Our No. 2 Gun, under the command of Jim Sullivan and manned by two British and two Spanish comrades was inside a little hut on a height that dominated the rear of Fascist Headquarters. It had been pouring Well-directed fire that drove them out of the back rooms of the building. When three of our tanks came nearby and joined in, the combined thun- der of the four guns threatened to bring the little hut down on the heads of the crew. '

Behind the hut was a concrete threshing-‘floor across which the am- munition-carriers had to travel-—a good target for a Fascist machine—gun and odd snipers. Accordingly, the carriers’ progress was always as hurried as the heavy ammunition cases would permit. But, one Spanish

comrade, Alberto, time after time selected that particular death-trap on S‘

which to squat on his ammunition—box for a moment’s rest. And he got away with it!

“Comrade prisoner”, as Major Merriman called him, was another diversion. Merriman brought him in——a young peasant who said he had been forced to fight for Franco, had been captured by us, and now wanted to point out certain Fascist strongholds. That job done, Mer- riman went to direct operations elsewhere, leaving our new-found “com- rade” in our care. Bullets were dinging the gun—shie1~d once in a while or chipping brick off the interior walls. “Comrade prisoner” didn’t like it. He asked for an escort to take him elsewhere. Hughie Smith got the job. With fine courtesy, Hughie told the prisoner run on ahead. First man across that bullet-swept threshing-floor stood the better chance!

Life wasn’t full of just such incidents. When darkness fell on the fourth night, Belchite presented a picture of the horrors of war which no Hollywood film could ever give. Several large buildings were ablaze. Tongues of flame shot up into the black palls of smoke overhead, The summer breeze wafted across the countryside the stench, nauseating and strong, of dead bodies, human and animal. iAbove the crackling of the fires maniacal yells arose from some demented creatures whose nerves could no longer stand the strain. Throughout the night, the con- tinuous exploding of grenades marked the relentless advance of our bombing-squads. It was war shorn of all its glamour, war cruel and bloody—— but a war we had to win.

, And in pushing the siege to a speedy conclusion our Battery played an important role. Our No. 3 Gun (commanded by Jim Coone) was set the task of penetrating through the streets and making a frontal attack on the Fascist Headquarters, in the Calle Mayor. The gun first took up position at the archway leading from the Square into that street. The nearest houses, left and right, were ours. The remainder had to be cleared out. A barricade under the arch obstructed both our fire and

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