Soon they were marching due north, footwear claggy from gathered mud, aiming to meet the road that continued west, the distance again counted off. The whole movement, as it had been previously, carried out in silence; even the daft ones were careful not to make a sound, though there was something like a collective sigh as they reached the deep ditch that lined the road.

The same as that on the other side of the canal, it was as dry as a bone, perfect to keep them out of sight, with just enough overhead light to make progress reasonably quick, but the primary act was to call another period of rest and to tell his lads to take on some water. Before they moved again it was necessary to make sure the squad leaders knew the number of paces to get back to the turning point, as well as those needed to get back to the canal. If anything happened to Cal and Vince they might need to get out on their own.

They moved out in single file and, as they got closer to the town, dogs began barking. That forced a halt till they calmed down, but it indicated the proximity of habitation and the fact they were making too much noise in the ditch. Not that there was an alternative, like using the roadway level with their heads; the only security lay in taking time.

Cal was seeking out the first line of buildings, which would be silhouetted against the starlit sky, but before that they passed the plots where the folk who lived on the western edge of the town grew vegetables and raised animals, and that made any movement even more circumspect. The worry then was not the hen coops, or the rabbit hutches, not the tethered goat or the snuffling pig; it was geese, who were noisy buggers at the best of times and, ahead of dogs, the most potent guards in creation. If they were around, they would raise Cain.

Having reached the end of the ditch, Cal clambered up onto the road and, sweating profusely, darted towards the first building to get his back against a wall; the night was hot and the stones themselves still seemed to have in them the warmth of the day, so glaring had been the sun. Vince came to join him and engage in a whispered conversation.

‘No guards, guv?’

‘Doesn’t seem so.’

‘Piss poor, that.’

Cal looked at the luminous dial on his watch; it was still two hours to dawn. ‘Might be some further in, but I reckon we have enough time for a good look to see what’s what.’

‘You and me?’

‘Only if the boys are all right.’

‘The only thing botherin’ them is biting insects and you’ve told them what you want them to do.’

That had been part of his initial briefing, predicated on getting this far: he and Vince would do a recce of the town. If the lads heard shots they were to withdraw to the canal on the same dog-leg that had got them here. If that proved impossible, the squad leaders had been told to take over the first set of houses they could find and be prepared to defend the position till they were relieved, but to stay doggo and hope they were not spotted, which meant locking up the owners to keep them quiet.

‘I gave them another instruction if they do take a building,’ Vince added, ‘to keep an eye out for you an’ me runnin’ like buggery and to open the door and give us a shout.’

The laugh was as soft as it needed to be.

‘Ready?’

Vince eased himself upright and darted across to the other side of the road, before edging along level, Cal doing the same. The place was seemingly asleep, but they had to reckon that behind the walls along which they crept there must be frightened people who knew that some kind of battle was imminent. Perhaps, inside the closed window shutters, there were locals praying to be spared, and there might well be homes already in mourning; there was every reason to assume that the Falangists, who had been here for at least a day, had treated this town as they had every other along their route.

The street began to narrow the closer they got to the town centre until they were no more than the width of a single truck apart. It was Vince who first heard the voices, and even in the deep shadow Cal saw his hand move, giving the flat palm sign to halt and, after a short pause, he slid across to join him, feeling the hot breath on his ear.

‘Talking up ahead, so more than one, but not a group.’

‘Go round?’

No discussion followed, they just retreated slowly to the first side street they had passed, really an alleyway, and moved down it, counting paces, till another way of moving forward opened up before them. Cal took a long look before he signalled it was safe for Vince to cross, he following into the doorway where they could keep out of sight.

Peering out, it was obvious, once they had a good view, that this street, at the end and like the one they had just left, opened out into the town’s Plaza Mayor, and that was lit, at the far side, by rows of flickering torches. In between, in shadow on the left of the square, stood a line of cars and trucks, the transport the insurgents had used to stay ahead of the Barcelona column. But it was what those torches illuminated which caused concern: the unmistakeable shape of a field cannon and a sizeable group of men around it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘Where the hell has that come from?’ Vince whispered.

‘Who cares, it’s here and it changes everything.’

What followed was a period of several seconds while both men made separate appreciations of what lay before them.

‘It’s a fair guess,’ Vince responded, eventually, ‘that the exit from the square opposite leads to the canal.’

Cal was thinking his original plan was dead and it was time to formulate another. There was no point now bringing his lads forward to launch any attack from the rear or a flank and throw the defenders into a panic. That cannon, which looked to be another 75 mm Schneider, would not be visible from the other side of the bridge, but wheeled, it would take seconds to alter that. As much to clarify his own thinking as to inform Vince, he explained the way the road on this side came arrow straight into the town.

‘So, shunt the sod out as Laporta begins to cross, and – splat.’

A shell fired over open sights and at point-blank range would demolish that armoured van and probably kill anyone advancing behind it. Had it only just arrived? Was the anticipation of that the reason they had sacrificed three men and a machine gun to keep the column away from the bridge until dark? It made no odds; it was here, and with enough shells, they could make that crossing impossible.

‘Let’s go,’ Cal hissed.

They moved back across the road and down the alley, careful as they exited into the street by which they had entered the town, then moving as swiftly as they could back to where the lads had gathered at the end of the storm ditch, with Cal making plans on the hoof. There was no time for a lengthy briefing; that cannon either had to be taken, rendered useless, or prevented from firing before the sun rose.

When he outlined what each squad would do, not everyone was happy; half of his boys would have to stay still, a strong group in the storm ditch acting as a backstop just as there was one at the canal crossing. That was in itself tactically sound, but in part the real reason for taking less than the total number forward was the problem of control.

His original plan had not been rigid, based on the very sound principle outlined by Carl von Clausewitz, the man who wrote the tactical bible, that no plan ever survived contact with the enemy. Once the recce was complete and he and Vince had some idea of what they faced and where they could best do damage, he had envisaged them taking two squads each into the town to attack as Laporta began to move, the noise of that advance the signal to proceed.

He had then anticipated they would very likely be required to withdraw, possibly run, maybe fighting as they went, but at the very least drawing off some of the defence and easing the numbers facing the Barcelona column. The objective was to sow uncertainty, not to win any outright victory, while making the best of what chances presented themselves; if the Falangists abandoned the bridge, the column could move again.