Authors: Jack Ludlow
It took three hits to dislodge enough of the stonework and, not surprisingly, when the base blocks were removed, a good number of what they were supporting came down too, creating a cloud of choking dust and a fall that would have crushed the van had it not
been plated in thick metal. As it was, reversing, because of the rubble created, took several jarring attempts.
The gap left when it did get clear was just a narrow and dark dust-filled hole with no way of knowing what was concealed behind it, and it was into that Cal tossed his grenade, on the assumption that whoever was on that machine gun, and there might be more than two, could not fail to figure out what they were trying to do, not knowing that once they were inside it was a very different kind of fight.
The two men were on the points of their feet waiting for the blast, which when it came pushed the heavy van into their backs. There was no time to even think on that; Cal spun out from behind, pistol raised, and fired off three rounds, before rushing for the hole, stumbling over the rubble, aware that Laporta was likewise firing into the gap, also that Vince was coming behind him.
Once through he went left and dived for the floor, Vince going right and doing the same. Neither stopped for more than a split second; both were up, hunched and moving in opposite directions, weapons out, knowing that, with eyes unaccustomed to the gloom, if there was an enemy close he could see them more clearly than they could see him. Cal found some stacked bales of hay as protection and stopped, breathing heavily and seeking clarity of vision.
The body lay against the opposite wall, nearer to where Vince was moving, his aim to get behind a long cart, loaded with
sapling-type
poles for making frames; that would give him some cover. As soon as he was there, Cal gave him the signs for one man down and his location and got a nod in return. Then, with his eyes adjusting to the gloom, Cal held up a trio of fingers, the sign that as soon as they disappeared he would move on three, that also acknowledged
as Vince would move immediately after, his rifle ready to use.
When Cal came out from behind the hay it was as a dive into a forward roll in which he spun up onto one knee, pistol out and moving in search of a target. The bullet aimed at him passed his ear with a crack and he began to squeeze on his trigger, aiming at the hatless man in Civil Guard uniform on the open staircase, only to hear another shot and see him jerk backwards. Naturally he looked to Vince; he just twitched his head back and chopped to the rear with his hand.
Looking over his shoulder, Cal saw Laporta standing in the gap created by the armoured van, silhouetted against the sunlight at his back, a sitting duck of a target for anyone who wanted to shoot him. The shout, in French, which included the words that told him he was a stupid arse, at least moved him till his back was against stone. By that time Cal and Vince were moving rapidly for the stairs and, once there, taking them three at a time, though there was a slight pause to make sure the man Laporta had shot was no longer capable of being active.
At the top of the staircase there was just an open floor space, better lit than the ground floor, below which they stopped. With Cal crouching and aiming, Vince laid aside his rifle, pulled the pin on his grenade and tossed it in the general direction of where he thought the machine gun might be, before they both dropped several steps and covered their ears, the thud of the thing landing and rolling audible.
The blast passed overhead, but no other sound came, and with great care Cal lifted his head to the point where his eyes were level with the floor, his pistol horizontal to it and ready for use. In air full of dust he took his time but it was soon clear there had been more than two men on a weapon; number three lay against the outside
wall, just below the window from which he had been firing, his face covered in blood, with more, from some other wound, seeping from his body.
Even so, it was with some caution that Cal and Vince moved upwards and onto the first-floor planking, eyes searching in case there was an unknown threat. Not Juan Luis Laporta; he had followed them up, having stopped only to strip the man on the stairs of his weapons: a rifle and a pistol on a leather belt.
He came right up as if he were in his own home and marched noisily over to where the other body lay, looked at Cal and Vince, nodded, then went to the window, holding up the pistol belt to show his comrades. The second he came into view, stone chips began to fly, as did he as he dived back into safety, screaming curses at his own men, who could not hear him, damn them, for nearly killing him.
T
aking the machine gun out of the equation did not solve the problem completely; that bridge still had to be crossed and it was very quickly obvious, indicated by the level of movement, that whoever was in command over the other side had decided to hold his position. Shadowy figures carrying weapons, scurrying about, seeking cover and good fire positions were not about to withdraw. The light was going too; it would be dark soon and the decision had to be made whether to try a crossing immediately or wait until dawn.
Canals throw up different military problems to rivers, which, when not in spate, usually present crossing points, fords or flood plains where the water level is low. Add to that the banks are slopes, not walls. A lack of maps had been bad enough before; now it was crippling, because no one knew if there was another bridge within marching distance – there was certainly on this side no lateral road
they could use – by which they could outflank the defenders, and nor did they have boats; if those had existed, owned by the locals, they had either been sunk or removed.
The answer lay in a forced crossing at another point, but for people who lived in a port it was shocking how few of them could swim, and in truth, to get them across the canal would require they march to a point out of sight of the town without alerting the opposition – not something Cal Jardine thought the anarchists capable of; moving in formation on foot was no more their forte than silence. Also, they would have to get across without mishap and that too, given the aversion to discipline, seemed unlikely.
