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.

When the firing died away, Cal was pleased to see the more astute were following him and Vince in making sure they had a full magazine ready. Within seconds all were aimed at those columns and the row of french windows, Cal fully expecting his pre-imagined grenade-throwers would show.

What did appear, and this shocked him even more than the desperate attack, was a body flying from the roof, a man in a dark-blue uniform, alive, flaying and screaming as he fell, till he splattered into a bloody pulp on the flagstone of the esplanade, that immediately followed by a furiously waving white flag.

The sound of shots did not cease, only now they were muffled, confined within the building, with Cal examining several possibilities on how to gain access and join what was obviously a fight between two factions of the Spanish navy, none of which he could execute. The bars on the lower windows were too thick, the distance to the next level too high without ladders, and all the while that white flag was waving, the man moving it not prepared to stand up, a wise precaution when facing people lacking any notion of restraint.

The solution arrived as a truck came slowly grinding up the road, covered in plating that had to weigh several tons, one great piece with horizontal slits across the windscreen, other plates down the sides with vertical firing slots. More important was the height of its plated roof, and shouting to Vince, Cal ran out, frantically waving that it should get alongside the building so that it could be used as a means of gaining entry.

It was a good job the men Laporta had left with him followed; dressed as he was and waving a rifle, he could have been anyone, but they had on their sleeves the red and black armbands of the CNT-FAI, which ensured the rifle muzzles which came out of the side of the truck held their fire. From then on it was sign language and yelling, which led Cal Jardine to the absurd thought, at this time and in this situation, that he was behaving, in dealing with the locals, like the typical Briton abroad.

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 skill: 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.