One day we shall tell our children about the defence of Madrid, this epic story that can never die in the pages of world history. I think of Jock Cunningham from Coatbridge out in Spain, the British Chapayev leading his men fearlessly and unafraid, dancing with death. A word of encouragement here, over the top there, bringing in a wounded comrade here. Ceaselessly moving among his men until everyone has become influenced with the mighty unconquerable spirit of a worker blessed with a fiery hatred of capitalism and fascism. This is Jock Cunningham: our Chapayev.

As we advanced we came under very heavy fire and had to keep - our heads down. I did my best, but, not far from me, John Cornford and Ralph Fox were killed. There were heavy casualties and I was wounded. I didn't know at the time where I'd been wounded - in which part of my body - except that when I tried to get up I couldn't. I just fell down - there was something wrong with my legs. As the day progressed, our people had to retreat and I was lying there unable to move - and there was no possibility of a stretcher-bearer coming for me. We were badly equipped, even with the Russian weapons, but particularly in respect of the medical equipment, which was very, very sparse. By that time we had a few doctors and nurses who had come as volunteers to Spain, but the medical equipment was very scarce. Interestingly, a very important part of the mass movement of support for the Spanish Republic throughout Great Britain focused specially on medical aid, including fully fitted-out ambulances and other medical equipment. But at the battle for Cordoba it was very difficult, and while I was lying there I always remember hearing them calling out, in Spanish, for stretcher-bearers to come. I lay there that night in what had become no man's land, because our people had had to withdraw. It was a long time later that I was told that people started looking for me, and Jock Cunningham, who'd been with the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders and had become a great friend of mine during the Battle of Madrid, said he was going out and looking for me. Apparently they said, "it's no use, lock, he's a dead 'un, a goner, and if you go out you'll be a goner too." Jock, to his credit, said he was going anyway. He looked around and found me - then literally dragged me in, because he couldn't find a stretcher. I had got a bullet in my left leg, and also in my back - because I had an early encounter with what in the Second World War came to be called "friendly fire".

We have a canteen in the line, a wall newspaper and a trench newspaper, delivered every morning before breakfast. We had a concert up in the line. The lads get bathed regularly, there is plenty of water being brought up by mule. It is possible to get a dozen of the lads to Madrid for two days leave per week. If there is anybody really bad they get 114 days in a rest home in the country.

There were a number of people who had been in the British Army, too. This was not a conscript army - there was no conscription or military service in Britain at the time - instead, these were mostly from Scottish regiments, such as the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. One of these was a man called Jock Cunningham, who became a very good friend of mine - in fact, he saved my life during the battle for Cordoba after I was wounded - and there were a couple of others from the Black Watch, who certainly knew the way the British army worked.

The English-speaking brigade broke up after that because there was no one of Nathan's capability, although we had Jock Cunningham... a brigade officer at Brunete but he wasn't a military leader of that nature. He was a very good inspiration within a small unit like a battalion, but when they put him in charge of larger units it didn't work out.

I saw Jock Cunningham on the 14th February and one of his orders was to move our gun to a position on the right flank to cover the gap where the Franco-Belge had been. Cunningham also asked for volunteers to recover a tripod that had been left out on no man's land. Ball and myself were two of the half dozen who went.We all returned safely. We dug our new gun emplacement but it was not so good as regards to fields of fire as our first position. The Battalion was now so short of men that Hart and myself as No.2 were the only ones left on the Maxim. The others, including Ball and Bibby, were taken back into the olive grove as riflemen. This was the last time I saw either of them. When the attack came later in the day it was to our left, and we fired and fired, but by then the Fascists had crossed the sunken road and were invisible in the trees. We carried on firing until our last belt, and then the gun jammed and lacking the tool to remove the faulty cartridge, we opened up the gun and took the lock out. By now we were almost surrounded, but we were able to make our way back to the olive grove where we met up with a few others ... I have wondered for years what happened to Ball and Bibby.

Tank shells began to fall all around us. At this moment Jock Cunningham... came up accompanied by Comrade Ball... They paused whilst jock scanned the Fascist positions through his field glasses. Suddenly, a shell burst right beside them... The explosion tore the leg off Comrade Ball... for a few minutes Ball lay, blood pouring from his ghastly wound and reddening the soil, but he died as he was carried away. I will never forget the look of rage and hatred upon Jock's face as he kicked loose soil over the blood soaked soil. Ball was his greatest friend.

They (members of the British Battalion) scorned the ideas of political commissars, "They (Jock Cunningham and the others) were soldiers first", they said. We had a great many arguments about it.They thought that the political commissars would meddle with tactical and military matters and said it was impossible to have two commands. They did not understand that the job of political commissar was as important as that of any other army officer.

Jock Cunningham was a bit of a problem. He didn't get on with Harry Pollitt (British Communist Party leader). Harry Pollitt worshipped Fred Copeman, he was the boy for Harry. I could not do anything wrong as far as Harry was concerned, and when I took over the battalion he came out and said, "Fred, this is the most wonderful thing from a party point of view". I said, "I can't think why it should be because I am not in the bloody party". I hadn't joined the party. I had always worked with them but I didn't hold a party card, but Harry thought I was the bee's knees and he was quite happy about that. I have a feeling that Harry was so anxious to build me up for the future that the danger he saw was Jock Cunningham, who was already more important than I was. He was a good lad and I accepted that. I thought Jock was the best. Anyway the end product was Harry said that the only people who had expressed a point of view as to what was happening to the battalion at that moment had been Fred Copeman and Wally Tapsell. His proposal was that we return to Spain and everybody else remained where they were. Jock just broke down. I have never seen anything like it. I tried to help him out but it was no good. I said, "Jock, it will be all right".