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pped fuzz of white hair, nearing retirement and rigidly orthodox. In theory he was there only to help and advise the Spanish commanders. In practise the Russians called the shots.
"We're wasting time and energy on these little villages," Lloyd said, translating into German what Lenny and all the experienced men were saying. "Tanks are supposed to be armored fists, used for deep penetration, striking far into enemy territory. The infantry should follow, mopping up and securing after the enemy has been scattered."
Volodya was standing nearby, listening, and seemed by his expression to agree, though he said nothing.
"Small strongpoints like this wretched one-horse town should not be allowed to delay the advance, but should be bypassed and dealt with later by a second line," Lloyd finished.
Bobrov looked shocked. "This is the theory of the discredited Marshal Tuchachevsky!" he said in hushed tones. It was as if Lloyd had told a bishop to pray to Buddha.
"So what?" said Lloyd.
"He has confessed to treason and espionage, and has been executed."
Lloyd stared incredulously. "Are you telling me that the Spanish government cannot use modern tank tactics because some general has been purged in Moscow?"
"Lieutenant Williams, you are becoming disrespectful."
Lloyd said: "Even if the charges against Tuchachevsky are true, that doesn't mean his methods are wrong."
"That will do!" Bobrov thundered. "This conversation is over."
Any hope Lloyd might have had remaining was crushed when his battalion was moved from Quinto back in the direction they had come, another sideways maneuver. On September 1 they were part of the attack on Belchite, a well-defended but strategically worthless small town twenty-five miles wide of their objective.
It was another hard battle.
Some seven thousand defenders were well dug in at the town's largest church, San Agustin, and atop a nearby hill, with trenches and earthworks. Lloyd and his platoon reached the outskirts of town without casualties, but then came under withering fire from windows and rooftops.
Six days later they were still there.
The corpses were stinking in the heat. As well as humans, there were dead animals, for the town's water supply had been cut off and livestock were dying of thirst. Whenever they could the engineers stacked the bodies up, doused them with gasoline, and set fire to them, but the smell of roasting humans was worse than the stink of corruption. It seemed hard to breathe, and some of the men wore their gas masks.
The narrow streets around the church were killing fields, but Lloyd had devised a way to make progress without going outside. Lenny had found some tools in a workshop. Now two men were making a hole in the wall of the house in which they were sheltering. Joe Eli was using a pickax, sweat gleaming on his bald head. Corporal Rivera, who wore a striped shirt in the anarchist colors of red and black, wielded a sledgehammer. The wall was made of flat, yellow local bricks, roughly mortared. Lenny directed the operation to make sure they did not bring the entire house down: as a miner, he had an instinct for the trustworthiness of a roof.
When the hole was big enough for a man to pass through, Lenny nodded to Jasper, also a corporal. Jasper took one of his few remaining grenades from his belt pouch, drew the pin, and threw it into the next house, just in case there was an ambush. As soon as it had exploded, Lloyd crawled quickly through the hole, rifle at the ready.
He found himself in another poor Spanish home, with whitewashed walls and a floor of beaten earth. There was no one here, dead or alive.
The thirty-five men of his platoon followed him through the hole and ran through the place to flush out any defenders. The house was small and empty.
In this way they were moving slowly but safely through a row of cottages toward the church.
They started work on the next hole, but before they broke through, they were halted by a major called Marquez who came along the row of houses by the route they had made through the walls. "Forget all that," he said in Spanish-accented English. "We're going to rush the church."
Lloyd went cold. It was suicidal. He said: "Is that Colonel Bobrov's idea?"
"Yes," said Major Marquez noncommittally. "Wait for the signal: three sharp blows on the whistle."
"Can we get more ammunition?" Lloyd said. "We're low, especially for this kind of action."
"No time," said the major, and he went away.
Lloyd was horrified. He had learned a lot in a few days of battle, and he knew that the only way to rush a well-defended position was under a hail of covering fire. Otherwise the defenders would just mow the attackers down.
The men looked mutinous, and Corporal Rivera said: "It is impossible."
Lloyd was responsible for maintaining their morale. "No complaints, you lot," he said breezily. "You're all volunteers. Did you think war wasn't dangerous? If it was safe, your sisters could do it for you." They laughed, and the moment of danger passed, for now.
He moved to the front of the house, opened the door a crack, and peeped out. The sun glared down on a narrow street with houses and shops on both sides. The buildings and the ground were the same pale tan color, like undercooked bread, except where shelling had gouged up red earth. Right outside the door a militiaman lay dead, a cloud of flies feasting on the hole in his chest. Looking toward the square, Lloyd saw that the street widened toward the church. The gunmen in the high twin towers had a clear view and an easy shot at anyone approaching. On the ground there was only minimal cover: some rubble, a dead horse, a wheelbarrow.
