A Broken Land

by Jack Ludlow

  Laporta flicked a hand to indicate his men. ‘Perhaps it is you who is being foolish.’

  ‘Look, Laporta, you are a revolutionary, yes?’ That got a nod. ‘How many real battles have you been in?’ Cal had to hold up his hand then and speak quickly, his passion obvious. ‘I don’t mean demonstrations, I don’t mean workers’ uprisings, I mean real battle, fighting trained soldiers who know what they are doing.’

  That got a dismissive wave, replicated in the tone of the voice. ‘Where are they, these soldiers?’

  ‘On the way, I should think. Rule number one is never underestimate your enemy. I’ve told you, if you know the metropolitan army is useless, so do the generals who began this revolt, which means they also know, if they are to have any chance of success, they must get the only proper soldiers they have across the Gibraltar Straits. That means they would not have fired the starting pistol until they were sure that was possible.’

  It was Cal’s turn to flick a hand at Laporta’s men. ‘Now tell me, these fellows of yours, who are brave, certainly, and some of them are steady, can they stand up against soldiers, half of whom are not Spanish and a fair number of whom are criminals on the run or out-and-out adventurers, men who have spent years fighting Riff tribesmen in the mountains of Morocco?’

  The sun was dipping in the sky, less fierce than it had been but still emitting heat, and Cal Jardine’s voice was dropping too, the passion cooling enough for him to smile.

  ‘That, my friend, can be changed, it has to be changed, but it will take time. As you so rightly said, in the coming days the job now is to hold on to Barcelona.’ Cal stood up and went right up to a still-irritated Juan Luis Laporta. ‘And that we will help you do, but after that, we will see. Now, I believe there is a job to do, some ship in the harbour that needs to be captured.’

  The response was not warm; the man was still smarting from the lecture. ‘You take risks, my friend. For a moment I was tempted to have you killed, and if my men had understood a word you said I think one of them might have shot you.’

  It was superfluous to point out he would not have survived either; he had not missed the line of Vince’s rifle and neither had Cal Jardine.

  ‘If I thought your men understood I would not have uttered them publicly. As for risks, they are part of war-fighting, the trick is to know which ones to take.’ The smile he used now was aimed at everyone, their eyes then drawn to the wad of pesetas he produced from his inside pocket. ‘Now, even if you are anarchists, I suggest we go back to the Café de Tranquilidad, where I can buy us all a drink.’

  For a group that, politically, were supposed to hate the mere thought of money in any form as a means to corrupt society, the result was surprisingly convivial. Only Laporta seemed to disapprove, but that Cal put down to the wigging he had just administered.

  In the end both he and Vince were shoreside observers to the taking of the explosive-carrying cargo ship, as well as an old hulk – a former cruiser being used as a prison – a target because the warders were armed. The vessel carrying the explosives was hauled into the quayside by tug and quickly unloaded, the job now to turn the raw dynamite into weapons they could use to stop the army when they debouched from their barracks.

  Every hand was employed, socialist athletes from every nation had now gathered in the city centre, lashing together sticks of dynamite and attaching detonators to some for static use, and lines of fuses to others for use as makeshift grenades, these sent out with an instructor to the various barricades.

  No one slept, there was too much to do; a watch had to be kept on the various military installations to prevent a surprise – including the as-yet-uncommitted Civil Guard. Every defensive location designed to canalise them when they did emerge must be supplied with ammunition, runners selected to take and deliver messages as well as locating stocks of food and water, enough so that those facing the generals’ uprising could fight all day in the heat.

  Vince was engaged in basic training, showing his young athletes how to grip, aim and fire a rifle, while Cal Jardine was one of those tasked, in moonlight and aided by Florencia, to identify the best rooftop location from which rifle fire could enfilade the soldiers as they marched out to do battle with their enemies; what machine guns they had captured were kept for use on the barricades.

  And there were the conferences, of which they were thankfully not a part, though what was discussed was disseminated; the officials of the Catalan government wanted to be in control, the various left factions equally determined they should not be bound by the politicians, especially the anarchists, who held as a principle the need for individual responsibility and the right to choose.

  The small communist party, the PCE, backed the government on the grounds of the need for central political control of the forthcoming fight; the Trotskyists of the POUM faction opposed that motion just because the lackeys of Moscow insisted it was essential.

  As reported, they talked and argued and shouted and stormed out, only to be dragged back to the negotiating table – sometimes, apparently, too willingly for their objections to be taken seriously, but eventually a consensus emerged: there would be a general plan, an outline, but each faction would control its own fighters in an agreed tactical area; basically they would take on the army unit by unit and try to keep them from coming together, not an outstanding strategic goal, but a workable one.

  As the sky to the east was tinged with the first hint of light, the sun was about to arise on a huge city in which nothing was moving in the streets, though tongues were still furiously wagging in the various outposts, given agreement was never arrived at. Vince led his boys to the agreed location, now with rifles and sporting black and red armbands, to the place they had been allotted to fight, overlooking the gates of the massive Parque Barracks.

