‘The bodies that have been gi’en officer’s rank are no a bit like you or Vince,’ Jock added. ‘Some ’o them seem right mental.’
‘And the rest of your brigade is not like you, Jock. It will be you teaching them how to fire a rifle now, and if they’ve got any sense they will promote you.’
‘Fat bloody chance.’
Politics apart, that was another reason to leave, albeit there was an element of guilt at abandoning what he saw as ‘his boys’. The command structure was chaotic, and from what he had observed, as had Jock, the senior positions in the brigades went to only two types: megalomaniacs and high-ranking communists — sometimes they were both — and what he had observed of the standard of training, if it could even be graced with such a term, was pandemonium, which was worrying given that they might be pitched into battle before they were ready, as the Republic was still losing on all fronts.
‘I might not even stay in Spain, Jock.’
‘Away, yer lassie will’na let ye go.’
‘Another reason for going back to Aragon, yes?’
‘No a bad yin, aw the same.’
‘Take care of the rest of the boys, Jock; you are the best soldier, you know that, and they look up to you.’
That produced a blush on the square face, highlighting, as it flared, his heavy acne, the smile that followed showing his uneven teeth. Then it was time to shake the others by the hand and depart, with a silent hope that whatever they faced they would survive.
He never returned to the Saragossa Front, finding, when he stopped off in Barcelona, as he had said he would, not just Florencia in the city but Juan Luis Laporta as well. As soon as he checked back into the Ritz — they had stored his luggage — both, alerted by some member of the hotel staff, arrived to see him, she very welcome, he much less so.
It was soon made obvious they had left the monastery headquarters seething with tension: the anarchists were furious at being denied the better weapons distributed to Drecker’s cadres, despite repeated requests, and it was the same for the other political groups, including those in Barcelona and Madrid.
The Partido Comunista controlled the distribution of Soviet equipment, and even the non-fighting communists in the rear areas were better armed than their rivals on the fighting fronts, while what had come in with the weaponry was even less welcome to the likes of Laporta: Soviet advisors who behaved as if they were dealing with idiots.
When that was advanced Cal could not but agree with the assessment, even if he could accept such condescension was unwelcome, for, if such advisors were anything like the ones he had met in Albacete, they would not, as he had tried to do since his first dust-up with Laporta, temper their advice with a sugar coating.
He had heard counterclaims in Albacete for the communists, incensed about the way they claimed the anarchists, who controlled the border with France, were denying entry to any party member trying to cross into Spain to join the International Brigades; it was all part of the fabric of endemic mistrust which permeated the Republican cause.
At the same time, it seemed to Cal, no one was doing much to fight the real enemy. When he enquired about the progress in Aragon it transpired there had been none — the Barcelona militias were still stuck outside Saragossa, the only thing of significance being that Drecker and his men, with their superior equipment, had left for Madrid, now threatened with four columns advancing on the city from Burgos, Toledo and two from Badajoz.
Try as he might, Cal could not shift the conversation to the state of the Republican forces and the manifest threats they faced, which made the conversation surreal; there was, to him, in the political bickering, an element that he mentally likened to fiddling while Rome burnt.
‘As long as the communist pigs control the supply of weapons,’ Laporta insisted, banging on, sticking to the same topic, ‘they will use them to strengthen their position.’
As would you, thought Cal, as he yawned, having had a long day of travelling. He was also wondering when they could stop all this, if he could eat with Florencia and if Juan Luis would ever tire of the subject and disappear so they could be alone.
‘And they will do so completely now the government has sent most of our gold reserves to Moscow.’
‘What!’ Weary as he was, when Laporta said that it woke him up. ‘Why in God’s name did they do that?’
It was Florencia who replied, ‘Who else will sell us the guns we need?’
‘France will not, as we had hoped,’ Laporta added, once she had explained to him what she had just said. ‘And as for you British …’
‘Don’t blame me, my friend.’
It came to Cal later that in the pause that followed, and with the looks the pair exchanged, the conversation had come to the real reason they were here, and it was Florencia who first dipped her toe.
‘You know about these things, querido, you have told me. Where else could we buy weapons that we can control?’
Just then the phone rang and Cal went to pick it up, listened for a second, then said, ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’
‘Yes you are,’ Florencia snapped, rushing over to take it out of his hand and spouting fast and furious Spanish. Having learnt quite a bit in the last weeks, Cal understood ‘send him up’.
‘Send whom up?’
‘Andreu Nin,’ she replied, putting the phone down, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘The leader of the Workers’ Party of Marxist Unification.’
‘We have invited him to meet with you,’ Laporta added. ‘On a matter of grave concern.’
‘Get back on the phone,’ Cal said wearily; this was not going to end soon, for when this lot started talking, never mind arguing, time lost all meaning. ‘Order up some food.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘I’m not sure I can do what you want.’ Cal said that while aiming a jaundiced look at Florencia, who was too prone to putting him forward for things, albeit he knew it was his own fault for telling her too much about his past. ‘And I certainly could not do it without money, and lot’s of it.’
‘And if you had money?’ asked Florencia.
‘Let me explain to you about what you have to do to buy weapons.’
Cal had to pause then for a knock at the door, which he opened to find a waiter and a trolley with food for everyone, as well as beers and bottles of wine, a sight so redolent of peacetime it was hard to think there was a war going on, that there were armed men on every Barcelona corner and he went nowhere himself without his pistol. Having wheeled the trolley in, the waiter began to lay things out until Florencia, rudely, told him to leave it and depart.
‘He’s only doing his job,’ Cal said as the door shut behind him.
‘No man should be a lackey to another,’ she snapped.
‘I’ll remember that when we’re in bed.’
She began to go red, until she recalled that the other two men present did not understand English. Florencia then proceeded to deny her own words by doing for the trio of menfolk the task the waiter had been about to carry out, setting the plates, distributing food and pouring wine and beer, translating as Cal talked; her mother would have been proud of her.
‘First you have to find somebody willing to sell, and that is not easy. Then, if it’s a government, you need from them an End User Certificate to say where the weapons are going and to what purpose they will be put.’
He had to pause and explain that further, which took time with Florencia translating. Then there was the fact that the certificate could, in some circumstances, be circumvented by bribery. Some countries were more interested in the money than any morality. By all means kill your own citizens, even fight people we call allies, as long as we get the gold and they do not find out.