by Jack Ludlow
‘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 Aragon; 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.
That Florencia was determined to take part was only natural, and it was a positive that in meeting some of her long-time companions she seemed to have regained some of her spirit. She entered Madrid just behind Laporta, her hand raised and fist clasped, singing, along with the others, all the best-known anarchist songs. And, as had the brigades, they went straight to the fighting front.
‘So what happens now, Cal?’
Alverson asked this while not bothering to hide his disappointment; not only was his prime story not doing what he should, namely seeking out weapons and telling him how, but Laporta, the man of the moment, had declined to talk to him. They could see him now, moving around as if he were a great general, making encouraging remarks to his men.
‘It’s too late to launch any attacks today,’ was the deliberately misunderstanding reply.
‘You know that’s not what I mean.’
‘Tyler, I won’t leave here without Florencia, and she won’t go until the enemy have at least been sent back across the river, but she has promised me that once things are settled here she will help me.’
‘And this Laporta guy?’
‘Let me flatter him a little.’
‘Up for that, is he?’
‘And some.’
‘Hello,’ Alverson exclaimed. ‘Here come reinforcements.’
There was no mistaking the provenance of the approaching column, some hundred men in their black uniforms, and with Drecker at their head it was clear here were members of the Fifth Regiment come to strut their stuff.
‘Not to fight?’ Alverson asked, when Cal mentioned that.
‘They have done precious little fighting up till now. Killing yes, but not anybody who has a gun to point at them.’
The jeers from Lap
orta’s men were quick to arise and they were sustained as the communists marched past them, accompanied by a raft of rude gestures. Surprisingly, they halted and about-turned before falling out, dispersing into the line of buildings that backed on to what was the present front line, part of the university. Only Drecker stayed in sight, lighting up once more.
‘Maybe they are here to fight, Cal — to show the anarchists they are not the only hope.’
‘Possible, I suppose. Let me go and talk to Napoleon over there and see if I can get him to give you an interview.’
In the gathering gloom, Laporta’s men were lighting fires, and as he approached him, Cal was vaguely aware that the communists were forming up again — it had been, as he had guessed, no more than grandstanding. By the time he joined the man he had just nicknamed ‘Napoleon’ they were in the process of marching off back to the city centre.
Burly, still in his battered leather coat and hat, Laporta was playing the part Cal had assigned to him to perfection, hands on hips, spinning round, as though his eyes could encompass a battlefield he had not a chance of seeing properly without attracting sniper fire. Seeing Cal approach, he grinned and spoke in a loud voice.
‘You examined the enemy position?’ Cal nodded; he had done so through a periscope, which only gave a partial impression of what lay before them. ‘In the morning we will take back the San Fernando Bridge.’
‘Juan Luis, they have machine guns on fixed arcs of fire.’ That got a dismissive shrug. No change there, thought Cal. ‘It is what the Allies faced in the Great War and I think you know how many died.’
‘Mr friend, we must show these communists our mettle.’
‘That would make sense if they were showing theirs alongside you.’
It took some effort to get Florencia back to the Florida that night, but Cal insisted, not with foreboding — you cannot think like that — but people would die on the morrow and he wanted her to himself before they faced that. Awoken when it was still dark, it was a silent pair that dressed and made their way to rejoin what was now known as the ‘Laporta Column’.
At least, this time, everyone had a weapon and the whole of Madrid had been resupplied with ammunition. Also, they were fighting over ground that had already seen much action, so there were lots of craters and dead ground. With what was a sort of bomb squad, he sought to lecture them on how to use that: to crawl from hole to hole until they could get close enough to throw their grenades.
The blowing of loud whistles launched the assault, which was not the only thing that made Cal think of the trenches of the Western Front; likewise the passionate yell as the militiamen and women left cover, the bayonets glinting in the sunlight. Then there came the steady rattle of the machine guns and death for some, terror for others.
The bombing team, the dinamiteros, under his guidance, crept out into the no man’s land between the lines, seeking to stay below the raking fire that had obviously decimated their comrades, following Cal as he inched forward from crater to crater, then doing as he suggested, spreading right and left. It was only a hope that his call was heard, but crouched, he pulled the pin from his first grenade and set it flying forward, dropping down immediately as the ground before him spurted up displaced mud.
The explosions acted like a spring to those rifle-bearing fighters who had got stuck in dead ground; they leapt up and charged and paid a high price in getting to the enemy position. Cal was up and running too, pistol out, inside a series of entrenchments and sandbagged barricades, shooting until his gun was empty, then picking up a discarded rifle and working with the bayonet as he had been taught, all those years ago, in basic training.
The anarchists took the first position, only to find that their enemies had fallen back a second and prepared line of defence, and with their superior training they had taken their heavy weapons with them. Certainly they suffered — the position was full of the dead and dying of both sides — and as a victory it was only a partial one, for they were nowhere near the bridge.