  In there, as well as in the other military locations, the soldiers were being fed enough rum to give them the courage their officers did not think they would need; how could mere workers and peasants stand up to the regular soldiers of the Spanish army?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Laporta and his fellow leaders were not behind barricades as the troops prepared to emerge; they were observing the great double gates of the barracks as the lead units of the infantry regiments appeared, proud officers first on tall gleaming mounts, unsheathed swords at their shoulders, the troops marching behind them in column, wearing forage caps instead of steel helmets, in between each company the carts carrying their ammunition and the equipment for the machine gun and mortar sections.

  ‘Pigs!’ Florencia yelled, shaking her fist, from the position that had been selected on the rooftops.

  ‘That’ll scare them, luv.’

  Vince had responded with deep irony, pleased that he got a glare no less ferocious than that aimed at the army. She looked at Cal to put him in his place, getting in response only a grim smile through stubble and tired eyes; his old army chum was not a man you easily put down.

  Her anger and a pout made her look damned alluring and rendered it doubly galling he had not been able to get back to the Ritz; quite apart from his present thoughts, a clean shirt and a shave would have been welcome. Time to concentrate on examining the enemy, which he did through a pair of binoculars she had acquired.

  From a distance they looked impressive in their grey-green uniforms and the initially tidy formations of four-abreast columns; eyed through magnification it was a different story. Cal Jardine saw neither of the two attributes which might induce caution, if not downright apprehension: either the steady gaze of the professional warrior at ease with the prospect of battle or the fiery glare of the right-wing zealot.

  Such an attitude was palpably present in the group that brought up the rear, individuals in dark-blue shirts, young and steely-eyed, staring straight ahead with a look of grim determination, the lead cohort carrying a flag with the yoke and arrows device of Spain’s only openly fascist movement, the Falange.

  Made up of mostly young middle-class men, as soon as the insurrec
tion was announced, they had rushed to support the army, or, as Florencia had it, scurried like mice into the safety of the barracks to avoid being strung up to a lamppost.

  Apart from their numbers, they could be discounted; such youths were irregulars and, if by reputation murderous, no more to be feared in close combat than any other untrained body. The soldiers before them held the key to what was about to occur and they, in the main, were surreptitiously glancing right and left in a manner that implied trepidation, while the lack of a high standard of discipline was soon apparent as their ranks lost a fair amount of cohesion.

  Like most military establishments there was a lot of clear ground in front of the barrack gates, not just for pageantry but a must in any country with a history of revolt. In this case it was a parade ground forming one part of a spacious plaza. There was no attempt to immediately deploy; it was clear the officers were heading with determination straight for the city centre.

  The small band of anarchist skirmishers placed close to the walls sought to make their exit as uncomfortable as possible, seeking to pick off the odd target, especially those mounted fools too arrogant to foot-slog with their men. That they succeeded twice, and that those they missed refused to dismount, pointed to a conceit bordering on folly.

  There was no wisdom in what was happening; the man in command must have known their opponents were waiting for them and that their march to the centre would not happen unopposed, which must entail street fighting. If an army is poorly trained to fight a conventional war, it is doubly at a disadvantage when it comes to combat in a built-up area, which would become obvious once they sought to exit the open ground.

  Such fighting requires tight battlefield control, a clear understanding between leaders and the led, more individual initiative and a high degree of application in tactical and weapon skills. It was obvious the men in command were hoping – or were they even convinced? – that numbers alone, the mere sight of marching troops, would overawe the workers of Barcelona, which fitted exactly Cal’s nostrum delivered to Laporta the day before about not underestimating your enemy.

  There had been no overnight reconnaissance, no probing of possible resistance to test the workers’ strength, which would then allow for the use of alternatives, like moves to outwit those waiting to engage them in battle by the use of small mobile teams. There had to be more than one entrance to such an extensive barracks complex, yet they were massed and coming out of the main gate! Runners were already out, sent to the far-off barricades to denude the positions of most of their men so that they could be concentrated to meet the soldiers head-on.

  Cal had elected to keep Vince and all of his athletes on the rooftops; without both training and Spanish they were as likely to be shot by their friends as their enemies. They had carried up a sack full of dynamite, sticks that, once fused, had been kept in a cool cellar to avoid them sweating their nitroglycerine. They were being kept in the shade on the roofs for the same reason, for the sun would soon be full up and handling such unstable objects was fraught with risk.

  From such a vantage point Cal had a panoramic view of the military stupidity unfolding before him, and it was on both sides. The workers’ militias, at a rush, emerged far too quickly, attacking the marching column with neither order nor fear, bringing them to a halt certainly, before they were forced to fall back from a badly coordinated fusillade, which nevertheless left the plaza dotted with bodies, some writhing, most still.

  The infantry then began to manoeuvre, with no shortage of confusion, from column to line, fixing bayonets for an attack, every shouted order floating up in the warm air. Cal was shaking his head in disbelief. Surely, even the most dense military brain must first look to secure the integrity of the plaza.

  It was essential to observe the high surrounding buildings and assume the rooftops would have riflemen, the answer to take them first while holding off the ground assault. With the advantage gained, the soldiers would be able to enfilade the area and seriously disrupt any further attacks from the workers’ militias.

