He was stopped on the outskirts by militiamen checking his papers, with deep suspicion very evident, which did not surprise him; one of the things he had heard on the radio was an early claim from General Mola, who was in command of the assault on the capital, that, as well as the four columns which had advanced on Madrid, he had what he called a ‘fifth column’ inside the city, creating a scare in which innocents risked being shot as suspected spies.
Once in the city the noise of battle was constant, and as well as the whining sound of shells coming in, then the boom of them exploding, there was the distant rattle of gunnery, volley fire from small arms and the occasional staccato sound of a machine gun.
Planes were in the air, but not many, and they were mostly Russian biplanes on patrol, but he had passed several bombed buildings and one street closed off, in which a downed Italian bomber lay wrecked and twisted. He could feel on his tongue the dust that permeated everything in an urban battle area and see in the faces of those he drove past that etched look of fear which comes from not knowing if the next bullet, shell or bomb is meant for you.
With lots of time to think there was one thing Cal Jardine knew: if he was about to get involved in the fighting — very likely, given Florencia — he did not want to be part of anything structured, a member of a militia or some International Brigade. All he wanted was to find out where the anarchist forces were fighting, which was where she would be, and get alongside her.
That way he might be able to keep her alive, for try as he had, he could think of no way to detach her from her cause; she had grown up with it and it had formed a large part of her life. In his heart he knew that as long as the battle went on she would want to be in the thick of it, and by extension, so would he. Buying arms, even if he doubted it was truly possible, could wait till the fate of Madrid was decided.
With darkness falling he made straight for the Hotel Florida on the very good grounds that she might well be using it as a base. Besides that, if she was not, the war reporters would know as much about what was going on as anyone, and he trusted Tyler Alverson, as he had already, to keep tabs on her location if he could.
Not that it was easy: he kept getting stopped at checkpoints and his papers were getting tattered from being so often examined. As well as that, many of the streets were being used as sheep and cattle pens and those he suspected owned the animals had set up shelters in which to live. By the time he got to the hotel it was clear, by the diminishing noise level, that, as darkness fell, the fighting was slacking off.
The room, when he got to it, was empty, with no evidence that she had been back since he left, and that was a worry, yet he had to avoid the temptation to just go looking. With his limited Spanish and obvious foreignness, even if he did have papers, he was safer at the Florida until he knew what was going on. Albeit under a fine layer of dust and a skeleton staff, the hotel was still functioning, but there was scant evidence of any of the reporters.
Yet there was food in the kitchens, no doubt bought from the streets he had passed through, and, of course, wine in the cellars. He treated himself to some Castilian lamb and a good bottle from the best Spanish region and bodega he knew, a Vega Sicilia Unico from Ribera del Duero. If he was going to get involved in this war it would be a long time before he would get anything as good.
He was in the bar when the first of the reporters began to troop back in from a day of observation, which got him many a dusty look from grimy hacks who were both hungry and thirsty, one of whom was Tyler Alverson who, grubby as he was, shouted for a beer and flopped down on a chair next to Cal.
‘Don’t ask till I’ve had a drink.’
‘Bad?’
Alverson just shook his head and picked up the cold beer, drinking deeply, paused for one breath, then emptied the glass. Cal immediately ordered another.
‘The Foreign Legion took the San Fernando Bridge this morning and got into the University district, though by Christ it cost them plenty.’
‘Worth it,’ Cal replied, his heart sinking; he was wondering how, when the commanders must have known the river bridges had to be held whatever the cost, they had allowed one to be lost. ‘Florencia?’
‘She’s some dame,’ Alverson added. ‘A dinamitera.’
‘We had those in Barcelona.’
‘She throws a mean grenade.’
‘I need to get to her, Tyler. Is she still in the Casa de Campo?’
‘The bit they still hold, which ain’t going to be much. That’s the other place the Regulares attacked. I’ll take you there in the morning.’
‘Not now?’
Alverson shook his head as though the suggestion was absurd. ‘You don’t go far after dark, and certainly not towards the front. There are too many trigger-happy guys out there just itching to shoot at anything that moves.’ He looked at Jardine keenly. ‘You haven’t heard about the Model Prison?’
‘No. I’ve been out of touch with news, on the road.’
‘This one won’t be on the radio, unless the Nationalists get hold of it. Some of our finest went to the Model Prison, evacuated the inmates to some place further east and massacred them as potential spies. They say there are hundreds of bodies in a mass grave.’
‘How could they be spies when they were in prison?’
‘Blame that stupid bastard Mola, him and his goddam fifth column.’ Alverson called for another beer. ‘He’s got everybody looking at everybody else like they’re traitors.’
‘He has to have some friends in the city.’
‘They’ve either gone or are in hiding. I gotta eat something. You?’
‘Been there, but I’ll join you and you can bring me up to date.’
What Cal Jardine heard was a sorry tale; the militias were suffering badly and, as he suspected, tanks, artillery and heavy weapons were often not committed, though Alverson insisted it was because of scarcity more than politics.
‘No, brother, the soldiers and airmen are doing their best. The politics are here in the city centre and it runs right to the top. Caballero tried to get the POUM into his government after the anarchists joined, but the Soviet ambassador vetoed that idea, no doubt on orders from Moscow. If Joe Stalin hates anything it’s a Trotskyite, so it was no POUM or no more weapons.’
Talking as he ate, it did not get any better; the communists had taken over security, the Civil Guard had been purged and the Assault Guard sent to Valencia, while suspected opponents were being rounded up by NKVD-led patrols. Yet in amongst the gloom, Alverson had positives, not least the way the madrilenos had responded to the threat to their city.
‘Every hand was put to the pump, Cal — women and kids carrying rocks for barricades, men digging trenches, not a factory that did not have its own militia unit. The pity is they do not have enough weapons, and then only small arms. But they don’t hold back, they attack even when they know they can’t win.’
‘That I have seen before.’
‘I don’t know whether to pity them or just admire them.’
‘Can they hold, Tyler?’
‘I’m no military man, Cal, but unless they get reinforcements I think it might be time to light out.’
‘Not without Florencia.’
‘That struck, eh? I wish you luck, brother.’ Just then there was a bellow, another American voice shouting for food and drink, which brought one unnecessary word from Alverson. ‘Ernie.’ Surprisingly he waved Hemingway over, then reacted to the look he got from his companion. ‘He might be a pain in the ass but he’s one hell of a reporter. Ask him if they can hold.’
The man’s dark hair and moustache seemed full of the same kind of dust that lay everywhere, and when he sat down it was clear he was weary, and there was silence until he had a tall glass in front of him, whisky of some kind mixed with water, which he drank from deeply. Then he nodded to Cal.