking to knew his business, though his fighting was likely, given his politics, to be of the unconventional kind.

‘They are not only untrained, but unarmed.’

‘Matters are in hand to secure a supply of weapons.’

‘I suspected they must be.’

The silence in such close proximity was highlighted by the surrounding noise, and it lasted for several seconds. ‘Florencia tells me you are an ex-soldier.’

‘As is my friend.’

Laporta flicked a smile at Vince, before casting a long up-and-down stare at Cal, seemingly taken by his looks – the cut of his clothing, blouson aside, and his shoes, which were handmade and recognisably so in a country where people knew about footwear. They also had a patina of age that only came from being well looked after over decades.

‘You were an officer, I suspect.’

‘That, monsieur, is not a crime.’

‘Why are you in Barcelona?’

‘Has Florencia not said?’

‘She has,’ Laporta replied, his eyes hardening. ‘But a room in the Ritz Hotel is not the place for those who I expect to share our political beliefs, or of the class that have come here to take part in the People’s Olympiad.’

‘I don’t share your political beliefs, Señor Laporta, in fact I think they are foolish.’

‘It would be interesting to know, monsieur, what you do believe in?’

Cal jerked his head to include Vince. ‘I think you will find that my friend and I have a certain type of adversary, one we might share with many people, and not just the Spanish. Plus, if you have not been told already, we are here representing many who are sympathetic to your cause.’

‘Your athletes want to fight the generals?’

‘I think it might be a bit broader in purpose, more they want to fight fascism, something they intended to demonstrate through their athletic prowess. They just happen to be here, now, when events are unfolding. I daresay there are young men from every represented nationality at the games who feel the same and are willing to take up arms in the cause you all share.’

‘Right now, monsieur, I am not sure what I would do with them.’

‘Is he givin’ us the elbow, guv?’ Vince asked.

Vince had picked up the odd word and had not mistaken the tone, as well as the cynical look in the Spaniard’s eyes. His intervention caused Laporta to look at him again, but it was brief, his attention turning back to Cal.

‘Your athletes, if they want to be of use, need to be trained, as do many of the workers. You, as an officer at one time, are used to training soldiers, no? But are you a good officer or a bad one? There are many of those, too many, in the Spanish army.’

And, Cal thought, you would struggle to trust them. The man was suspicious of him too, and right to be so; no offence need be taken regarding such an attitude, for if, as suspected, he had participated in insurrection before, there would be within that a memory of both betrayal and incompetence, expensive in terms of plans unsuccessfully executed and lives lost.

‘Maybe it would be best if I was shown what you can do.’

The steady look had within an implication of a test, and Cal Jardine was too long in the war-fighting tooth to allow anyone to examine his ability. ‘I have no objection to being active, but I will only do what I think is both wise and achievable.’

‘And I, monsieur, would only ask you to do what I would also ask of my own comrades.’

‘You may be the kind of man who asks too much.’

‘I may.’

‘So?’

‘There is a small armoury at the Capitanía Marítima, the naval headquarters. We need to take the weapons and distribute them, perhaps to your athletes.’

‘Defended?’

‘Of course, by naval officers and probably cadets, though I doubt there are any sailors, since they, almost to a man, sympathise with us.’

‘When do you intend to attack?’

‘After I have eaten and after they have eaten,’ he said. ‘To disturb, perhaps, their siesta. You will eat with me and tell me things that perhaps I do not know.’

‘I’ve got about fifty athletes waiting to fight and even more, I suspect, wondering how to get home.’

The Spanish was rapid, and clearly what he issued was a command, received by Florencia with a composure she had never demonstrated to anyone else, Cal Jardine included. Her chest came out and, on a very warm day, lacking a bra, while in a shirt far too big and loose for her, it gave Laporta, judging by his dropping and reacting eyes, an obvious and entertaining eyeful.

Cal was both amused and pleased; he hated the idea of being involved with some revolutionary zealot with no human emotions, and it was even more satisfying to observe the Spaniard’s eyes as they followed her swaying hips as she departed.

‘I have sent her to tell your men to wait, to say we are making plans and to eat. Come.’

The place was crowded, but it was a testimony to Laporta’s standing that a table was quickly procured, as was a bottle of wine and oil, salt, garlic and bread, then last, a bowl of superbly ripe tomatoes, which Laporta proceeded to combine and eat, indicating that his companions should do likewise.

‘Vince,’ Cal said in English, to a man whose mouth was already full, careful as he did so to smile at Laporta. ‘If he speaks in Spanish to anyone, work out what he’s on about.’

‘So, British officer, we have a fight on our hands, how would you suggest we act?’

‘Not the way you are carrying on now,’ Cal replied, throwing a less than flattering glance at the continuing and seemingly irresolvable arguments Laporta had left. ‘You need a proper structure of command, preferably one leader.’

‘That is not the anarchist way.’

