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Alberto recognised Stan, one of the unit, and struggled to get out of the back, dragging the sack of post after him. He was glad to hear Edwards was still their elected leader. The man was quiet but sure, capable of calming the huge arguments over tactics that tended to brew up in the company. He always took a vote on action and went with the decision. Alberto had been hearing stories back in the city of elected leaders being replaced with Comintern faithful, the collective forced to recant and return to old military hierarchies ‘for expediency’. He had not wanted to come back to find himself being ordered to fight.

Once the crate of wine and tobacco had been unloaded, they started across a scrubby field towards a gully. Edwards had suggested Eileen stay at the farmhouse but she had assured him she would be fine. He explained the situation as they walked, gesturing northwards.

‘The rebels hold that hill opposite, you see it? Sometimes light reflects off their rifles so we know where they are.’

‘How far have you advanced?’ the Doctor asked.

‘Advanced? We’ve not moved for two months. Come, let me show you so you can report back to Barcelona. They should send us guns and ammunition, not touring parties.’

As they descended into the gully sandbags started to build to a wall, eclipsing the Nationalist-held side. As his boots sunk into the cold water at the bottom of the trench, Alberto felt he had never been away. Eileen and the Doctor were looking about curiously, the woman clearly looking for her husband whilst the Doctor studied the trench. In the wider foxholes, militiamen lounged, rolling cigarettes or reading days old papers. Alberto slapped the arms of many of them, pleased to see so many familiar faces.

‘You really are entrenched,’ the Englishman remarked as they continued along to one of the wide areas where a small stove was set up and a battered tarpaulin kept off the sun and rain. Alberto dropped the mailbag and started to sort it, doing his best to listen even as his comrades started to crowd around hoping for news from elsewhere.

Edwards shrugged as he sat on an upturned bucket and poked at the stove. ‘We get the least weapons, the worst air cover and keep your heads down!’

The Doctor sheepishly looked at the sandbag by his head where a new grazed groove indicated where the bullet had skimmed. Alberto realised that if the man had been standing fully upright the bullet would have ripped through his head.

‘And,’ Edwards continued, as if discussing the state of his garden back in England, ‘those bastards have high-power rifles and trained shots. Military.’

The Doctor moved over to Alberto’s side, taking a handful of the mail and helping to pass it out. Unlike so many Englishmen here, he had no trouble pronouncing the names and the crowd was soon spreading back out again, sitting slowly reading letters, or reading them out to the less literate. Alberto noticed Antonio was still teaching Ramón to read, patiently explaining the words in a newspaper. Eileen was still standing close by the stove, frowning at the men. ‘Where’s Eric?’

The whistle broke the puzzled silence, the distant firing thump following a second later. The crump of the exploding shell was somewhere in the abandoned land between the hillside. Ramón leapt up and glared towards the Nationalist lines.

‘Hijos de puntos! It’s still the siesta! We’re eating!’ he yelled up into the sky, shaking his fist and making Eileen jump. He grinned as a distant shout came back, the words lost in the faint breeze, and sat back down. Up and down the trench, men were yelling out descriptions of fine food, despite having nothing but hunks of bread in their hands. Edwards was still grinning.

‘We always tell them we are eating. We had two deserters cross over this week already.’

Eileen was still watching him. ‘I’m looking for Eric Blair?’ she asked again. The Doctor held his hand above his head.

‘Can’t miss him, tall. English, like me. He joined your company last year.’

‘Joined, yes,’ Edwards said, frowning at them. ‘Didn’t come back from his last