Jack Ludlow - A Broken Land

The numerous trees allowed for a comprehensive reconnaissance, as well as the chance of getting close, but that only underlined that, possessing dozens of windows, and with a roof topped by a balustrade, the points of any defence were numerous and left no arc of fire uncovered, while whoever controlled the building was keeping his powder very dry. No rifles appeared from any of the windows and no shots were fired to deter the observations that Cal and Vince made as they dodged around from cover to cover.

Like a lot of local buildings the ground floor windows were barred, and added to that were what looked like stout internal shutters. Even the classical Palladian portico was defensible, being deep and shaded at the base entrance, while above that there was a balcony with thick stone columns, wide enough to hide a shooter, backed by an array of french windows. For observation there was what looked like a high cupola on the roof, probably a water cistern, from which snipers could dominate the further approaches.

‘Well, Vince?’ Cal asked finally, as they got back to their start point, looking at the triple-arched front.

‘A mortar would be handy for that roof, guv, to keep any buggers up there honest.’

‘As would a bit of field artillery to blow in the front doors, which we don’t have either.’

Looking over to where the main party had gathered, Cal could see they had been joined by a steady stream of other fighters, men and women, a few armed, most not, no doubt the locals who had joined what was already being called the counter-revolution. To both men watching it seemed they were gathering for an assault, finger-pointing mixed with much of the sort of chest-beating folk use to bolster their resolve. Certainly Laporta was haranguing them in what Cal suspected was a bout of revolutionary fervour.

‘Bad place to try and rush,’ Vince said.

‘Especially if they have any machine pistols and grenades.’

It took no great imagination for Cal Jardine to put himself in the mind of the person organising the defence. He would be aware those trying to assault the place had neither the right weaponry, infantry training or much more than their own fervour as a spur, nor any real knowledge of the dangers of fighting in what constituted, for war purposes, one of the deadliest arenas for combat — a stout building with clear approaches and killing zones provided by the intervening roadway and the tree-dotted esplanade before the entrance.

Below that balcony the main triple-arched entrance was the most obvious place to make inroads against a resistance expected to be weak. A good tactician would first let any skirmishers get close, thus encouraging the main assault to come on, with a few rifle shots to indicate some level of resistance. Once crowded in that deep doorway, it would be child’s play to drop a few grenades over the balcony; the trapped attackers would be shredded and lose their momentum. Then put all your available firepower into killing those panicked into retreat.

‘So?’ Vince asked, having had that elaborated and gloomily agreed.

‘If I was in charge of taking the place, I’d be looking for the water and electricity supplies. Cut them off and wait, unless we can get hold of a cannon big enough to blow the front in.’

‘They might have enough food and water for a month.’

‘They might have enough firepower for a massacre.’

‘Chum’s coming.’

Dodging from tree to tree, Laporta was crossing the ground between where he had been giving his lecture and the line of tree trunks his men, Cal and Vince included, were using as cover. As soon as he was kneeling beside Cal he asked him for an opinion, which induced a look of despondency as he listened to the response and the recommendation.

‘We do not have time for such manoeuvres, monsieur.’

‘That was the one thing I hoped you would not say,’ Cal replied, doing a quick count of the number of available rifles and then the number of windows. ‘In that case we have to draw some fire to see what they have got.’

‘Monsieur, we have to attack.’

‘Without knowing what you face, it will be bloody.’

The response was almost a snarl. ‘That is the difference between soldiers and revolutionary workers, monsieur, we are prepared to die for what we believe in.’ With that he called to his men, to follow him to a point right before the front of the naval headquarters to join what was now a milling mass of volunteers, his final words to Cal, but aimed at both he and Vince: ‘You are free to join us.’

Cal actually laughed. ‘We are also free to decline. I have told you what I think. If you have any men who are good shots leave them with us and we will seek to subdue the defence. That, at least, might save a few lives.’

Laporta thought for a long time, before nodding. He then reeled off several names, calling half a dozen men over and giving them rapid instructions.

‘He’s telling ’em to take orders from you, guv.’

‘Any idea of the Spanish words for window and balcony?’

‘Not a clue, Guv.’

Not knowing the words in either Spanish or Catalan meant a great deal of finger-pointing, as each rifleman was allotted a target he thought might be the spot from which fire would come — the smaller windows to the side of the classical portico and the parapet on the roof. Just as troubling was the level of noise coming from those preparing to rush forward, a ringing howl of determination mixed with what had to be cursing; they might as well have sent a telegram to say they were about to attack.

Oddly, it was that noise which brought the first shots from the building, caused by either indiscipline or the mere fact of the defenders being unnerved by the rising crescendo of screeching. Judging by the cry that went up, at least one of the bullets found flesh, but instead of dispersing the attackers it galvanised them — or was it Laporta? They rushed out from what little cover they had, those with weapons firing them off with wild abandon, those without brandishing bits of wood or metal or nothing but their fists.

The result was immediate: controlled fire from the front windows, which sliced into the mob and took out at least a dozen people, two of them middle-aged women. Vince’s orders, which he only hoped were fully understood, had been to follow Cal’s lead. When he fired, they should all let off a couple of bullets at their chosen targets, then pause to spot which areas showed the smoke from the defenders’ rifles, the idea to immediately switch to the one nearest each rifleman’s original window and fire off single shots aimed at the spot. To kill anyone would be luck, given their level of cover; the idea was to get them to keep their heads down.

Four of the six men allotted to him did as they were bid; the other two, in their fury at seeing their comrades dropping as volley followed volley, stood up, stepped forward and emptied their five-round magazines without selecting anything. Stone chips flying off the building might look impressive but they achieved very little, except that some of the defenders, no more disciplined than their opponents, turned their fire towards these useless assailants, now standing exposed as they sought to reload.

If suicidal bravery was a virtue — and to Cal Jardine it was the opposite — these Catalan workers had it in spades. So fired up were they that they ignored their casualties, only a few of them stopping to aid the wounded or examine those who might already be dead. Sheer numbers overwhelmed the attempt to stop them getting to the triple-arched doorway, and inside that was cover into which they huddled in what was effectively, as Cal had already surmised, a trap; they had no means to batter down the door and to withdraw promised more death.