They would have to fight their way to the bridge and help to secure it intact, because without the vehicles they would be moribund and on foot: any notion of going on to Saragossa hinged on the column remaining fully mobile. The option of moving back to find another route and another bridge foundered on the same problem; they could travel miles and find the road just petering out, and it had been obvious from the outset that few of the people they could question knew anything beyond the confines of their own village and their nearest neighbours.
Task number one was to repair the armoured van, which, naturally, had only one spare wheel, and on the face of it that meant cannibalising another one from a second lorry and it had to be an exact match, not easy given the vehicles in the convoy consisted of every kind of commercial transport in existence, a lot of them French, a few Italian or American and none of them with common features.
In fact it was worse; driving on the rims to take out that stonework had deformed them, and it was only by a stroke of sheer luck that some of Laporta’s men, mechanics and those from engineering
factories, had the ability to undertake the required repairs. That, of necessity, took time and as the light faded it was necessary to bring forward other trucks and use their headlights so that work could continue in darkness. It was telling that, even at long rifle range, the insurgents made no attempt to impede the repair.
A conference was convened, lit by oil lamps, with Florencia on hand to translate for Cal if Spanish was employed; when it came to attendance, Manfred Drecker was much more willing than he had been to bring forward and risk his men or offer material support. Asked his opinion, his sole idea, made with his fastidious cigarette hand, was that Laporta and his fighters should just charge the bridge at dawn, using the repaired armoured van, and blast their way on to the other side.
Tellingly, and once more worryingly, the man to whom he addressed this madcap idea did not demur, so it was left to Cal Jardine to point out the inherent flaws: the notion that a strong party could just advance behind the van was nonsense. The bullets they faced would come from up and down the canal banks, reducing the level of protection the further forward they went. And what if the armoured van lost its tyres again, all four this time, and was rendered immobile? – that would block the bridge completely.
‘He is asking if you suggest doing nothing,’ Florencia said when Drecker barked Spanish at him.
‘For such an assault you must split their defence. If you just rush the bridge, whoever you send will just walk into a hail of concentrated fire, and for all we know that machine gun we took out was not the only one.’
‘And where,’ Drecker demanded, reverting to German, ‘is this machine gun?’
‘It might be more than one and they will be where we can’t see them, just like the weapon that opened up earlier. If you think it’s such a good idea to force a crossing by rushing the bridge, use your own men.’
That induced a look of cold fury but no spoken response, and to Cal it sent a clear message, one that intimated that the loss of life, as long as it was anarchists dying, or even the youngsters he led, was something to be welcomed for its own sake, but Drecker would keep what he called his cadres away from risk.
‘They will not attack,’ Cal said to Juan Luis. ‘The choice of what we do rests with us.’
‘We risk losing valuable time,’ he responded.
That was imparted with an unhappy look that had within it an unspoken desire that Cal Jardine, or even Drecker, should come up with a solution. Yet again, he was not prepared to openly ask for help.
‘We must give it more thought.’
Drecker, asking what was said in French be explained, just looked at the Spaniard as if he was something untoward on his shoe when told, then turned on his heel and went back to his own encampment.
‘I will get my men across,’ Cal said softly, as soon as the German was out of earshot.
The question in Laporta’s expression was unspoken but plain: why wait till the communist had left? But that did not last long as Cal explained, with a heavy dose of diplomacy. He could hardly elaborate on his previous thoughts about the inability of Laporta’s men to undertake what was required, but he did point out that his Olympians were young, fit and willing, in unspoken contrast to Juan Luis’s anarchists.
What was required needed experience of things the anarchist leader would know nothing about; night operations were ten times more difficult than movements undertaken during the day. For Laporta it was enough that he offered a solution and took responsibility for implementing it, though he was careful to salvage some pride by asking several pointed questions, until Cal reminded him he was not proposing to act alone; the Spaniards needed to do their bit.
‘Your men need to be ready for a dawn attack across the bridge, to fix the attention of the defenders, but I want two other things. Work should continue on the armoured van even if it is finished, with lots of banging and crashing of metal on metal to convince them that the assault they expect will take place. Secondly, I want you to position a party of riflemen to keep a careful watch on the underside of the bridge and to shoot if they see movement.’
The notion of it being wired with explosives was still a possibility, but not one easy to carry out under observation and, potentially, a hail of bullets.
‘Now I must go and get my lads ready. I need to brief them on what to do.’
Florencia patted her pistol. ‘I will come too.’
The ‘no’ in reply was firm and taken badly.
The Spaniards had laughed at the lads doing their exercises but they missed the point: these youngsters were competition-fit and committed to staying that way. If the insurrection had not broken out they would have been doing their bit on track and field by now, so when it came to a two-mile night march it was a piece of cake.
They set out with mud-blackened faces and lightened knapsacks,
one squad with spades, under a star-filled sky and a crescent moon, another squad carrying half a dozen long frame poles, those taken from the barn, and a heavy towing rope, on an eastern detour until they could turn south well out of sight from the enemy.
