Free The Eldorado Network by Derek Robinson Page B

Jarama through the Franco lines, and delivered Dru to the flat roof of General Mola's headquarters in good time to watch Mola's men go up the hill to attack the International Brigade. This battle had gone on long enough; Dru wanted a good, clean-cut result. He rested his binoculars on the parapet and searched for signs of success in Mola's men. 'These guys look like they know what they're doing,' he told Luis.
    They did. Six batteries of Spanish artillery had lobbed shells at the Republican positions; German gunners of the Condor Legion had been pounding away with their 88-millimetres; and a unit of the Italian Air Force had bombed the crest. Now Mola's infantry were climbing to take the hills: professionals from the Army of Africa, lithe, agile, Moorish-looking riflemen in grey blanket-capes. They seemed to flit up the slope like a plague of moths climbing a brown curtain, pausing every few paces to find cover where even Dru, using binoculars, could see no cover. Their shots sounded like someone breaking up firewood, a busy, irregular snapping which nibbled away at the quiet of the valley. Once they had broken the Line, Mola said, he would launch his cavalry at the retreating remnants.
    A German captain of the Condor Legion came onto the roof to watch the assault. Dru nodded to him, and said: 'Those eighty-eights of yours pack quite a punch.'
    'In Germany we make the best artillery in the world.'
    'You enjoying yourself in Spain?'
    'It is good training for my men.' The German accepted a glass of beer from an orderly, and grimaced at it. 'See: no guts. That's the trouble with this country. They make bad beer. And bad bread. And bad governments.'
    'Do they make anything good?' Luis asked him.
    'They make good targets.' The German turned away and called down to a friend who was walking by and spilled some beer over the edge to make him dodge.
    Luis was about to reply when Dru nudged him. 'Forget it,' he said.
    'Spain does not need these foreign mechanics to save herself,' Luis scowled. 'I wish they would all go home.'
    'How about those foreign mechanics, up there?' Dru asked.
    'At least they are dying for Spain.'
    'Uh-huh. You've got to die for something before you're accepted into the club. Is that it?'
    There was an answer to that but Luis could not immediately produce it. He folded his arms and stared sullenly at the hill. At length he made a statement. 'It is all a matter of courage and sacrifice,' he said. 'That is what matters in Spain.'
    When they went downstairs for lunch, the assault had been halted by raking machine-gun fire from the top: the Republicans' elderly, armour-plated Maxims were clattering away as regularly and implacably as farm machinery. Mola was in good humour, however. He welcomed Dru and asked him about his impressions of the Republican forces. 'I'm told those curious volunteers up there actually have no maps,' he said. 'Is that right?'
    'It's possible. I saw no maps.'
    'Their commander does not believe in using maps. It seems he associates maps with treachery.' Mola spread his arms in a gesture of mild amazement. 'How can one win a war without a map?'
    Dru put his finger to his lips, The muted clatter of the Maxims came down the hot midday air, soft and steady, like someone lazily popping the stitches of an endless, metallic seam. 'They don't think they're losing,' he said.
    'Nor does the bull when he charges the matador,' Mola replied, and there was a ripple of laughter from his aides.
    'Is that how you see this war? A kind of ritual bloodletting?' Dru asked. 'An act, a dramatic performance?'
    Mola sipped his wine while he thought about his answer.
    'In Spain everything is a dramatic performance,' he said. 'It's always the same drama: life against death. Every Spaniard is half in love with death. Here we have a civil war because so many Spaniards wish to kill Spain, and only a great deal of death will satisfy them. It must be death met with courage and resolution and all the other dramatic virtues,