The Great Rally

Told by F. R.

On the road from Chinchon to Madrid, the road along which we had 
marched to the attack three days before, were now scattered all who 
survived – a few hundred Britons, Irish and Spaniards. Dispirited by 
heavy casualties, by defeat, by lack of food worn out by three days of, 
gruelling fighting, our men appeared to have reached the end of their 
resistance. 
Some were still straggling down the slopes from what had been up 
to an hour ago, the front line. And now, there was no line, nothing 
between the Madrid road and the Fascists disorganised groups 
of weary, war-wreck men. After three days of terrific struggle, the 
superior numbers, the superior armament of the Fascists had routed 
them. All, as they came back had similar stories to tell: of comrades 
dead, of conditions that were more than flesh and blood could stand, of 
weariness they found hard to resist. 
I recognised the young Commissar of the Spanish Company. His 
hand bloody where a bullet had grazed the palm, he was fumbling ne- 
vertheless with his automatic, in turn threatening and pleading with his 
men. I got Manuel to calm him, and to tell him we would rally every- 
body in a moment. As I walked along the road to see how many men 
we had. I found myself deciding that we should go back up the line of 
the road to San Martín de la Vega, and take the Moors on their left flank. 
Groups were lying about on the roadside, hungrily eating oranges 
that had been thrown to them by a passing lorry. This was no time 
to sort them into units. I noted with satisfaction that some had brought 
down spare rifles. I found my eyes straying always to the hills we had 
vacated. I hitched a rifle on my shoulder. 
They stumbled to their feet. No time for barrack-square drill. One 
line of four. “Fall in behind us.” A few were still on the grass bank 
beside the road, adjusting helmets and rifles. “Hurry up!” came the 
cry from the ranks. 
Up the road towards the Cook-House I saw Jock Cunningham as- 

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