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.