A nod. ‘Then let’s try it.’

‘How many rounds, Vince?’

‘Three rapid, but you have to tell them the target and where it is.’

Vince addressed them all, his hand, jabbing like an axe, pointing in the direction of the mound, with Jock watching him intently.

‘It’s a small hill and you’ve got to keep the heads down of anybody up there; a kill is a bonus, so you’re aimin’ for the line where the earth joins the sky. Furthest left takes furthest left and so on across to the right, which falls to the last man. Tommy, Ed, once you are in position stay in sight of your squad leader if possible, and when he signals the movement of the next pair of runners, your task is to split the defensive fire. Everybody clear?’

The nodding was less than hearty, and if what followed in dumbshow looked impressive to Florencia – especially the speed at which the boys moved over about twenty-five yards of ground – it was less so to Cal and Vince, who knew that much of what they were saying and seeking to impart was massively oversimplified.

Tactics were things you worked on again and again, not once or twice. It took months to properly train an infantryman, not a morning or a few days, and then they had to learn to work as part of a single unit, before combining to become an element of an effective company, going through the various stages of dumbshow – firing blanks and harmless explosions – to the actual experience of the sound of live fire. This lot would have, he suspected, to learn on the job, but at least they were fit, which was not the case with any new recruit he had ever encountered.

Young Jock did a reasonable job of orchestrating the supposed firefight, a bit messy but promising. He had to be told to order an immediate reload, never just leave it, never to assume, to always give the necessary orders even to trained men, to keep a check on your ammunition levels because the worst thing you can do is to get into a situation where you find you are in peril and running low.

‘Right,’ Vince called to the other groups of ten, who had been watching. ‘Let’s see how you do.’

The next sermon, given by Cal, was about the need when moving forward to use cover, and if that was sparse, to seek to avoid standing upright, making a particular point about the excellent protection afforded by the seemingly ubiquitous drystone walls. Using them was not always possible, nor was it always the case that you knew you had an enemy to root out, so it was essential if you had to move quickly over open ground not to bunch up, but to advance in extended order.

In another situation – broken ground, woods or approaching a building – two men should scout forward covered by their mates. If a threat developed, think about what support you can call on, like heavier weaponry, before advancing. Was it essential that the position be taken? What about going round, which could be as good as going through?

Sat in a circle they listened as it was drummed home that a good squad commander never left anything to chance, supervised every move and issued continuous hand and verbal instructions, while always looking for ways to use his men to maximum effect, as well as seeking to minimise casualties when attempting to take an enemy position. Cal did not say that sometimes it was not possible; you don’t.

Regardless of what he had said to Florencia, still watching and listening, he had no intention of letting these kids operate on their own in squads – in time, yes, if they were granted that and it was necessary, but not immediately; yet the purpose of the training was the hope that it might produce leaders who would grow quickly into the role and to minimise losses from any sudden contact. More importantly, and the key to effectiveness, was to accustom the boys they led to obey orders unquestioningly.

‘Right,’ he said finally, looking skywards at the sun, now well risen and approaching its zenith. ‘Time to get in the shade.’

‘And eat,’ Vince added. ‘Can we use some of the rations we brought with us, guv? There’s not much spare left in the town.’

As they made their way back to the main square, the truth of Vince’s words was on the faces of those whom they passed, the folk who had survived the recent terror; true, the approach of the anarchist column had driven the murderers away and saved the town from further torture and death, but now they were finding that their liberators, not having moved on and needing to be fed, watered and accommodated, were as much of a burden as the fascists.

Their attitude did not help either: Laporta’s men had a swagger about them, the confidence of the victors of Barcelona. Added to that they were urban workers, atheists to a man, many of them seriously uncouth, now occupying a rural settlement where their city manners, political beliefs and their disdain for religion were anathema. Also, if the area surrounding was well watered and fertile, following on from the previous depredations and the subsequent loss of livestock and grain, it was not so blessed as to accommodate the needs of five hundred hungry souls.

Cal Jardine was awoken from another snooze by the sound of roaring engines, opening his eyes to observe a new unit arriving in a quartet of trucks and a cloud of road dust. The bright-red flags, above the cabs, with the hammer and sickle, identified them as members of the Partido Comunista de España. As they swung to in front of the church, and for all his dislike of Bolsheviks – which was nothing as compared to the way they were viewed by the anarchists – Cal was impressed by their discipline, as well as the fact that each vehicle carried drums of precious fuel, enough for the whole column, without which they would struggle to continue the advance.

Ten men to a truck, clean-shaven and dressed in the same garb of black – jackets, berets, trousers and high boots, each with a bandolier of bullets over their shoulder – they sat upright with their rifles between their knees and did not disembark until ordered to do so. When on the ground they immediately formed up in a proper military fashion, dressing their lines, all eyes turned to the man who had emerged from the lead truck and barked the requisite commands.

Tall, unsmiling and hard-looking, with a tight belt around his waist and a pistol at his hip, a machine pistol in his hand, he was dressed in the same clothing as his men, except, instead of a beret, he wore a short-brimmed cap with a red star at the front over blond hair cut very short. Three others, obviously section leaders, had already emerged from the other cabs carrying rifles, which they slung over the shoulder as they took up station before their squads. There was no noise, no talking and no looking about; with the exception of their leader it was all eyes front.

They paid no attention to the shuffling mass of Laporta’s men made curious by their arrival, who came to look them over, or to the remarks being made, which Cal suspected to be well-worn insults, every one of which the communists had heard before. They had no effect on the commander either, who, satisfied that his men were behaving properly, gave a sharp order that saw them fall out and begin to unload their personal kit, before lighting a excessively long cigarette, which he held in a curious fashion between his second and third fingers.

Juan Luis emerged from the crowd to talk to this new arrival, and feeling he had the right, Cal went to join them, aware as he did so that the communist leader was looking around him with disdain, as if he had descended to this place from a higher political plane, that underscored by the way he held his smoking hand, high, almost as an affectation, so it was level with his chin. Certainly there was no order in the contingent that filled the square; those who had not come to rib the new arrivals were lounging about in the shade.

‘Laporta,’ the communist leader said with a sharp nod; he obviously knew Juan Luis.