by Jack Ludlow
Following the Badajoz assault Franco should have headed straight for Madrid, it was there for the taking, but instead he turned aside to lift a siege of the huge barracks and magazine known as the Alcazar, in the strategic as well as emotionally vital city of Toledo, more to cement his position than for any real strategic gain, thus allowing time for the defences of the capital to be strengthened.
Throughout August and into September other important centres fell to bloody reprisals, the Nationalists using every weapon in the modern armoury, including naval bombardment and massed artillery, to take the cities. But the key to their rapid success lay in what came to them from abroad. German bombers to terrorise civilians and pulverise troop concentrations, and fighters to strafe their fleeing enemies.
For the first time, the names of German pilots crept into news reports, the fiction that the planes supplied by Hitler were being flown by Spaniards the same kind of lie as that propagated by Manfred Drecker; the war in Spain was moving from a purely native fight between two political ideologies to become a cockpit for an international war by proxy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The arrival of the main body of militias outside Saragossa, nearly three thousand strong and made up of members of the POUM as well as the CNT-FAI, had severely diminished the position of Juan Luis Laporta, who now found himself relegated to being one of a number of leaders instead of in sole control of his men. It did not, however, improve matters in the military sphere.
None of the new arrivals seemed capable of the kind of agreement that would enhance the needs of the Republic, which demanded a rapid advance into the Nationalist heartlands in order to force them to divert their efforts from elsewhere. Comfortably headquartered in an abandoned monastery by the River Ebro, the military hierarchy seemed like the Cafe de Tranquilidad all over again: endless argument which led to bad compromises, ineffective tactics, and futile mass assaults which burdened the militias with serious casualties.
As before, the need to dig in was scoffed at, which led to an even greater loss when the enemy counter-attacked, the only sector not to suffer the one held by the fully entrenched Olympians, simply because, wisely, the Nationalists, having carried out a thorough recce, came nowhere near it. Yet that secure position had to be abandoned due to the retreat of the main body.
It was obvious that on the Saragossa Front things were going nowhere, so Cal Jardine was not sorry when it came to his attention that time had run out for many of those he led. The young athletes had come to Spain for a period of three weeks — two to train and one to compete — and were now approaching a third month.
As aware as the men who led them of the faults of the Republican leadership, they now found a pressing need to get home to jobs and, in one or two cases, families of their own. Those who elected to stay, twelve in number, would mostly only be returning to the dole queue, but it was obvious that, numerically, they were too small to be useful.
The news that the Republic was forming International Brigades from foreign volunteers provided a solution for them, and Cal agreed to take them to the city of Albacete, where the brigades were being assembled, before determining what to do himself. Vince, funded by the last of Monty Redfern’s money, would see the others home.
Yet detaching the returnees was not easy; their departure was fought tooth and nail by Manfred Drecker, who maintained that no one had the right to desert the cause and anyone who even implied such a thing deserved to be shot; Laporta backed the athletes and took pleasure in doing so.
The antipathy between the men, political and personal, had not improved on the move into Aragon. Laporta took pleasure in pointing out what the Olympians had achieved, as opposed to Drecker’s communist cadres, which led to a blazing row in which accusations of backsliding, cowardice and chicanery were liberally thrown about.
The other anarchist leaders backed Laporta, as did the Trotskyists of the POUM, leaving Drecker isolated and fuming, the clinching argument being that they had joined with Laporta’s column, so any decision on their future was his to make. Cal backed that up; he was more concerned with the outcome than any claim of rights but he knew, from the looks thrown his way, that as far as Manfred Drecker was concerned he had joined the ranks of his enemies.
The day the main party left for Barcelona was a sad one; even prior to fighting, these lads had bonded together merely through their political outlook and shared stories. Yet combat, even the limited amount they had experienced, cemented that even more, while they had a fully justified pride in what they had achieved. It was handshakes and clasping all round, with many not afraid to show a tear as they clambered into the trucks that would take them to the docks and a ship to Marseilles. For Vince and Cal Jardine, this was just one more parting in a life of many.
‘See you in London, guv. Maybe we can go out an’ have a drink.’
‘Only if you promise not to belt anyone.’
Vince threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’ve mellowed.’
That got a disbelieving look; the last time Cal had taken Vince out, the mistake had been to take him first to a pub in Chelsea full of what Vince called ‘chinless wonders’, then to a late-night drinking club in Soho much frequented by what his one-time sergeant described to the police as ‘toffee-nosed ponces and poufs’. Cal was an amiable drunk, Vince a bellicose one, so the night had ended with a brawl, a visit to the cells and a fine from a morning magistrate.
Vince nodded towards Florencia, saying her own goodbyes. ‘How special is that one?’
‘Good question.’
‘You might have trouble getting away.’
‘I might not want to, Vince.’
The tone of the response was not jocular, the indication that his old friend was risking overstepping the mark obvious, but Vince had something to say and, typical of the man, he was going to say it regardless.
‘I wouldn’t hitch myself to this lot if I were you.’ He was not talking about Florencia, but the Barcelona militia. ‘The way they are now, they’re on a hiding to nothing and if our lot and the Frogs don’t help I can’t see how they can win.’