It took all day to get the rest of the column forward and to make this one legionnaires’ trench system their own, to get it ready for the next day’s attack, and to also clear the intervening ground of the dead and wounded. For all they had suffered a hundred dead and five times that number with incapacitating wounds, their spirits were high.
As darkness fell, the main body moved back to the start point, where they could eat and sleep, only a strong piquet left behind. They were eating around the relit fires when they heard the sound of boots, and Drecker appeared once more at the head of his company. This time they stopped and shouldered arms, then listened as their commander read to them from the writing of Lenin, no easy task with the accompanying jeers and whistles. After twenty minutes they about-turned and marched off again.
The next three days were nothing short of a disaster, and nothing an exhausted Cal Jardine could say would get Laporta to call off his increasingly costly attacks. Even with wounded fighters returning they were down to a quarter strength and still the bridge eluded them; they were closer — through a periscope you could see the top of the roadway in the centre — they had forced back their enemies, but the cost, even if they were inflicting heavy losses, was disproportionate.
And, at the end of each day’s fighting, Drecker would come up with his company of the Fifth Regiment, have a short parade, maybe harangue his men, smoke a fag, then march off again, and as he did this it was impossible to miss the reaction of Juan Luis’s face; if he knew he was being goaded it made no difference, even if, on a headcount, there were fewer than four hundred effectives left out of his original three thousand.
The Fifth Company had just marched off, to a lower level of jeers than hitherto, in the main ignored through exhaustion. A near dead-on-his feet Cal Jardine was talking to Alverson and Hemingway, telling them the picture so they could report both on the attacks and the bravery being shown, when the rattle of an automatic weapon broke the stillness.
Cal spun round to see Juan Luis Laporta spin sideways. Worse, Florencia was beside him and she seemed to jerk, then shrink to the ground as he set off towards her as fast as he could. The feeling of the bullet hitting him was like a branding, not a pain, and as it turned him he was vaguely aware that just to his left, bullets were raking the ground; he looked to his right just as one of the firers was upset by panic, and found himself looking to the line of buildings. There was someone there, a vague shape that seemed familiar.
A second bullet took his shoulder, dropping him to his knees, and now he was crawling towards an inert Florencia and Laporta on his hands and knees, his head drooping. All around were cries and shouting, with people running in every direction to what seemed like little purpose. He did get to Florencia and he was sure he said her name, but there was no response and he passed out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The antiseptic smell registered first and then, slowly, he opened his eyes. Above his head was a slow circulating ceiling fan and he knew he was in the Barcelona Ritz, yet when he reached out to touch Florencia, not only was she not there but the edge of the bed was too close to his hand. The stains on the ceiling where water had penetrated were wrong, not the sort of thing to be tolerated by the manager of a luxury hotel; but then, it came back to him, there had been fighting.
Turning his head he saw not blonde, tousled hair but another head swathed in bandages a few feet away, in a bed that was near to touching his own; the same on the other side, though the man in that was lying, eyes closed, in seeming contented sleep. That was when the first of the pain kicked in, a dull throb in his shoulder, and there was another, less significant, in his belly. Confused, the head of the nurse, leaning over him and smiling, was what finally told Callum Jardine he was in hospital, and one that was very crowded.
* * *
‘You nearly didn’t make it, old buddy; you lost a lot of blood and it was touch and go if they could get enough back into you to keep you alive. I couldn’t carry you, and if I had not had Ernie
Hemingway to help me you would be meat. He’s a big strong guy and not too many people seemed to care about you — they were trying to save their own.’
Tyler Alverson said this to a patient now sitting in a state of some shock; the first question he asked the American got a slow and sad shake of the head — Florencia had been dead on arrival at the forward dressing station, and it took some time for that to sink in and to ask about Juan Luis Laporta. He had died on the operating table from a single bullet that had passed though his chest and lungs.
Both bodies had been taken back to Barcelona for burial in the cemetery at Montjuic. The whole of the city did not turn out for Florencia, the great crowd came to bury Juan Luis Laporta, but she basked in the glory of every anarchist who could walk being at her graveside too, and many of the flowers were split between the two plots.
‘The official story is it was accidental discharge, a weapon going off that shouldn’t, some schmuck forgetting to put on his safety catch.’
‘You believe that?’
‘If I don’t, Cal, I’m in no position to do anything about it.’
‘You could tell the world.’
‘And get thrown out of Spain for something I’m not sure of? No thanks. Besides, it might have just been someone who didn’t want to die. You said yourself the attacks Laporta was pressing on with were crazy. OK, a lot of people would have been happy to see him dead, but there are too many conspiracies out there to go adding another one, and that would be about someone, I hate to remind you, the world knows nothing about.’
Cal knew he was in a rear area, the town of Tarancon, that he had been in a coma for three weeks and the doctor, a German socialist, had told him that the Battle for Madrid had fizzled out with neither side really able to claim victory. The city was still under threat but Franco had lost too many men to press home a new assault, especially in winter. The Republicans and the Nationalists were regrouping.
