Chapter 12: The Spanish Civil War – The Battle of Brunete (4)
Translated by Vine | Proofread by Lust
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July 11, 1937
Brunete Front, West of Madrid, Central Spain
The relentless bombing by both sides, fueled by the hot, dry weather, had ignited a massive wildfire.
The trees on the hills surrounding the open battlefield and the mountains beyond were ablaze.
Under normal circumstances, they would have tried to extinguish the fire, but neither side had the resources, nor was it a fire they could control with a small number of men.
It wasn’t like they had helicopters to drop fire retardant.
Fortunately, the main battlefield was open ground, so they didn’t have to worry about the fire spreading there. The problem was…
“Damn… it’s hot… so damn hot…”
“Tell me about it…”
The already sweltering heat, combined with the heat from the wildfire, created an infernal atmosphere.
It was so hot that neither the Republicans nor the Nationalists could even think about launching an offensive.
Not only that, but the wildfire was disrupting the already tenuous supply lines.
“Dietrich, can’t we just distribute some water?”
He shook his head at Clemens’ plea.
The supply disruptions had led to water shortages. Drinking now would provide temporary relief, but he couldn’t risk depleting their reserves when they didn’t know when the next supply delivery would arrive.
Colonel Juan Yagüe, now promoted, was a highly regarded commander among the Nationalists and prioritized logistics. This, in turn, was managed by the capable Colonel Model, the Condor Legion’s Chief of Staff.
So, supplies and water were being distributed with the utmost care. However, with the wildfire raging, it was inevitable that there would be disruptions.
He did have some extra water reserved for emergencies, but with men already succumbing to heatstroke, he wanted to avoid running out of water at all costs.
He could only hope that the Republicans were in the same, or worse, situation.
While they were suffering in the heat, the battle raged on in the sky, unaffected by the inferno below.
“Spectacular…”
He muttered involuntarily. It truly was a sight to behold.
The ground was burning, smoke billowing into the sky, while above, steel birds danced, maneuvering and engaging each other, vying for control.
It was a scene that deserved the title “hellish battlefield,” but they had no cameras to capture it.
The Republicans, seemingly desperate to break the stalemate, had committed a large number of aircraft, a sight not seen since the initial stages of the offensive.
However, the wildfire prevented them from launching a ground attack, and in the meantime, Nationalist forces were steadily gathering.
Loss of the element of surprise due to environmental factors and a stalled offensive… Where had he seen this before? This time, he was on the other side.
The Republican commanders, seemingly impatient, tried to probe with their air force, but the skies were no longer what they remembered.
The I-16, a new Soviet monoplane fighter, had a clear advantage against the Condor Legion’s and the Italian air force’s outdated biplanes. But it was no match for the Bf 109, the new German fighter that would become the backbone of the Luftwaffe’s early successes in World War II.
The Republicans, who had enjoyed air superiority since the beginning of the war by dominating the skies with their new Soviet fighters, were now losing ground, even after committing their main air power!
“Oooh!”
An enemy bomber, trailing smoke and missing a wing, plummeted to the earth.
At least his men had something to watch in this scorching heat, deprived of water.
They weren’t reckless enough to commit their bombers while still vying for air superiority, but the impatient Republicans kept sending their bombers, only to add to the Luftwaffe’s kill count.
Thanks to this, they could relax and watch the airshow instead of frantically firing their 88s, only keeping their anti-aircraft gunners on standby.
The anti-aircraft guns of this era weren’t accurate enough to distinguish between friend and foe, so firing in support could easily lead to disaster.
He took advantage of the lull to review the operational plan Colonel Model had given him.
It was clearly a rough draft, a very rough one at that.
It only outlined the unit positions, objectives, and approximate timing of the operation. It was hard to believe this was an operational plan.
The Nationalists weren’t known for their meticulous planning, but this was a bit much.
Perhaps it was meant as an assignment, a test of sorts.
He couldn’t have given him an actual operational plan, a top-secret document, so perhaps it was meant as a starting point for his own analysis. He asked around and found out that all the company commanders had received the same document.
“Hmm…”
He wasn’t capable of devising a grand offensive plan, having only been a sergeant in the 21st century…
But the feeling that Colonel Model was testing them was so strong that he couldn’t afford to be careless.
Walther Model was known for being a fatherly figure to his soldiers but demanding towards his staff and officers.
If he submitted a half-hearted analysis, he would not only be humiliated but also risk falling out of Model’s favor.
“Working hard, Company Commander?”
Clemens’ teasing was distracting.
This guy, while addressing him as “Company Commander” in front of the men, hadn’t changed his attitude.
“Hey, instead of teasing, give me some advice. Do your job, Adjutant.”
“With all due respect, Lieutenant, what would a lowly Second Lieutenant like myself know?”
“…Cheeky bastard.”
He wasn’t about to pull rank on his friend in a non-emergency situation.
But he did want to bring Clemens with him to the War College…
“Clemens, seriously. Colonel Model is a General Staff officer from the Berlin General Staff. If we impress him, he might recommend us for the War College. Don’t you want to be a General Staff officer? If your advice proves useful, I won’t take all the credit.”
