‘Drecker.’

The name interested Cal, as had the guttural way he had pronounced the Spaniard’s name, as well as his appearance; was he German? As he began to converse it certainly seemed so, and it was also apparent he was passing on instructions. When he finished, Laporta turned to Cal and spoke in French.

‘Orders from Villabova. Instead of heading straight for Lérida we are to move forward along the southern fork up ahead.’ The flick of the finger, aimed at the communist, was disdainful. ‘Our German friend, Manfred Drecker, is to come with us, while the main road is to be left free for Villabova’s main force. He is sure Lérida is too big a nut for the insurgents to swallow, but we are to act as flank guards and make sure nothing comes at the main body from the south.’

Drecker was examining Cal as Laporta spoke, and in a seriously unfriendly way, not that such a thing bothered him; first impressions of this fellow, his unsmiling face and haughty demeanour, fag included, pointed to that being habitual. What troubled him was the difficulty presented by the addition of a third commander, one who would see to the needs of his own men first, added to the fact that he did not speak Spanish.

He had Florencia, and Laporta spoke French; this Drecker, judging by his look of incomprehension, did not, but he was German, a language in which Cal was fluent. The potential for operational confusion was obvious.

‘I take it you are still in command?’

‘I have the most men,’ Laporta replied, though he looked away from Drecker as he added, ‘but I have never met a communist yet who would take orders from anyone but their own.’

‘When do we move?’

That brought on a long pause, before he spoke. ‘We will stay here today and move out at dawn.’

‘Not immediately?’

‘We are not ready,’ Laporta snapped.

‘I was just thinking the people of this place would be glad to see us go. Another day of feeding so many men will leave them to starve in the months to come.’

‘Let their God send them loaves and fishes.’

The sun was dipping now, throwing the base of the hill to the west into shadow. The route they had been ordered to take, unlike the main road, was seriously narrow, barely wide enough for a single vehicle. It ran right through a deep belt of pine trees which, from what Cal could see, hemmed the road in and formed an overhead canopy that cut out sunlight, a perfect place for an ambush if the Falangists and their Civil Guard allies were inclined to set one.

‘How deep is that forest?’

‘How would I know?’ Laporta replied, as if the question was inappropriate.

‘Surely you have a map that tells you?’

‘Map?’ Laporta laughed. ‘We are going west to Saragossa, who needs a map?’

‘Herr Drecker, haben Sie eine Karte, bitte?’

Drecker spun on his heel and shouted, which, after a few seconds, brought one of his men running, he having fetched the necessary from the cab of the lead truck. Cal’s hopes sank as soon as it was handed over, it being no more than a very basic road map, of the kind you might get in the UK from the Automobile Association, while at the same time he suppressed the desire to curse himself, not that he felt entirely guilty.

He had spent half the day saying to his boys that you must never leave anything to chance, which was precisely what he had done; the Barcelona military, now overthrown and everything in their barracks available to be used, had to have regional maps of the kind they needed, the sort any army used, showing features, elevations related to sea level, significant landmarks, watercourses and all the things a soldier needs to make their way through unfamiliar terrain.

A good map was like a safety blanket – with that, a compass and visibility, getting lost for a good map-reader was impossible and Cal had always prided himself on his ability in that area. No map was a prelude to a fog and he had just assumed Laporta would have what was required. He was about to ask if the Spaniard had a compass but, certain he would reply in the negative, he just left it. More worrying was Laporta’s next remark, that with them all being in trucks, and if they set off at first light, they might get to Lérida before nightfall.

‘Do you intend to just drive on without a reconnaissance?’ Cal asked, ‘through a forest?’

‘Why would I not?’

Cal looked around him, aware that many of Laporta’s lieutenants were once more within earshot. The absurdity of what he then asked did not escape him – they did not speak French – but it was the man’s face he was worried about and his inability to keep hidden his pride when challenged. He waved a hand towards the entrance to the church and the darkened interior.

‘Can I talk to you in private?’

‘This is not?’

‘Not for what I want to say.’

Laporta did not look at Manfred Decker, but he did appear cautious if not downright suspicious. ‘Without our friend?’

Cal nodded, then sauntered off, leaving Laporta to decide how to follow him without causing Drecker offence. The communist, having finished one cigarette – it was the long Russian variety with a tube – immediately lit another.

CHAPTER TEN

‘I have decided to take my athletes back to Barcelona.’ Seeing the Spaniard stiffen, he carried on before he could interrupt, struggling to keep any hint of anger out of his voice.

‘And I will tell you why; it is because I fear they will die to no purpose under your leadership. You intend to advance without knowing what is ahead – and I say you cannot just barge on as if there is no force opposing you and, even worse, you have no idea where they are.’

‘The Falangists do not frighten me and they are cowards.’

‘They are eighty strong and stiffened by Civil Guards.’

‘We are over five hundred, six now that Drecker has joined us.’

‘Advancing along a single-track road.’

‘One they have no idea we will take,’ Laporta snapped. ‘They will expect us to continue on the main road to Lérida.’

That was true, but to Cal it did not obviate the need to reconnoitre any road before they passed through.

‘If I were your enemy, I would be making preparations whichever route you took, and you would find, halfway through on either road, enough trees blocking it to make forward movement impossible.’

‘We have an armour-plated van.’

‘I have seen proper tanks destroyed by men with grenades.’

‘They would die trying.’

‘Perhaps, like you, they are prepared for that.’

‘Then we will fight and kill them.’

‘They may kill you.’

‘So, my men will avenge me.’

‘Will they? Other trees would then be felled behind them to block any retreat, and the enemy have a machine gun.’

‘They cannot kill us all.’

‘No, but they can kill many and then just disappear, leaving you to clear the road. Somewhere up ahead of that I would have already picked the next place to make you pay in blood for your progress.’

‘This is no more than a dream.’

‘Look, my friend, you are a good leader of your men, they respect you, but this is my profession. I don’t say there is an ambush waiting for us, only there might be and the proper course of action is to find out. Let us advance like soldiers and not a rabble.’

The silence was as long as the stare that accompanied it, before the Spaniard spoke. ‘I think we should rejoin Drecker or he will think we are plotting against him.’

‘Why would he think that?’

Laporta laughed out loud, albeit low and hoarse. ‘My friend, he is a communist. They are convinced everyone is plotting against them.’

‘And the road ahead?’ The nod was slow, but positive, so Cal asked, ‘Sentries?’

That killed off any humour and Laporta once more looked grim.

‘Look, if your men are going to behave like soldiers, that is the best place to start.’

The answer did not come immediately; it was the same as sitting on that wall outside the Ritz Hotel. The anarchist suspected he was out of his depth and in need of advice, but he was too proud to ask, yet hanging in the air was Cal’s threat to take himself and his men away.