The barrel of the rifle was cold on my skin as the Nationalist soldier pressed it hard against the back of my neck, marching me towards the line-up being formed in front of the firing squad. There I stood, among my fellow comrades of the 15th brigade, awaiting my fate following our capture. Despite our best efforts, we had lost our hold on the town of Gandesa and were now facing either execution or imprisonment at the hands of the Fascists. From Gandesa we had been transported to Alcaniz and had just arrived in Saragossa by truck. The men of the firing squad stood before us with their rifles at the ready, waiting for orders from their commanding officers. I was sure that this was the end, the moment we had all been dreading since our capture at Gandesa.
Surrounding me were nearly fifty members of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, all with their heads held upright and not showing a glimpse of fear. Yet I knew that, like myself, their hearts were beating out of their chests with fear. But greater than my fear was my feelings of hatred. Not hatred towards the men of the firing squad who were about to take our lives, but hatred towards Franco and the masses who were attempting to march mankind into the arms of suffering and destruction. Hatred towards those who had betrayed democracy and were forcing fascism upon us all.
I was quickly jolted back to reality when a small group of officers approached the firing squad. They engaged in a brief conversation, one that I couldn’t interpret due to their hushed voices and my poor Spanish skills, yet I was sure they were ordering our execution. But then, to my utter disbelief, the firing squad lowered their rifles. Before I knew it we were being handcuffed and taken to the train station. That night we boarded a train that took us to Burgos, and then crammed into trucks that would be delivering us to our next stop, for which no one had the slightest idea would be.