Cal made no attempt to soften his sarcastic response; what was happening was too serious. ‘That sounds like a good way to get beaten, but if you can’t have one leader and must have several, define the areas of responsibility, defence, recruitment, training, supply. You should have a room in which only those people with responsibility have the right to speak, with maps of your dispositions and accurate intelligence on what your opponents are up to.’

‘We have that already.’

Responding to obvious curiosity, Laporta gave what Cal suspected was a highly edited account of what he knew of the intention of the Spanish army. Basically it came down to their preparations to leave their various barracks, once the General Goded arrived, to take control of the city, spilling as much blood as necessary in the process. There were two cavalry regiments and a light-artillery unit, as well as a battalion of infantry in the main Parque Barracks.

The Assault Guards were mostly already on the side of the workers, but it was interesting Laporta made no mention of the more important, as well as more numerous, Civil Guard, which indicated they were still an unknown quantity. Dipping his finger in his wine, the Spaniard made a very rough map on the table showing how the various opposition forces were presently disposed.

‘If they are coming from separate locations,’ Cal pointed out, ‘it would be wise to so dispose your men to stop them combining, the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. There have to be locations you feel best placed to defend, and if you direct the flow of your enemy to those, you have the advantage. The biggest problem is they are soldiers – they are trained and they have artillery.’

‘How little you know of the Spanish metropolitan army, monsieur,’ Laporta replied, with a sympathetic grin.

‘I take it you know more.’

‘I have made it my duty as a revolutionary to study my enemy, men whom I have already fought against many, many times.’

‘Very wise.’

‘The soldiers are badly paid and led by either fools or thieves. Their equipment is poor and their training in combat is zero. Many will have rarely fired off their rifles even once. The officers are fools and, worse, they are scum, more likely to sell their men’s rations than distribute them, that is when they are not hiring them out as labourers to anyone who will pay for their work, or using them to tend their own gardens.’

‘You talk of the metropolitan army, you do not mention the colonial troops.’

‘They are in Morocco and, if they are kept there, not a concern.’

‘But if they were brought to the mainland?’ The look answered the question; they would be a handful. ‘A fact, surely, known to the generals who have begun the uprising, some of whom may not be fools.’

‘Right now, monsieur,’ Laporta said, standing up, clearly slightly irritated by what he saw as close to an interrogation, ‘my immediate concern is Barcelona. Let Madrid worry about the Army of Africa.’

Then he was gone, leaving Cal to explain what they had been talking about to Vince.

‘What do you know about anarchists?’ When Vince looked surprised at the question, Cal added, ‘I was hoping it was more than me.’

‘It’s the big thing here, guv.’

‘That I do know. I have my ear bashed by Florencia.’

‘Just your ear?’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve been idle.’

‘They all hate each other,’ Vince responded, not very helpfully and utterly declining to comment about what he had been up to in his leisure time.

‘Anarchism sounds like a recipe for chaos to me. No government, no money, just everyone contributing to the common good and taking responsibility for their own actions.’

‘The word you’re looking for is “bollocks”.’

Vince, looking sideways, caught sight of Laporta coming back to the table with two rifles under his arm and used his head to indicate that to Cal. The rifles were laid on the edge of the table, the bullets to load them, plus extra rounds, extracted from the pocket of his leather coat rolled onto the table.

Cal reached out and picked one up, a Mauser of a fairly old pattern, and here he was at home. This was a business he knew about, like the fact that the weapon was of German design, was made under licence in Spain and was standard issue for their forces. He had shipped some of these to South America.

Quickly he worked the bolt a couple of times, then nodded. ‘Well maintained.’

‘They need to keep them well oiled in case they need to shoot the workers. Come.’

Both Cal and Vince were on their feet immediately, and by the time they had pocketed the ammo, Laporta was out on the pavement shouting to a group of armed men lounging in the shade of the trees. They rose with no great haste to fall in behind him, which at least allowed the two Brits to get alongside their leader.

‘Any idea of numbers?’ Cal asked in French.

Laporta just shrugged. ‘However many there are, we will kill them.’

‘They might surrender.’

Another shrug and an enigmatic smile, which left Cal wondering what would happen if they gave in. If there was one thing he recalled from South America it was the Spanish propensity for violence and cruelty, an attitude not aided by the nihilism of the indigenous Amerindians. The Chaco War, in which he had first been an arms supplier and then a participant, had shown that mercy was not an Iberian quality.

That trait was something anyone who read about the conquistadors could not fail to realise. Cal Jardine was not in any way squeamish, but shooting innocents or surrendering soldiers, which he had witnessed too many times in his life, was not an activity in which he wanted to be involved.

The heat of the city was stifling, the breeze off the Mediterranean so hot it failed to mitigate the temperature of a relentless sun, the only relief coming from staying under the shade of the myriad trees or using the cover of the high buildings. Even in revolt, Barcelona seemed somnolent at this time of day, the hours of the mid afternoon being the time for siesta, which, as Florencia had demonstrated, was not solely for sleeping. More people were awake than normal, but they were still, and on the barricades they circumvented, even the defenders were taking turns to doze out of the sun’s rays.