At the canal side, the first task was to make sure the opposite bank was unoccupied, with patrols being sent in both directions to check, making no attempt, albeit they were cautious, to hide their presence, this to flush out anyone posted to counter such a manoeuvre, perhaps with a flare or just a loosed-off shot. The supposition being the far side was clear, they all gathered at the chosen crossing point.
Vince repeated his joke about pole-vaulting and that had everyone laughing except Jock, but in truth the canal was too wide for that, so two of what the others called ‘water babies’ stripped off, and naked, made sure Vince got over – he being an indifferent swimmer. They then came back for the rope and a trio of sapling poles of the kind farmers use to make growing frames, which they floated to the far bank, this while a series of foxholes were being dug by one squad, another standing guard.
Try as they might, what was required could not be done quietly and on a still night the sound had to carry a long way. It was only guesswork that the distance was great enough not to alert the men defending the bridge, just as it had been guesswork that they would not have sentinels out down the western edge to look out for what was a fairly obvious ploy.
The whole operation was predicated on two assumptions: first, that the lack of military appreciation or imagination existed on both sides – the insurgents would focus on a forced bridge crossing, especially with all those headlights illuminating the repairs taking place in plain view to them, now a dim glow in the distance to the
assault group. Then there was numbers; from what he knew, even with the extra Civil Guards and others they had picked up on the way, the Barcelona column faced no more than a hundred and twenty to thirty opponents.
If the insurgents feared a separate crossing, that could happen anywhere north or south as far as several miles, meaning they would have to be spread very thin to guard against it and they should not expect it so soon, certainly not before a rush on the bridge failed. Therefore, while no one would take off their boots, he hoped they would try to rotate sleep so as to be fresh to face the battle they anticipated.
Cal set about making a tripod, which Vince would be replicating on the far bank, lashing the tops together. A sharp whistle told him it was time to tighten the rope, which involved both men erecting, then securing, what they had constructed; this lifted the rope clear of the water, which was then anchored to the ground with a stake driven into the hard earth to act as a guy. This gave the crossing party, four-squads strong, a way over the water that would keep their bodies dry; their feet would get wet but that was unavoidable.
They went across hand over hand; each checked to ensure they had secured their weapons in the right way, straps spread over their necks so that the whole lay atop their knapsacks, the weight spread evenly across their shoulders. Also sent over was a thinner line, so that ammo, water and food could be hauled across, as well as the rolled-up kit of the swimmers.
While that was happening Cal was repeating the briefing he had given those chosen as the rearguard. They would use the shallow foxholes they had dug to the right of the crossing point to hold the eastern bank so that if it all went wrong there was a defence sufficient to slow and possibly deter any pursuit.
‘Password, Bernard?’ he asked of the man in command.
‘Barcelona.’
‘If we are being chased we will be coming at a run, but regardless of what you think you see, do not open fire until you hear a shout of “Barcelona” from those seeking to get back across, or you will risk killing your own. We will be engaged in a fighting retreat and at best I think we will have parity because the defenders cannot denude the main crossing. Lanterns?’
These were produced and held up, two oil lamps that would denote in the dark the limits of the line of defence, to be lit if they heard gunfire, those seeking to escape having been briefed to stay south of the one to their right. Also, Bernard, and he alone, would have to make a judgement if anyone came wandering along while Cal and the rest were out of sight: to shoot or stay doggo, the only clear instruction being to maintain the integrity of the rope crossing at all costs.
‘Everybody clear?’ The response was a low murmur. ‘Good. Now remember, try to stay still and silent. No talking.’
The agreement was the same and had as much chance of being held to as pigs flying. They would talk to each other, but it would be no more than reassuring whispers.
Cal Jardine was the last rifleman to cross, it having taken a couple of hours to get everything sorted, that added to the time it had taken to get to the crossing point, but that was no problem; one bonus of this part of the world was you got regular hours of darkness, even in high summer.
After an equipment check was carried out, those who had crossed set off, moving away from the bank at a right angle through
ploughed fields and growing crops. Cal led one squad ahead as a screen, counting off the yardage, which he hoped would take him beyond Albatàrrec. After an hour he called a halt and checked his figure with Vince to about a mile, then made sure the squad leaders knew the distance already travelled and the location of the North Star, triangulating that with the glow still faintly visible from the east of the bridge.
Soon they were marching due north, footwear claggy from gathered mud, aiming to meet the road that continued west, the distance again counted off. The whole movement, as it had been previously, carried out in silence; even the daft ones were careful not to make a sound, though there was something like a collective sigh as they reached the deep ditch that lined the road.
The same as that on the other side of the canal, it was as dry as a bone, perfect to keep them out of sight, with just enough overhead light to make progress reasonably quick, but the primary act was to call another period of rest and to tell his lads to take on some water. Before they moved again it was necessary to make sure the squad leaders knew the number of paces to get back to the turning point, as well as those needed to get back to the canal. If anything happened to Cal and Vince they might need to get out on their own.
They moved out in single file and, as they got closer to the town, dogs began barking. That forced a halt till they calmed down, but it indicated the proximity of habitation and the fact they were making too much noise in the ditch. Not that there was an alternative, like using the roadway level with their heads; the only security lay in taking time.