‘It’s early days. It might pan out.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Vince replied as the first of the truck engines began to throb into life. ‘I’d hate to have to come back and rescue you.’
‘Take care, Vince,’ Cal said, hand held out to be grasped and shaken. ‘And don’t forget to send those trucks back. I’m stuck here with the rest of the lads until you do.’
‘Give you a chance to learn some more Spanish.’
‘Hasta la vista, compadre.’
Vince nodded and climbed into the cab of the lead truck, Florencia coming to join Cal as they disappeared in a cloud of dust. What was cheering was the way the road was lined with the men alongside whom they had fought — communists apart — not ribbing them now, but all smiling and yelling encouragement, with their right hands raised, their fists tight in salute.
It was impossible to miss the increasingly febrile atmosphere in the Republican lines; necessity made comrades of the various factions only up to a point. This was especially apparent at the point where the CNT and POUM sectors met that of the communists, now reinforced so that Drecker had under his command a couple of hundred men.
Every time the cadres were subjected to lectures on dialectic materialism and other Marxist nostrums, the anarchist militiamen would gather to jeer, loud enough to make difficult what those lecturing were trying to impart, and no one in authority sought to interfere.
Had he been in command, Cal would have stopped it and quickly, not in support of communism but with the aim of improving the fighting ability of the whole; if the two factions went into action they would not support one another, hardly a sound military policy. Yet even as he registered the mutual dislike, he did not pick up on the increasing tensions behind it, and if it had not been for Florencia, he would have had no idea what was really going on.
When she cursed the Partido Comunista de Espana he took it as
just her usual railing against her political rivals. Certainly, he recorded her fears that they were poaching members from the CNT, as well as her assertion that some hypocrites were joining the PCE as a way of ensuring they were not seen as class enemies, but it did not penetrate deeply and he knew the CNT to be just as guilty when it came to recruitment; it was a game they all played.
The mutual antagonism deepened seriously when Vince’s truck drivers returned with the news that the first Soviet ships had arrived, bringing in fresh arms, including tanks and aircraft. The information lifted everyone’s spirits until it was clear neither of those were going to be seen in Aragon; they were sent straight to bolster the defence of Madrid, in essence a sound policy given that was where the danger to the Republic was most severe.
Yet as another set of trucks arrived, it was very soon obvious that the drivers were communists and what they carried was a cargo exclusively for Drecker’s cadres, who received weapons of a quality and modernity that surpassed that with which they had been supplied before, just as it was clear none of these were being passed to anyone else. There was no attempt at discretion, obvious as the communists paraded to show off their equipment.
Drecker and his squad leaders carried PPD-40 machine pistols, which as far as Cal was aware — and it was his business to know these things — had only recently been supplied to the forces of the Soviet Interior Ministry. Enough Degtyarov light machine guns had been supplied to set up gun teams within every platoon-sized section, while Drecker’s command, now more than company strength, also had possession of two 50 mm mortars.
‘These weapons, mon ami,’ Juan Luis Laporta asked, as they were paraded under the eyes of their supposed anarchist comrades-in-arms. ‘Are they any good?’
On home turf, Cal rattled off their capabilities, ranges and rates of fire, summing it up thus: ‘Let’s put it this way, Juan Luis, if you can get hold of any, do so.’
‘We cannot,’ Laporta replied, his face showing both regret and, under that, a hint of fury. ‘And believe me, I have tried.’
* * *
It took several days to get to Albacete, a medium-sized town on the road from Valencia to Madrid, and what Cal found there was less than impressive, though in fairness he knew that to criticise was far from wholly just; the Spanish Republic had very few of the systems required to deal with an influx of volunteers, a fact much exacerbated by the nature of the recruits, who had come from all over the continent of Europe.
The sheer number of spoken languages would have defeated even the best-intentioned and most professional army command, while the quality of those who had come to the aid of the cause was so variable as to impose even more strain, many having near-starved to get this far. The only way to organise such mayhem was by nationality, easier with the large French contingent, to whom could be added the Belgians, as well as Germans who had fled over the Rhine from Hitler.
The British were bolstered by volunteers from the various ex-colonies, not that there was much love lost, but that looked like comradeship compared to the Italians and Austrians, while the Russians and Ukrainians — in the main, exiles from Soviet Russia looking for a way home by proving their communist credentials — seemed more likely to turn their weapons on each other than the enemy.
That was if they could first of all find a gun that fired, then locate the ammunition it required to function; the armament was a mess of conflicting patterns and differing calibres, many from well before the Great War, and the bullets were not sorted, even by box — it was necessary to rummage and select the right projectile for the weapon with which you had been issued.
Cal Jardine was not impressed enough to offer his own services, especially given the command was held by an internationally famous communist called Andre Marty, the man who claimed to have been instrumental in the mutiny of the French Black Seas Fleet in 1919. He was a member, too, of the Communist International, run from Moscow and dedicated to the spread of Marxism-Leninism.
