Dear Mother, several days have passed, rather months since the Civil War broke out. Counting the men that I have around me, we must already be about two hundred volunteers belonging to the International Brigades. I am currently in Madrid, under the command of Colonel Vicente Rojo. That bearded man who was such a friend of Father and now, still being an English soldier, has me as his right hand man. As for the war development, the National troops do not stop sowing fear wherever they arrive. Those faithful to the Republic are optimists, but Mother, I am afraid. I am afraid of having made the wrong decision, and like my Father, dying in a war that is not ours.
Someone is knocking on the door; I must leave you. Benedict