‘Do we know the level of the enemy forces in Saragossa?’
‘Madrid say it is being held by disloyal army units, with a force of Carlists on the way from Navarre to help them hold it.’
Fired by religion, which was what bound them to both the cause of the generals and, historically, that of Don Carlos, a junior member of the monarchical House of Bourbon, the Carlists would be as fanatical as the Falange. The people of Navarre had fought two full and bloody wars against the Spanish government, and launched several insurrections that had lasted over forty years. Whatever else they were militarily, they were not quitters.
‘Then the best thing you can do is get there as quickly as possible, that is, before they do.’
‘Disobey him?’
‘Has he ordered you to stop and consolidate?’
‘No.’
‘Then I have given you my advice. You can also demand that Villabova support you.’
Laporta got up from the desk, came round, and embraced Cal. That was acceptable; the great smacking kiss on the cheek was not and the Spaniard was forcibly pushed away, Cal sitting down to avoid repetition.
‘But for the love of God, before we move any further, get hold of some maps.’
While they continued talking, neither had noticed that Florencia had edged towards the door — she had heard a voice they had not — opening it a fraction and putting her ear to the crack. After a few moments, she waved an impatient hand at Cal and gestured that he should come to join her; his lifted eyebrows and glance at Laporta only made her cross, so he nodded to Juan Luis and slipped out of his chair. Invited to put his ear to the door, he could hear what he thought was Manfred Drecker’s voice, but it was incomprehensible.
‘Querido,’ Florencia whispered, pushing the door till the crack disappeared. ‘That bastard Drecker is on the phone to one of his slimy friends and he is telling him how he and his communists took the town by crossing the canal downstream and attacking it from the rear.’
‘What?’
That got him a finger to her lips and the door was opened a crack again, ear to it, her face screwed up, but Cal had heard enough. He grabbed the handle and pulled it open, seeing Drecker with his back to him talking on the phone, fag in the air, his voice emphatic and before him some kind of map-like drawing, obviously so engrossed he had not heard. Florencia had come to join him and then Laporta appeared in the open doorway, and now it was Cal’s turn to call for silence.
It could only have been the feeling of eyes on his back that made the communist turn round, the look he gave the trio one of unadulterated loathing. Quickly he spoke into the phone, Cal surmised to say he would call back, then slowly put it down, picking up and folding the paper he had laid on the table.
‘Herr Drecker, can I ask you what that call was about?’
‘Why would it be any of your business, Herr Jardine?’
‘Florencia tells me that you are claiming to have undertaken the task carried out by the men I led, that you are in fact claiming to have taken the town.’
If it was true, and Cal thought it very much so — for why would Florencia lie? — Drecker seemed unabashed. ‘I am engaged, Herr Jardine, in the very necessary task of giving the people the news of the victory of the forces of the left over the fascists.’
‘My victory,’ Cal snapped, then jerked his head, ‘as well as that of Juan Luis, his men and mine. From what I saw of your men on the way here, they do not look as if they have been fighting at all.’
‘They were held in reserve.’
‘Far enough back, I suppose, not to even get dust on their boots, while others died.’
‘That is of no importance. What is important is that the people read that the forces opposing the general and their lackeys have gained an important success.’
‘Read? You were talking to a newspaper?’
‘I was talking to the organ of my party and they will spread the news.’
‘That will spread a lie.’
Drecker smiled, a cold thin-lipped expression that reminded Cal of a particularly supercilious schoolmaster he had endured, one who never ever accepted he could be in the wrong, then spun on his heel to leave, his words delivered over one shoulder.
‘The cause for which we fight does not need truth, Herr Jardine, what it requires is the right propaganda targeted at the needs of the cause, words that will make the proletariat rise up and fight.’
Complaining to Laporta did not achieve much, he just shrugged and suggested you could expect no less from such a canaille; it was months before Cal Jardine found out that he had done exactly the same as Drecker, phoning in to the anarchist newspapers in Barcelona an account of the column’s progress and the battle for Albatarrec which made no mention of foreign Olympians, but extolled the furious bravery of his own men and their indifference to losses. Communists were likewise not mentioned.
The column pulled out as the heat went out of the sun in the late afternoon, this time at least aware of both the name and distance to their next stopping point, a village where they found that, unlike previous encounters, their enemy had not stopped to exact a blood price, but had driven straight through without halting. During the night, a motorcycle messenger arrived with a set of maps, querulous because, as Florencia explained, he had not thought he would have to come so far.
Under lantern light Cal studied the maps, seeking to establish the places where between their present position and Saragossa the Falangists could stop to make a stand, none of which, unless they were reinforced, he thought they could hold. Not that he discounted the possibility of meeting stronger opposition — where had the cannon the column now possessed come from?
Speed was the key, giving them no time to settle and build defences, and if they could get to Saragossa and it was lightly held, the city might be taken back by a quick coup. The same map showed why such a recapture was important: Saragossa stood on the Ebro, the largest river in Spain, and it served as an important rail and road communication centre in all directions, especially north and south. It was thus a vital artery for the lateral movement of troops.
It was also a vital connection for the Republic to the north-west of Spain, to the provinces of Cantabrica, the Asturias, as well as the Basque region and Galicia; held, and the corridor extended to the Atlantic Coast, it would also cut off the Carlists of Navarre from the Nationalist centres of Burgos and Valladolid. More importantly, it blocked the road south to Madrid.
The next few days took on the nature of a race, with constant reports sent back to Colonel Villabova naming the places taken and bypassed, with requests that he support the Barcelona column. Finally they arrived before the walls of Saragossa, to find it held by a force strong enough to repulse their first feeble attack; how could it be anything else with nothing but waves of human bodies to throw at the defences and only one piece of artillery?
Worse, there was no sign of any support, and by the time Villabova was persuaded of his error in taking territory instead of towns, it was too late to effect even a siege that stood any chance of success. Worse, the defenders, reinforced, were not content to stay within the confines of the city; they came out to fight and in numbers that drove the Republican forces back until the battle lines sank into a rigidity that lasted weeks, while around the country things went from bad to worse for the Republican cause. Communications, being in touch with the rear areas and news of what was happening elsewhere, turned into a mixed blessing.
The advantage, as it had from the outset, lay with the rebellious generals, the only hope of an immediate collapse the possibility of a divided army command — that the generals would fall out amongst themselves. Such a possibility was dashed when it seemed they had settled on the former army chief of staff, General Francisco Franco, to lead them.