Whatever else he was, Marty was no soldier, which underlined the nature of the brigades; even if he had experienced commanders at unit level, they too seemed to be communists, so the whole would be driven by ideology, not sound military principles, and that was not something he could be part of.
He hung around long enough to get his lads equipped with a combination of rifles and bullets that would at least mean that, should they get into a fight, they could function, and showed them how to scrounge the things they needed — uniforms, rations and some grenades — well aware that there was disappointment he would not be leading them into the coming battle.
‘You cannae be persuaded tae stay, Mr Jardine?’ asked Broxburn Jock, who had assumed the leadership of the dozen brigaders.
Cal shook his head. ‘No, I’ll be more use in Aragon, I think, trying to sort out some of those militias.’
That was a lie and there was no doubt that, in the young Scotsman’s face, he knew it to be so. It had been natural in the few days Cal had been in Albacete that he and his boys should gravitate towards their fellow countrymen, just as it was hardly surprising that many, though not all, were card-carrying members of the British Communist Party or at the very least to the far left of Labour.
In the main, when they were workers, miners, dockers and factory men from the devastated industrial areas of the UK, that was understandable; even if he did not share their politics, he could appreciate the reasons for their allegiance to the cause. Had he shared their life — surrounded by poverty, put upon by rapacious employers, or on the dole, as well as being citizens of an indifferent state — he might also have shared their views.
It was the university and middle-class types that got up Cal’s nose, too many of them from comfortable backgrounds, romantics with no grasp whatsoever of the lives of the poor and certainly not a clue about the nature of life in Soviet Russia, which, when he talked with them, was something they saw through spectacles that were more blacked out than rose-tinted.
A gentle hint that life might not be so sweet east of Poland, that it might be as bad as Nazi Germany, led to a tirade of abuse, well argued and articulate, but utterly wrong, this before he was treated to a quasi-religious attempt to point out that the way he lived his life was to fly in the face of what they called ‘historical determinism’; only good manners inculcated into him from birth stopped him from telling these intellectual idiots to get stuffed.
‘The bodies that have been gi’en officer’s rank are no a bit like you or Vince,’ Jock added. ‘Some ’o them seem right mental.’
‘And the rest of your brigade is not like you, Jock. It will be you teaching them how to fire a rifle now, and if they’ve got any sense they will promote you.’
‘Fat bloody chance.’
Politics apart, that was another reason to leave, albeit there was an element of guilt at abandoning what he saw as ‘his boys’. The command structure was chaotic, and from what he had observed, as had Jock, the senior positions in the brigades went to only two types: megalomaniacs and high-ranking communists — sometimes they were both — and what he had observed of the standard of training, if it could even be graced with such a term, was pandemonium, which was worrying given that they might be pitched into battle before they were ready, as the Republic was still losing on all fronts.
‘I might not even stay in Spain, Jock.’
‘Away, yer lassie will’na let ye go.’
‘Another reason for going back to Aragon, yes?’
‘No a bad yin, aw the same.’
‘Take care of the rest of the boys, Jock; you are the best soldier, you know that, and they look up to you.’
That produced a blush on the square face, highlighting, as it flared, his heavy acne, the smile that followed showing his uneven teeth. Then it was time to shake the others by the hand and depart, with a silent hope that whatever they faced they would survive.
He never returned to the Saragossa Front, finding, when he stopped off in Barcelona, as he had said he would, not just Florenci
a in the city but Juan Luis Laporta as well. As soon as he checked back into the Ritz — they had stored his luggage — both, alerted by some member of the hotel staff, arrived to see him, she very welcome, he much less so.
It was soon made obvious they had left the monastery headquarters seething with tension: the anarchists were furious at being denied the better weapons distributed to Drecker’s cadres, despite repeated requests, and it was the same for the other political groups, including those in Barcelona and Madrid.
The Partido Comunista controlled the distribution of Soviet equipment, and even the non-fighting communists in the rear areas were better armed than their rivals on the fighting fronts, while what had come in with the weaponry was even less welcome to the likes of Laporta: Soviet advisors who behaved as if they were dealing with idiots.
When that was advanced Cal could not but agree with the assessment, even if he could accept such condescension was unwelcome, for, if such advisors were anything like the ones he had met in Albacete, they would not, as he had tried to do since his first dust-up with Laporta, temper their advice with a sugar coating.
He had heard counterclaims in Albacete for the communists, incensed about the way they claimed the anarchists, who controlled the border with France, were denying entry to any party member trying to cross into Spain to join the International Brigades; it was all part of the fabric of endemic mistrust which permeated the Republican cause.
At the same time, it seemed to Cal, no one was doing much to fight the real enemy. When he enquired about the progress in Aragon it transpired there had been none — the Barcelona militias were still stuck outside Saragossa, the only thing of significance being that Drecker and his men, with their superior equipment, had left for Madrid, now threatened with four columns advancing on the city from Burgos, Toledo and two from Badajoz.
Try as he might, Cal could not shift the conversation to the state of the Republican forces and the manifest threats they faced, which made the conversation surreal; there was, to him, in the political bickering, an element that he mentally likened to fiddling while Rome burnt.
