such open ground. But for the moment it seems to be all right. The 
Spanish Brigade cannot be seen, it must be much further to the left. 
Noon. The time is passing swiftly. We are in the middle of 
a fight. The Fascist machine guns are firing their explosive bullets on 
us, and they make a sharp crackle as they explode around us. Some of 
the Battalion are wounded. Most belong to the Company which entered 
the battle first. They are trying to take a small hill by assault. The 
Fascists have the advantage in numbers and in arms. Their machine 
gun fire is devastating our ranks. Nearly a whole Company has been 
wiped out. I learn that our machine guns are out of action. 
The men take advantage of every possible shelter, olive trees, vines, 
furrows, streams, and the advance continues. But the sound of cannon 
begins to mingle with that of the machine guns. A rain of steel is falling 
along the whole of the front occupied by our Brigade. Our advance 
has stopped. The Fascist machine guns still have us within range and 
our own are out of action. We have rifles — the Fascists have cannons. 
At this moment I am ashamed of being French. Brave men are dying 
there only because they lack arms. There are plenty of arms at the 
frontier, bought by the Government long before the Fascist rebellion. 
Non-intervention! The Fascists don’t lack arms. The best sons of Eng- 
land and France are dying here killed by German, Italian and Portu- 
gese shrapnel. Non-intervention! 
The Fascists are increasing the intensity of their fire. We are giving 
way. It is necessary to retire. Slowly, we move backwards. All are 
sweating, and the perspiration is pouring down their faces, which are 
smeared with mud and sometimes with blood. The machine gunners 
are struggling along with their useless guns. They want to leave nothing 
behind, but it is hard work in the powerful mid-day sun. 
All are thirsty, but there is no water. The artillery fire follows us 
as we retreat. The shells fall in our midst. A number of them do not 
explode and we thank the German and Italian workers for this. But 
how bitter we all feel. 
Ever more frequently we hear the shells whistling through the air. 
The machine gunners can no longer see us and they have stopped firing, 
but the shelling goes on... 

42