The British were bolstered by volunteers from the various ex-colonies, not that there was much love lost, but that looked like comradeship compared to the Italians and Austrians, while the Russians and Ukrainians – in the main, exiles from Soviet Russia looking for a way home by proving their communist credentials – seemed more likely to turn their weapons on each other than the enemy.

That was if they could first of all find a gun that fired, then locate the ammunition it required to function; the armament was a mess of conflicting patterns and differing calibres, many from well before the Great War, and the bullets were not sorted, even by box – it was necessary to rummage and select the right projectile for the weapon with which you had been issued.

Cal Jardine was not impressed enough to offer his own services, especially given the command was held by an internationally famous communist called André Marty, the man who claimed to have been instrumental in the mutiny of the French Black Seas Fleet in 1919. He was a member, too, of the Communist International, run from Moscow and dedicated to the spread of Marxism-Leninism.

Whatever else he was, Marty was no soldier, which underlined the nature of the brigades; even if he had experienced commanders at unit level, they too seemed to be communists, so the whole would be driven by ideology, not sound military principles, and that was not something he could be part of.

He hung around long enough to get his lads equipped with a combination of rifles and bullets that would at least mean that, should they get into a fight, they could function, and showed them how to scrounge the things they needed – uniforms, rations and some grenades – well aware that there was disappointment he would not be leading them into the coming battle.

‘You cannae be persuaded tae stay, Mr Jardine?’ asked Broxburn Jock, who had assumed the leadership of the dozen brigaders.

Cal shook his head. ‘No, I’ll be more use in Aragón, I think, trying to sort out some of those militias.’

That was a lie and there was no doubt that, in the young Scotsman’s face, he knew it to be so. It had been natural in the few days Cal had been in Albacete that he and his boys should gravitate towards their fellow countrymen, just as it was hardly surprising that many, though not all, were card-carrying members of the British Communist Party or at the very least to the far left of Labour.

In the main, when they were workers, miners, dockers and factory men from the devastated industrial areas of the UK, that was understandable; even if he did not share their politics, he could appreciate the reasons for their allegiance to the cause. Had he shared their life – surrounded by poverty, put upon by rapacious employers, or on the dole, as well as being citizens of an indifferent state – he might also have shared their views.

It was the university and middle-class types that got up Cal’s nose, too many of them from comfortable backgrounds, romantics with no grasp whatsoever of the lives of the poor and certainly not a clue about the nature of life in Soviet Russia, which, when he talked with them, was something they saw through spectacles that were more blacked out than rose-tinted.

A gentle hint that life might not be so sweet east of Poland, that it might be as bad as Nazi Germany, led to a tirade of abuse, well argued and articulate, but utterly wrong, this before he was treated to a quasi-religious attempt to point out that the way he lived his life was to fly in the face of what they called ‘historical determinism’; only good manners inculcated into him from birth stopped him from telling these intellectual idiots to get stuffed.

‘The bodies that have been gi’en officer’s rank are no a bit like you or Vince,’ Jock added. ‘Some ’o them seem right mental.’

‘And the rest of your brigade is not like you, Jock. It will be you teaching them how to fire a rifle now, and if they’ve got any sense they will promote you.’

‘Fat bloody chance.’

Politics apart, that was another reason to leave, albeit there was an element of guilt at abandoning what he saw as ‘his boys’. The command structure was chaotic, and from what he had observed, as had Jock, the senior positions in the brigades went to only two types: megalomaniacs and high-ranking communists – sometimes they were both – and what he had observed of the standard of training, if it could even be graced with such a term, was pandemonium, which was worrying given that they might be pitched into battle before they were ready, as the Republic was still losing on all fronts.

‘I might not even stay in Spain, Jock.’

‘Away, yer lassie will’na let ye go.’

‘Another reason for going back to Aragón, yes?’

‘No a bad yin, aw the same.’

‘Take care of the rest of the boys, Jock; you are the best soldier, you know that, and they look up to you.’

That produced a blush on the square face, highlighting, as it flared, his heavy acne, the smile that followed showing his uneven teeth. Then it was time to shake the others by the hand and depart, with a silent hope that whatever they faced they would survive.

He never returned to the Saragossa Front, finding, when he stopped off in Barcelona, as he had said he would, not just Florencia in the city but Juan Luis Laporta as well. As soon as he checked back into the Ritz – they had stored his luggage – both, alerted by some member of the hotel staff, arrived to see him, she very welcome, he much less so.

It was soon made obvious they had left the monastery headquarters seething with tension: the anarchists were furious at being denied the better weapons distributed to Drecker’s cadres, despite repeated requests, and it was the same for the other political groups, including those in Barcelona and Madrid.

The Partido Comunista controlled the distribution of Soviet equipment, and even the non-fighting communists in the rear areas were better armed than their rivals on the fighting fronts, while what had come in with the weaponry was even less welcome to the likes of Laporta: Soviet advisors who behaved as if they were dealing with idiots.

When that was advanced Cal could not but agree with the assessment, even if he could accept such condescension was unwelcome, for, if such advisors were anything like the ones he had met in Albacete, they would not, as he had tried to do since his first dust-up with Laporta, temper their advice with a sugar coating.

He had heard counterclaims in Albacete for the communists, incensed about the way they claimed the anarchists, who controlled the border with France, were denying entry to any party member trying to cross into Spain to join the International Brigades; it was all part of the fabric of endemic mistrust which permeated the Republican cause.

At the same time, it seemed to Cal, no one was doing much to fight the real enemy. When he enquired about the progress in Aragón it transpired there had been none – the Barcelona militias were still stuck outside Saragossa, the only thing of significance being that Drecker and his men, with their superior equipment, had left for Madrid, now threatened with four columns advancing on the city from Burgos, Toledo and two from Badajoz.

Try as he might, Cal could not shift the conversation to the state of the Republican forces and the manifest threats they faced, which made the conversation surreal; there was, to him, in the political bickering, an element that he mentally likened to fiddling while Rome burnt.

‘As long as the communist pigs control the supply of weapons,’ Laporta insisted, banging on, sticking to the same topic, ‘they will use them to strengthen their position.’

As would you, thought Cal, as he yawned, having had a long day of travelling. He was also wondering when they could stop all this, if he could eat with Florencia and if Juan Luis would ever tire of the subject and disappear so they could be alone.