Whatever, it worked; the driver turned his wheel and ran the truck down the side of the building. Cal, followed by Vince, was already clambering up the side, and once on top he yelled that the man on the wheel should stop, this as he used his rifle butt to break one of the panes that made up a casement window, reaching through to search for the catch that would keep the frame shut. Vince just pushed; it wasn’t locked.
Through, with his feet scrunching on broken glass, Cal looked back to ensure his party had followed, as well as the occupants of the truck, before he examined the first floor room, not well lit given the windows were small. Unadorned desks, chairs, no quality to either, lots of filing cabinets, a closed door to the rest of the building, an office for no one important, while two floors up were what had looked like more spacious rooms with balconies of their own, no doubt the preserve of senior officers.
He opened the door to the landing cautiously, hearing shots, but not close, echoing in what was a substantial and open staircase — they were fighting on the upper floors. That body coming off the roof indicated that those sent up there to defend the place from that location had decided they were on the wrong side. Guess number two was that they were fighting those who had been on the lower floors who disagreed, probably officers who had chosen to fight in the shade, versus lower ranks ordered to stay out in the midday sun — reason enough in itself for antagonism.
‘Main doors, guv, it’s got to be.’
The signs Cal used, two silent fingers to him, two repeated to Vince, were those he would have made with trained fighters, yet so obvious the men with him nodded that they understood. Vince’s duo, following him to the staircase going up, knelt and aimed their rifles to take on anyone descending, this while Cal was already slipping downstairs.
Slowly and silently, his pair following, he edged round a staircase bend that revealed a large hallway. At the very bottom of the stairway sat two men, in white naval hats and blue shirts, on a light machine gun aimed at the great double doors which shut off the outside world.
The right thing to do was shoot them without warning; that machine gun was no weight and could be swung round quickly if these two were determined to resist, but it is hard to put a bullet in another human being’s back if there is any chance they might surrender. The tap on the shoulder and the look he observed in the eye of the man who had made it, as well as his jabbing muzzle, told him that he, at least, did not share his scruples, but it was good that he was asking permission to shoot, not just doing as he pleased.
The shot Cal loosed off went right by the ear of the man on the right, hit the marble floor, then slammed into the bare stone wall of the main hall, the noise reverberating round the whole chamber. Ducking initially, the two sailors looked over their shoulder, but as they did so the one on the left was already lifting the weapon to swing it round, and as it had to be, given their situation, the safety catch was set to off.
Time has a separate dimension in such situations: it seems to slow, so that a second takes on the appearance of an age. There were those naval caps flying off as the two sailors spun, the realisation that their faces were very young, probably those of cadets, that one was very blond like Florencia in a country where so many had hair of the deepest black.
In their eyes was a mixture of terror and resolve and it was the latter which proved fatal, though it was moot whose bullets killed them, for all three rifles fired at once, sending them spinning away, the muzzles following as shot after shot tore into their bodies. Then, there was silence.
Cal reloaded while his two companions rushed down to open the double doors, one aiming an unnecessary kick at the twitching body of a youth who was almost certainly doomed. There was no time to look further; having slipped down to pick up the machine gun, automatically seeking out and clicking on the safety, Cal then rushed up the stairs to join Vince, while behind him the roar of the crowd as they stormed into the building grew to drown out every other sound, including the upstairs shooting, which meant they must have heard it too.
Some sense prevailed; there was a stream of shouted commands to the mob to stay on the ground floor and a minute later Laporta and the rest of his riflemen joined him and Vince on the first landing. Now, behind them and below, they could hear things being broken: wood and glass. The machine gun was handed over, with Cal showing the set safety catch to the man who took it, as well as ensuring he was holding it properly in a way it could be used without a tripod.
He got a nod from the leader, but if it was thanks it was not heartfelt, more one that implied Laporta had expected no less. Ascending the stair, pistol out and rifles behind him, the Spaniard showed some skilclass="underline" there was no rush this time, he kept his back to the wall to give himself maximum vision and slid upwards, his balance so precise that he could dive back down if threatened. At a corner, he waved up the fellow with the machine gun, with a sharp hand signal for the other riflemen to kneel and cover, all this while gunshots still echoed throughout the higher parts of the stairwell.
‘Shall we leave this to them, guv?’ Vince asked.
Cal replied, with a wry grin, ‘Might not be a good idea to steal all the glory.’
Remembering that twitching cadet, Cal indicated to Vince and went down the stairs; the kid might still be alive — he had known people survive multiple shot wounds too many times to assume automatic death.
The young cadet might have lived through those, he could not have lived through what the fired-up crowd had done. The uniforms of the two cadets had been ripped off and they were bloodily naked, their faces unrecognisable, their bodies broken so badly that their bones, all at impossible angles, were showing as people stepped over them, taking from the building anything they thought of value.
Pushing through them to go out onto the esplanade and the roadway, now covered by that armour-plated truck, they were confronted by women keening over bodies of both sexes. It was not just hindsight that underlined the stupidity of what they had done, it was the fact that those still trying to hold the building were now facing fire from their own; all that had been needed was a demonstration of intent. Once the riflemen on the roof turned their guns against their comrades they could have walked out of the cover of the trees without losing a soul.
At least some of those shot were surviving, being borne away on makeshift stretchers. Sitting down, Vince pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit up, puffing away and ignoring the waving hand of his companion trying to keep the smoke from blowing in his face, this while he reprised in his mind what had just happened, those ruminations distracted by the rattle of the machine gun. When silence followed, and was maintained, Cal and Vince exchanged glances; the job was done.
The so-called magazine yielded little more than what had been used in the defence, but the building served up a line of sorry-looking prisoners who were marched out through two lines of locals spitting at them, their hands on their heads, their uniforms bloody and filthy, and their faces showing the capture had not been gentle.
Jeers and spittle turned to cheers as the sailors who had rebelled, obviously lower deck by their uniforms, came out to handshakes and female kisses, a beaming Laporta behind them, who immediately climbed onto the truck and began to make a rousing speech.
The gist was easy to follow; even without a smattering of Spanish you just had to watch his eyes and the reactions of his audience. He was, Cal was certain, telling them they were brave and wonderful instead of excited and imprudent, praising what they had achieved and ignoring the cost in lives lost to their revolutionary fervour.