Now he envisaged a firefight in an open square, in which he and Vince could handle only so many problems, and those in an engagement where improvisation was a must – actions that the Olympians did not have either the skill or experience to know how to react to. Using the whole group as one unit would be too unwieldy and lead to more potential casualties, not fewer.
‘Look, son,’ Vince said, cutting across Cal Jardine as he addressed the men who would be left behind, four of whom were his boxers, and using language he knew they would understand. ‘Our arse could be up in the air if this all goes to shit, so we will need you lot to rescue us.’
‘And,’ Cal added, ‘we have only a guess at the numbers we will face. If they can bring up a cannon, they can also bring up more men. This is a smash-and-grab job and if anyone wants to pull out this is the time to speak up.’
That got a series of negative growls. ‘Good! Now, we have no more time to talk, so let’s get moving.’
If the sky had the first hint of daylight inasmuch as the stars had lost some distinction, it seemed even darker in the streets now, Stygian in the alleys. Cal tried to imagine what was happening over the bridge, for that had a massive bearing on what could be achieved and when. Would Laporta move as soon as the sun rose or would that famous Spanish laxity regarding time surface to delay the assault, exposing his lads to action in full sunlight?
He stayed on the main road while Vince took another squad down the alley they had used previously, both aware that there was no way to coordinate what they would do. They would have to act on an individual appreciation of what they could see, but they had posited various scenarios and agreed that if the Barcelona column did not move at the right time, they would have to think about an immediate withdrawal.
Looking skywards it had begun to go grey, the deep blue of night now fading to the west, the stars no longer visible. Crawling forward and using what shadow remained, Cal tried to get a sight of the cannon, thinking any sign of it moving would be a signal that Laporta was on his way. The first indication lay in the number of men around the gun – he counted a dozen, and he could see one fellow at the corner of the building, an officer of some sort, he suspected, his hand held up to halt any movement, while at the same time looking down the roadway to the bridge. Behind the men set to manhandle the cannon, along the base of the wall, shells stood like a row of sentinels, enough ammunition to turn that bridge into a charnel house.
In the still morning air, the sound of the Republican motor engines starting up and revving carried, not loudly, but with a deep soft beat that seemed to move the warm dawn air, for which Cal was grateful; this was a bonus on which he could not have calculated, nor could he have wished for more from that watching officer, required to pump his halting hand to stop those on the cannon who had set their shoulders to the wheels, obviously eager to push.
Creeping back, he issued his orders in a soft voice, then led his squad along the wall of the last building to the point at which the road joined the square, his eyes naturally drawn first to the line of vehicles, then to the tower of the church, a spot from which he and his men could be easily seen, his hope that, if there was a spotter up there, and there should be, his attention was on what was coming from the east.
On the cannon, no one was looking anywhere except at the man in command, still with his hand held up and palm flat. He obviously had a very good idea of how long he needed to deploy the Schneider, which, no doubt, already had its first shell loaded, while to aim it was simple, the barrel being at a very low elevation. All that was needed was to push the gun into place in the middle of the road.
The sound of motors had increased – the column was moving, but no shots were fired. Cal was watching a classic ploy to draw your enemy on, but nothing could be done. He needed the defenders to be engaged; the last thing he could cope with, and that had applied from the outset, was that they should know about the presence of his boys until they were committed to the forward battle.
The hand was now doing a sort of bouncing movement, clearly he was eager, which was the point at which Cal motioned for his lads to spread out across the roadway, his admonition, with a finger at his lips for silence, received with nods. There was enough light now to just see the faces of these youngsters and it took him back years to observe no fear, just determination. It was the same look he had seen on the faces of the men he had led into battle in 1918 and it had not lasted long.
He had five kneeling, five standing, Cal to one side with his rifle raised. He held his aim on that observer, and as soon as his hand moved from stop to go, Cal pulled the trigger and dropped him. The sound of his shot had no sooner filled the square, oddly sending aloft a flock of flapping pigeons, than the front rank of his Olympians followed, their target the bunched figures around the cannon wheels, their instructions five rounds rapid. As their standing oppos opened fire, they were busy reloading.
Vince and his lads emerged from the left to rush into the square even before Cal’s squad had got off one mag apiece, yelling like banshees as they attacked what remained of the men set to push the gun – not many, for they had suffered badly. Those remaining were trying to spin the light field gun round, one man on the lanyard that would set off the charge; he was Cal’s next victim, taking a bullet in the chest that sent him flying back, the rope still clasped in his hand.
The cannon went off and the shell tore uselessly into the front of the church, doing, at such short range, massive damage. But there would be no reloading; Vince and his lads were too close and those still standing abandoned the cannon and ran, this while Cal brought his squad out into the square, eye ranging over the tops of the buildings, the church in particular.
He shouted to them to get forward and grab the line of artillery shells while he put a full magazine into the bell tower as a precaution, the ring of the cast metal adding a mournful cadence to what was now a cacophony of noisy gunfire, which included at least one machine gun, as the defenders attempted to stop the Republican advance without the use of the weapon on which they had been relying.
Vince’s lads had tipped the wheeled cannon on its side and his boys were running back to where Cal stood, rifles now slung, with the artillery shells cradled like babes in arms, so far without anyone taking a hit. Broxburn Jock yelled at him, his face alight, asking to disable the vehicles by taking out their tyres, but Cal shook his head and indicated it was time to withdraw.
With no trucks or cars the Falangists would be forced to stand and fight, but that might mean him having to take on a number of them in a fight he could not control, which in a maze of buildings and alleyways was inevitable. Better to get out of the way of an enemy who would probably take the chance to retreat, some of them highly capable Civil Guards. There was also the problem of some very fired-up Republican fighters whom, when they got inside the town, he did not trust not to kill their own.
Vince was with him and, as was right and proper, he made no attempt to question Cal’s orders, he merely formed his boys up in a way that allowed them to fall back in good order and act as a rearguard for the squad in front, loaded with shells, forming a line of five, then a second the first could retreat through, always with a set of rifles ready to shoot anyone who showed their face, until they were back at the ditch.
‘Dump the shells,’ Cal shouted, before he began to organise the whole party for what he expected was about to happen, lining them along the ditch in squads so as to concentrate their fire, Vince taking up position at the mid-point. He was shouting orders; there was no need for quiet now.