‘What aboot the Spaniards, like, Mr Jardine?’ asked one of the Geordies.
‘They are coming behind us, when they have got themselves organised.’
‘Organised?’ came the heavily accented Geordie response. ‘Ha’way, man, they divn’t ken the meaning o’ the word.’
‘Right,’ Vince called, ‘let’s get moving and no more talking.’
You cannot blame young and inexperienced lads for being excitable and a lot of the time was spent hushing them up, but once more, in such a situation, you can observe those who take the whole thing seriously, not joking with each other, but keeping themselves alert to possible dangers, and they are the ones you want to give responsibility. When the chance presented itself, both the pros took the time to show individuals where to look for tree-felling charges, first the larger one that would blast open the trunk, then the secondary explosion which, going off a fraction later, would ensure the tree fell the right way towards the road.
Not that there were any, nor, for a long time, was there evidence that the men fleeing the town had come this way. It was one of the two lads on point, in this case Jock, holding up his hand and immediately crouching down, who first indicated some kind of threat, which led Cal and Vince to move forward from the position further to the rear where they were seeking to contain the exuberance of some of their charges – an inability to avoid whispered banter – all now silent and on their haunches. Once they joined the signaller they could see clearly the four large lengths of mature pine that lay across the road.
The first thing Cal looked for was the stumps from which they had been felled, even in the gloom of the deep forest a stark white, the angle of the face showing they had been brought down by axes, not explosives; not surprising, for that would have been heard in the town where they had bivouacked.
Given there had been no evidence of any laid charges through the parts they had already traversed it seemed unlikely they faced any threat from the rear, quite apart from the fact they were on foot; if there was a trap set it was for the motorised column, not those who could just leave the road and retreat through the trees.
‘Just a hold-up to help them get clear?’ Vince suggested.
‘Probably. They had no idea Laporta would stop.’
‘How do we check it out?’
The question implicit in that was about the rawness of their recruits and whether the possibility of real danger existed, not a thing you could ever be a hundred per cent sure about. For them to lead a recce into the depth of the trees carried a risk, but here again was a chance to engage in a practical exercise. If he had been up against a wholly professional foe, one who could not only conceal themselves but also stay still and hidden, it would have been out of the question. But he was not; even the Civil Guard would not have been trained in the requisite tactics for this kind of scenario.
‘Bring up the rifle squads one at a time.’
That took a while and was achieved in silence with finger and hand signals – each squad was now numbered – and if there had been any temptation to banter it was suppressed by their uncertainty about what was about to be asked of them, this while Jardine, just in case, ranged his eyes over the forest ahead looking for tiny signs of movement, a branch being twitched, a rifle muzzle jerking; even for highly trained troops it was hard for a large party of men to stay absolutely still. The more he looked, the more he was convinced there was no danger.
When Vince had them gathered, Cal dropped back slightly to a point where they could observe the obstacle but be in a position to quickly fall back, and explained quietly what they faced, having first pointed out those starkly white tree stumps and what could be read from them. With the ground rising to one side, that was the most likely spot to set your shooters, given it gave dominance over the killing zone and slowed any counter-attacking force obliged to move uphill.
Not that you could assume – that was stupid, he continued. Both sides had to be checked but any ambush could only be set to one side of the road; not to do so was to risk killing your own men once the bullets started flying. The way to check it out was simple – three squads would be left as support, while the others would be led into the woods at a right angle, then forward in extended order moving from tree to tree.
Selecting the two who would play out what had been proposed presented a problem; he needed to leave Vince in charge of the main body, just in case his assumptions proved false. So he took one squad on the left-hand route and gave young Jock from the Broxburn mines charge of the other, on balance the less likely to pose a risk. When they moved out there was no joshing; they took it seriously, moving in near-silence, careful where they placed their feet.
The sudden sound of breaking undergrowth was instructive; every one of Cal’s party immediately sought cover and aimed their weapons towards the source of the noise, for there was nothing to see until the wild boar showed itself between two patches of thick bush. That was enough for Cal, who already had his rifle at his cheek, the muzzle moving slightly ahead of the rushing game, habit for a man who had shot pheasant and grouse, as well as been taken stag hunting by his father in the Highlands.
The single shot took the animal in the head and dropped it, the sound echoing through the forest. Slowly he moved forward, another bullet in the chamber, for a boar was a dangerous animal and not always alone, followed by his extremely curious squad of lads, to stand over the twitching body of the wild pig.
‘That’s dinner taken care of,’ Cal said, well aware that the presence of the beast was a sure sign there were no other humans present. ‘We need a runner to go back and bring on the others.’
Bernard the marathon man was only too keen to volunteer.
By the time the first trucks arrived, the slow armour-plated van first, the animal had been gutted and tied onto a pole, the sight enough to give Laporta another discipline problem: half his men wanted to go hunting for what was a highly appreciated local dish. Cal did not bother to explain that them blundering about in the woods would drive every boar into hiding, and if they got close, especially if there were piglets around, it might be them that suffered and not the animals.
Using ropes, the route was cleared and within an hour they were on their way, soon once more in open rolling country following a depressing route of destruction as, in farmhouse after farmhouse and village after village, they found houses destroyed and people either shot or hung from trees, with the mood of the column getting increasingly gloomy and resentful, the desire for bloody revenge building at every incident, even if they were unsure which side had done the individual deeds – some of those farmhouses might have been gutted by peasants.
The bigger landowners in every case, and the priests in most, had fled with the Falange and, when survivors were questioned, it was clear that to the present squad of Civil Guards had been added others, though not all. In one small town they found that the local semi-military policemen, having sided with those they lived amongst, had been the victims, not the perpetrators.
Nothing signified more the confusion that was to become commonplace than their half-dozen uniformed bodies crumpled against the wall where they had been shot. They, at least, had been given the last rites by a priest who, Cal was told, having tried to protect his flock, was lucky to survive.
Little time was spent in such places by the main body – enough to establish the strength of the fleeing enemy and to issue a few consoling words. Then they were back on the road and making good progress.