There were already worker-fighters outside the Capitanía Marítima, undisciplined and milling around, but by their presence blocking any escape from the naval HQ, and Laporta immediately went to try to get them into some sort of order while his own party took up firing positions. Cal, who was certain he was about to be asked to aid the assault, indicated silently to Vince and they began to reconnoitre a place well known to the locals, but a mystery to them.

It was a six-storey stone building, classically fronted, not triangular but narrower at the entrance than the back, occupying a site on a U-shaped bend in the tree-lined road. There was a large open space to the rear, too exposed to be of any use in an assault and leading, in any case, only to heavy doorways that they had, as far as they knew, no explosives to breach; the front presented a better prospect, if not an easy one.

The numerous trees allowed for a comprehensive reconnaissance, as well as the chance of getting close, but that only underlined that, possessing dozens of windows, and with a roof topped by a balustrade, the points of any defence were numerous and left no arc of fire uncovered, while whoever controlled the building was keeping his powder very dry. No rifles appeared from any of the windows and no shots were fired to deter the observations that Cal and Vince made as they dodged around from cover to cover.

Like a lot of local buildings the ground floor windows were barred, and added to that were what looked like stout internal shutters. Even the classical Palladian portico was defensible, being deep and shaded at the base entrance, while above that there was a balcony with thick stone columns, wide enough to hide a shooter, backed by an array of french windows. For observation there was what looked like a high cupola on the roof, probably a water cistern, from which snipers could dominate the further approaches.

‘Well, Vince?’ Cal asked finally, as they got back to their start point, looking at the triple-arched front.

‘A mortar would be handy for that roof, guv, to keep any buggers up there honest.’

‘As would a bit of field artillery to blow in the front doors, which we don’t have either.’

Looking over to where the main party had gathered, Cal could see they had been joined by a steady stream of other fighters, men and women, a few armed, most not, no doubt the locals who had joined what was already being called the counter-revolution. To both men watching it seemed they were gathering for an assault, finger-pointing mixed with much of the sort of chest-beating folk use to bolster their resolve. Certainly Laporta was haranguing them in what Cal suspected was a bout of revolutionary fervour.

‘Bad place to try and rush,’ Vince said.

‘Especially if they have any machine pistols and grenades.’

It took no great imagination for Cal Jardine to put himself in the mind of the person organising the defence. He would be aware those trying to assault the place had neither the right weaponry, infantry training or much more than their own fervour as a spur, nor any real knowledge of the dangers of fighting in what constituted, for war purposes, one of the deadliest arenas for combat – a stout building with clear approaches and killing zones provided by the intervening roadway and the tree-dotted esplanade before the entrance.

Below that balcony the main triple-arched entrance was the most obvious place to make inroads against a resistance expected to be weak. A good tactician would first let any skirmishers get close, thus encouraging the main assault to come on, with a few rifle shots to indicate some level of resistance. Once crowded in that deep doorway, it would be child’s play to drop a few grenades over the balcony; the trapped attackers would be shredded and lose their momentum. Then put all your available firepower into killing those panicked into retreat.

‘So?’ Vince asked, having had that elaborated and gloomily agreed.

‘If I was in charge of taking the place, I’d be looking for the water and electricity supplies. Cut them off and wait, unless we can get hold of a cannon big enough to blow the front in.’

‘They might have enough food and water for a month.’

‘They might have enough firepower for a massacre.’

‘Chum’s coming.’

Dodging from tree to tree, Laporta was crossing the ground between where he had been giving his lecture and the line of tree trunks his men, Cal and Vince included, were using as cover. As soon as he was kneeling beside Cal he asked him for an opinion, which induced a look of despondency as he listened to the response and the recommendation.

‘We do not have time for such manoeuvres, monsieur.’

‘That was the one thing I hoped you would not say,’ Cal replied, doing a quick count of the number of available rifles and then the number of windows. ‘In that case we have to draw some fire to see what they have got.’

‘Monsieur, we have to attack.’

‘Without knowing what you face, it will be bloody.’

The response was almost a snarl. ‘That is the difference between soldiers and revolutionary workers, monsieur, we are prepared to die for what we believe in.’ With that he called to his men, to follow him to a point right before the front of the naval headquarters to join what was now a milling mass of volunteers, his final words to Cal, but aimed at both he and Vince: ‘You are free to join us.’

Cal actually laughed. ‘We are also free to decline. I have told you what I think. If you have any men who are good shots leave them with us and we will seek to subdue the defence. That, at least, might save a few lives.’

Laporta thought for a long time, before nodding. He then reeled off several names, calling half a dozen men over and giving them rapid instructions.

‘He’s telling ’em to take orders from you, guv.’

‘Any idea of the Spanish words for window and balcony?’

‘Not a clue, Guv.’

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.