Yet detaching the returnees was not easy; their departure was fought tooth and nail by Manfred Drecker, who maintained that no one had the right to desert the cause and anyone who even implied such a thing deserved to be shot; Laporta backed the athletes and took pleasure in doing so.

The antipathy between the men, political and personal, had not improved on the move into Aragón. Laporta took pleasure in pointing out what the Olympians had achieved, as opposed to Drecker’s communist cadres, which led to a blazing row in which accusations of backsliding, cowardice and chicanery were liberally thrown about.

The other anarchist leaders backed Laporta, as did the Trotskyists of the POUM, leaving Drecker isolated and fuming, the clinching argument being that they had joined with Laporta’s column, so any decision on their future was his to make. Cal backed that up; he was more concerned with the outcome than any claim of rights but he knew, from the looks thrown his way, that as far as Manfred Drecker was concerned he had joined the ranks of his enemies.

The day the main party left for Barcelona was a sad one; even prior to fighting, these lads had bonded together merely through their political outlook and shared stories. Yet combat, even the limited amount they had experienced, cemented that even more, while they had a fully justified pride in what they had achieved. It was handshakes and clasping all round, with many not afraid to show a tear as they clambered into the trucks that would take them to the docks and a ship to Marseilles. For Vince and Cal Jardine, this was just one more parting in a life of many.

‘See you in London, guv. Maybe we can go out an’ have a drink.’

‘Only if you promise not to belt anyone.’

Vince threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’ve mellowed.’

That got a disbelieving look; the last time Cal had taken Vince out, the mistake had been to take him first to a pub in Chelsea full of what Vince called ‘chinless wonders’, then to a late-night drinking club in Soho much frequented by what his one-time sergeant described to the police as ‘toffee-nosed ponces and poufs’. Cal was an amiable drunk, Vince a bellicose one, so the night had ended with a brawl, a visit to the cells and a fine from a morning magistrate.

Vince nodded towards Florencia, saying her own goodbyes. ‘How special is that one?’

‘Good question.’

‘You might have trouble getting away.’

‘I might not want to, Vince.’

The tone of the response was not jocular, the indication that his old friend was risking overstepping the mark obvious, but Vince had something to say and, typical of the man, he was going to say it regardless.

‘I wouldn’t hitch myself to this lot if I were you.’ He was not talking about Florencia, but the Barcelona militia. ‘The way they are now, they’re on a hiding to nothing and if our lot and the Frogs don’t help I can’t see how they can win.’

‘It’s early days. It might pan out.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Vince replied as the first of the truck engines began to throb into life. ‘I’d hate to have to come back and rescue you.’

‘Take care, Vince,’ Cal said, hand held out to be grasped and shaken. ‘And don’t forget to send those trucks back. I’m stuck here with the rest of the lads until you do.’

‘Give you a chance to learn some more Spanish.’

‘Hasta la vista, compadre.’

Vince nodded and climbed into the cab of the lead truck, Florencia coming to join Cal as they disappeared in a cloud of dust. What was cheering was the way the road was lined with the men alongside whom they had fought – communists apart – not ribbing them now, but all smiling and yelling encouragement, with their right hands raised, their fists tight in salute.

It was impossible to miss the increasingly febrile atmosphere in the Republican lines; necessity made comrades of the various factions only up to a point. This was especially apparent at the point where the CNT and POUM sectors met that of the communists, now reinforced so that Drecker had under his command a couple of hundred men.

Every time the cadres were subjected to lectures on dialectic materialism and other Marxist nostrums, the anarchist militiamen would gather to jeer, loud enough to make difficult what those lecturing were trying to impart, and no one in authority sought to interfere.

Had he been in command, Cal would have stopped it and quickly, not in support of communism but with the aim of improving the fighting ability of the whole; if the two factions went into action they would not support one another, hardly a sound military policy. Yet even as he registered the mutual dislike, he did not pick up on the increasing tensions behind it, and if it had not been for Florencia, he would have had no idea what was really going on.

When she cursed the Partido Comunista de España he took it as just her usual railing against her political rivals. Certainly, he recorded her fears that they were poaching members from the CNT, as well as her assertion that some hypocrites were joining the PCE as a way of ensuring they were not seen as class enemies, but it did not penetrate deeply and he knew the CNT to be just as guilty when it came to recruitment; it was a game they all played.

The mutual antagonism deepened seriously when Vince’s truck drivers returned with the news that the first Soviet ships had arrived, bringing in fresh arms, including tanks and aircraft. The information lifted everyone’s spirits until it was clear neither of those were going to be seen in Aragón; they were sent straight to bolster the defence of Madrid, in essence a sound policy given that was where the danger to the Republic was most severe.

Yet as another set of trucks arrived, it was very soon obvious that the drivers were communists and what they carried was a cargo exclusively for Drecker’s cadres, who received weapons of a quality and modernity that surpassed that with which they had been supplied before, just as it was clear none of these were being passed to anyone else. There was no attempt at discretion, obvious as the communists paraded to show off their equipment.

Drecker and his squad leaders carried PPD-40 machine pistols, which as far as Cal was aware – and it was his business to know these things – had only recently been supplied to the forces of the Soviet Interior Ministry. Enough Degtyarov light machine guns had been supplied to set up gun teams within every platoon-sized section, while Drecker’s command, now more than company strength, also had possession of two 50 mm mortars.

‘These weapons, mon ami,’ Juan Luis Laporta asked, as they were paraded under the eyes of their supposed anarchist comrades-in-arms. ‘Are they any good?’

On home turf, Cal rattled off their capabilities, ranges and rates of fire, summing it up thus: ‘Let’s put it this way, Juan Luis, if you can get hold of any, do so.’

‘We cannot,’ Laporta replied, his face showing both regret and, under that, a hint of fury. ‘And believe me, I have tried.’

* * *

It took several days to get to Albacete, a medium-sized town on the road from Valencia to Madrid, and what Cal found there was less than impressive, though in fairness he knew that to criticise was far from wholly just; the Spanish Republic had very few of the systems required to deal with an influx of volunteers, a fact much exacerbated by the nature of the recruits, who had come from all over the continent of Europe.

The sheer number of spoken languages would have defeated even the best-intentioned and most professional army command, while the quality of those who had come to the aid of the cause was so variable as to impose even more strain, many having near-starved to get this far. The only way to organise such mayhem was by nationality, easier with the large French contingent, to whom could be added the Belgians, as well as Germans who had fled over the Rhine from Hitler.