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 insurrection 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.