Mid-Late 1939.

The full power of the workers and peasants of Spain had come to bear against the Monarchists. Seemingly endless tanks, trucks, and troops were being deployed in the north of Spain, defying the cold, the terrain, all for a chance to free their comrades from the yoke of oppression.

Santiago cleaned his glasses and watched on as long columns of Soldiers, Paramilitants, Volunteers, and Civilians, worked together to work a cannon up an incline. Ropes were tied around it, and as those below pushed up, those who were higher up pulled. As the sun was still rising this early in the morning, this betrayed a certain mythic credence to the effort. The yellows and oranges of the dawn spread out across the cold horizon of the North of Iberia, reflecting off the sweat on a soldier's brow, the scrunched face and tightened muscles of the peasant woman, every breath exhaled. Sisyphus came to mind, but where he was alone, doomed to push a boulder up a mountain forever, straining under the impossible weight until it all came crashing back down, here, the workers had united as one. As the cannon peaked the crest of the hill, they did not celebrate; it had only been a few minutes, and it was an easy task, when united. Instead, they took a squinting look off into the horizon where the light had not yet reached; the West. The moon hung low in the sky there. They would bring the light to it, and slay the foul night which lay towards La Coruna. And they would have done it together.

Santiago changed his view to where a peasant family were helping soldiers carry supplies up another hill, scrambling up laden with tents, food, ammunition, all to load up a truck which would never have made it up the hill while burdened by it's load. They smiled; everyone was smiling. Something about the sunrise in this cold weather. As the final boxes of ammo were brought up, the family handed each soldier a fresh, warm loaf of bread, a hug, and a wish for them to get those monarchists good and win one for the people.

A truck and trailer carrying AA cannons, unpainted and seemingly fresh from manufacture, pulled up to the column where Santiago was standing. A band of factory workers got out, and greeted Santiago and his fellow paramilitants on the march as familiar friends; They hadn't delivered this last shipment yet, and didn't want it to miss out on this offensive. Painted on each gun was the signature of the workers who'd made it, and tucked away with each one was a small bottle of wine, and maybe even a letter or a rose from a boyfriend or girlfriend. Santiago smiled as he, from the barrel of a gun, plucked a letter from his boyfriend, which he put into his pocket for later reading. He gave a hug to his friend Erica, who had made sure the cannons and the letter would reach him, and watched as the workers rode off in the truck, passing out a few goody bags to troops along the return trip.

Santiago looked back up, into the rising sun as it crested the horizon, bringing the light of the Worker's Front further west. Flurries began to fall from the sky, pleasantly smudging his glasses, which he wiped off again. Friends and family were, here, beginning to break off from the long line of troops, handing off supplies which they had helped carry, giving final kisses and gifts. This was not just an effort by the militarized forces; this was an effort of all of free Spain.

It was going to be a slaughter; that is, it would be a slaughter for every man who tried to resist the will of the Partisans, of the workers and peasants who wished to rise up and be free, and of the 100,000 men of the Worker's Front who would fight for them all, here.

Trabajador, no más sufrir,

el opresor ha de sucumbir!

Levántate, pueblo leal,

al grito de revolución social!

Fuerte unidad de fe y de acción

producirá la revolución!

Nuestro pendón uno ha de ser:

sólo en la unión está el vencer!