“Well, I can’t say I haven’t thought about it. But seeing you and the Chief of Staff, I realize what it takes to be a General Staff officer, and I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”
“I see…”
He couldn’t imagine “General Staff Officer Fleck” or “General Fleck” either. Clemens was more of a field officer type.
“If I get into the War College, I’ll have to go to Berlin, and I didn’t want to leave you behind.”
“Wasn’t it you who said becoming a General Staff officer wasn’t easy?”
He chuckled at Clemens’ teasing. Yes, he did say that.
“Thanks for the concern. But let’s talk after it happens, Company Commander.”
“…You’re insufferable.”
He shouldn’t be worrying about Clemens while plotting to oust the Nazis, but he couldn’t help it. Clemens’ teasing was his way of showing concern.
He was grateful.
He had Clemens, who reminded him of his army buddies back in Korea, and Captain Kaufmann, a kind and supportive superior, to thank for his relative sanity in this insane situation, a 21st-century Korean stuck in Nazi Germany during World War II.
Without them…
What kind of person would he have become? He didn’t know, but it wouldn’t have been good.
“Uh, Company Commander, you’re staring. It’s making me uncomfortable.”
He chuckled at Clemens’ awkwardness.
If Clemens knew about his plans to oust the Nazis, what would he say?
Would he be shocked, call him a traitor…? Or would he… trust him?
He didn’t know.
Whatever the outcome, he had to prevent his friend, and other Germans, from dying needlessly for Hitler’s madness.
Whatever the cost.
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July 18, 1937
11th Division Headquarters, Brunete Front, West of Madrid, Central Spain
Colonel Enrique Líster, hailed as a war hero of the Republic, sat slumped in his chair, his face haggard from days of sleep deprivation, dark circles under his eyes.
“A disaster…”
He sighed deeply.
The ambitious offensive, intended to push back the Nationalist forces pressuring Madrid, had failed utterly, despite the Republic committing all its resources.
Líster had lost ten tanks in the initial assault due to the blunder of Lieutenant Colonel Mallo, who had been blinded by the prospect of glory. Even after properly coordinating with the infantry, the demoralized armored units suffered heavy casualties and were forced to retreat.
He had requested a halt to the offensive, reporting the heavy losses and concluding that breaking through the Condor Legion’s defenses was impossible. However, the high command, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, demanded that the offensive continue with air support.
But even the skies, where the Republicans had believed they held an advantage, had turned against them.
Their seemingly invincible Soviet fighters were no match for the new German fighters.
The high command had reasoned that the enemy’s new anti-tank weapons would be vulnerable to bombing, but that was only true if they could actually bomb them.
Breaking through the enemy fighters was difficult, and even the bombers that managed to get through, at the cost of their fighter escorts, were often shot down by concentrated anti-aircraft fire.
Field artillery engaging in counter-battery fire, anti-tank guns, and anti-aircraft guns… How many guns had those Germans brought?
The wildfire had further complicated matters, causing them to miss their window of opportunity. Líster, seeing the arrival of enemy reinforcements, again requested permission to withdraw, but was ordered to continue the attack.
The result was catastrophic. Lacking proper air support, his troops, attacking across the same open ground, were now subjected to Nationalist air raids, and were being slaughtered.
The German air force demonstrated a new tactic, diving vertically from high altitude, achieving an unnervingly high accuracy rate with their bombing runs, destroying his precious tanks.
Combined with the enemy’s anti-tank guns, the Soviet tanks, the Republic’s most valuable asset, were being destroyed left and right.
His 11th Division was an elite unit, but the relentless offensive in the scorching heat, deprived of water, had broken their morale.
No matter how many messengers he sent pleading for water, the supply was always insufficient.
Líster stared at the casualty report with bloodshot eyes. Forty percent casualties. Half of his 100 tanks destroyed or out of action due to damage.
Just as many men had succumbed to heatstroke as had fallen in battle.
He couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it, but the reality was harsh. His elite division, once the pride of the Republic, was practically destroyed.
Now, the enemy, reinforced by troops from the northern Basque front, was preparing a counteroffensive.
They couldn’t launch another attack, let alone hold the line. Líster requested permission to retreat to save his remaining men.
The reply was less a disappointment, more a cruel joke.
[Your request is denied. Your unit currently has the most remaining combat power. Establish defensive positions at Brunete and hold the line.]
He had reported his forty percent casualty rate without exaggeration. And they were telling him he had the most remaining combat power?
What was the state of the other units? What had they gained by sacrificing so many for the sake of the people?
Should he have disobeyed the attack order? He believed that even if he had, he would have been relieved of command.
The Republicans had bet too much on this offensive, and the swift capture of Brunete had become a poisoned chalice.
But if he had disobeyed, he wouldn’t have sent his men to their deaths.
Líster stared at the telegram for a long time, then shifted his gaze to the pistol on his desk.
Would the Republicans ever have another chance to launch an offensive?
They had already lost too much to overcome the corrupt Spanish government and the madness of the Nationalists, to raise the banner of the people and communism.
He slowly picked up the pistol and raised it to his head.
“Colonel! Enemy attack!”
At that moment, his adjutant burst into the room.
“C…Colonel!”
Líster lowered the pistol with a hollow laugh.
“Those damn Germans won’t even let me die in peace.”
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