  Like most spacious plazas it had, leading off it, a number of streets, some wide and sunlit, others narrow and dark. Strong parties should have been detached to secure those and close them off to guarantee the integrity of the position before any advance, making sure the flanks were secure by sealing off all the exits except the one by which they wished to move towards the city centre! Failing that, they should have at least set up machine guns or mortars to turn every avenue and alleyway into a potential death trap for any forces concentrated there who might try to get behind them.

  ‘Not too good,’ Vince whispered in Cal’s ear as they observed the endless attempts of the Spanish NCOs to properly dress the untidy line. ‘I don’t think we’re going to see Trooping the Colour, guv.’

  ‘It’s a mess, Vince, but have a gander at the bloke in command.’

  Cal passed over the binoculars and watched as Vince focused in on the fat sod he had indicated, sat on his charger, huffing and puffing in frustration, his sword twitching as though he was dying to run through one of his own men as an example. Red-faced and with bulbous eyes, he reminded Cal Jardine of the military donkeys he had met too often in the British army, aged majors and colonels full of grub and port, erroneously too sure of their own military genius to be left in charge of a pisspot, never mind a company or regiment.

  Their sole function in life, when not making the life of their juniors a misery, seemed set on blocking any chance of promotion for anyone with half an unaddled brain. He had often said that his leaving of the army was due to such idiots and there was some truth in the level of frustration he had felt, but the final straw that had him sending in his papers had been the indiscriminate bombing of Iraqi villages and the killing of women and children under the banner of putting down an Arab insurrection.

  He had been part of an army with tanks, trucks and artillery, plus a vast advantage in firepower, facing committed insurgents with rifles, and still they could not prevail, for their enemies had possessed a willingness to die for that in which they believed. The Arabs felt betrayed by a combination of powers, French and British, who had promised them full self-determination when seeking their aid in throwing off their Turkish overlords, only to find they had a new oppressor when the Great War guns fell silent.

  The excuses to mask what was naked greed were not long in coming. The locals were no good at governance; left alone the area would descend into chaos. In truth, the sandy desert was rich in oil. His had been a lone voice in the mess when it came to condemnation of both the enforcement of the League of Nations mandate, something to which the unrepresented Arabs had not been allowed to object, and of the methods of control, most tellingly the bombing – to most of his fellow soldiers, officers and other ranks, airmen included, it had been the proper way to make war on folk they saw as lesser mortals.

  The overweight bugger Vince was examining had, no doubt, exactly the same attitude: the men and women opposing him were scum; he was an officer, a gentleman and he had a God-given right to both his position and the blood he was sure he was about to spill. Maybe if he had had good troops under him he might have succeeded; he did not, he had command of what was now, clearly, a uniformed rabble.

  ‘They’re getting ready to move,’ Vince said, passing the binoculars back.

  ‘At least set up your machine guns,’ Cal spat, exasperated.

  ‘You sound as if you want them to win.’

  ‘You know me, Vince, I’m all heart.’

  As in all fights, the people who did battle on the side of the Republican government only saw the action before their eyes, and for what happened elsewhere that Sunday a severe filter to boasting was required to sort fact from fiction, yet the nature of this fight seemed to have been replicated throughout. Released from any other care, the workers of Barcelona, both sexes, in their hundreds outside the Parque Barracks, in their thousands throughout the city, inflicted total defeat on the army over a long and sultry day of continuous combat.<
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  Every military column was halted and very often quickly thrown back. Others were forced to seek shelter themselves by throwing up hasty barricades or retreating into buildings in which they became besieged. On the ground, it was the sheer fury of the counter-attacks; from the rooftops the riflemen could pick their targets early and thin the advancing units, while others rained down on them home-made bombs that caused numerous casualties as they pressed forward.

  In the plaza below the Olympians, once the soldiers eventually began a slow advance, they marched into a maelstrom. Having driven off the initial assault, their officers no doubt thought progress would be easy. They had no idea of the numbers they now faced or the arms they possessed and, having made no attempt to find out, they, as well as the men they led, paid a prohibitive price.

  Vince had the discus thrower from the Olympiad hurling the dynamite sticks on which he had trimmed and lit the fuses, causing more confusion than casualties given the distance from landing to flesh, but once the massed workers had debouched from the various side streets, they had to desist, for they risked killing their own, now a dense and screaming mass hurling themselves forward.

  The infantry were first checked by that, then driven into a disordered retreat, many throwing down their weapons – those, and this was risible in the midst of a bloody battle, to be embraced by folk who had been intent on killing them a few seconds before, while another comrade snatched up their weapon and turned it on their fellows.

  No such leniency was afforded the Falange blueshirts, exposed by the break-up of the rankers who had shielded them. It had to be admitted they sought no mercy, fighting with as much fervour as those they faced, killing many, but eventually either forced to retreat or die. The Spanish officers were glad of their horses, which gave them the speed to escape certain slaughter, and if it shamed them to abandon their men, there was little evidence of it.