Chapter 13: The Spanish Civil War – The Battle of Brunete (5)
Translated by Vine | Proofread by Lust
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July 18, 1937
Brunete Front, West of Madrid, Central Spain
Colonel Model collected the operational plans from each unit commander, and three days later, the counteroffensive began.
“Advance! Advance! Advance!”
The incessant crackle of bolt-action rifles and the roar of machine guns filled the air.
“Incoming!”
“Aaaaagh!”
A slender, pencil-like aircraft, trailing flames, plummeted from the sky. His men scattered in terror just before it hit the ground and exploded.
That was one of their Do 17 bombers. He hoped it wasn’t Lieutenant Colonel Richthofen…
He was a skilled pilot and a future ace of the Luftwaffe, so he probably wouldn’t die in a place like this. Still, he couldn’t help but worry, as Richthofen insisted on flying on the front lines despite his senior command position.
While they pressed their attack on the ground, over a hundred aircraft battled in the sky.
The fierce dogfight continued, with burning aircraft falling to the earth.
They were supposed to have 80 aircraft participating in the operation, and the Republicans seemed to have dozens as well.
Both sides had committed everything to this battle.
“Look out!”
Sergeant Kohr tackled a new recruit, shielding him with his body just as enemy fire strafed the ground where the recruit had been standing. He breathed a sigh of relief, only to see…
…a Bf 109 on the enemy fighter’s tail, firing its machine guns.
The enemy aircraft, engulfed in flames, lost altitude and crashed, exploding into pieces.
“Company Commander! I need more lives!”
“Keep dodging! You might survive!”
This was the first time the Condor Legion was leading an offensive. The oppressive heat and the tension of the battlefield were suffocating.
He had to stay focused. One mistake could be fatal.
At least, as a commander, he was observing and issuing orders from behind the lines, unlike his men, who were charging directly into the enemy defenses.
He had heard bullets ricocheting off the ground and nearby cover more than once…
Panzer I tanks were frequently being destroyed by ambushing enemy tanks or artillery fire.
“Agh! Aaaaagh!”
A tanker, trying to escape from his burning tank, screamed in agony as he stumbled out of the hatch, his hands charred black, before collapsing. The sickening smell of burning flesh filled the air.
Tanks were just mobile coffins, weren’t they? He would never get into one of those things.
“Clemens! Stop the 3rd Platoon! They’re overextended!”
“Yes, sir!”
While Clemens dispatched a messenger, he quickly unfolded his map.
Since Colonel Model’s arrival, the operational plans had become remarkably detailed.
Until then, the Condor Legion had typically issued orders based on the German mission-type tactics, designating objectives and leaving the execution to the discretion of the commanders. Colonel Model was the opposite.
He created meticulously detailed plans, dictating every step of the offensive.
He even provided contingency plans for every foreseeable scenario, bordering on paranoia.
To his surprise, the attack route for his company incorporated many of the suggestions he had submitted.
If this was true for other units as well, did Colonel Model synthesize all the commanders’ input and create such a detailed plan in just three days?
Despite the casualties, the overall situation seemed to be progressing according to plan. The enemy’s losses were substantial, and their defenses were crumbling.
The constant barrage of artillery fire was deafening, but thankfully, the gods of war were too busy dueling each other to target them directly.
“If only we had the 88s, we could be relaxing in the back…”
He chuckled at Clemens’ grumbling. He suspected Model had redeployed them for precisely that reason.
Just before the offensive, Model had created a separate “Multi-Purpose Support Artillery” unit, pulling all the 88 anti-aircraft guns and their crews from the companies and replacing them with infantry.
His ability to “create reserves on the front line,” as it was called, by reorganizing units on the fly, even splitting divisions if necessary, was already evident.
The bulky and slow-to-deploy 88, originally designed as an anti-aircraft gun, was difficult for infantry to maneuver during an offensive. And anti-aircraft gun crews weren’t normally attached to infantry companies.
The strange mixed organization was a unique characteristic of the Condor Legion, intended for static defense, occasional deployments, and testing new equipment.
Although the reorganization was meant to facilitate a faster and more efficient advance, there had been complaints, as it disrupted the established unit structures. Even General Thoma, who usually delegated such matters to his Chief of Staff, had expressed reservations.
But Colonel Model, abandoning his usual jovial demeanor and penchant for dad jokes, had persuaded General Thoma and silenced the other commanders with his characteristically forceful arguments.
And as a result, he was now risking his life leading his men from the front lines.
It was a highly rational and efficient deployment of resources, but it still felt irritating to have something taken away after it had been given.
There was a reason why so many officers disliked him…
…He was starting to resent Model, brilliant strategist or not.
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July 20, 1937
Republican Headquarters, Madrid, Capital of Spain
“This is preposterous! How, how could everything fail so completely?!”
General Miaja slammed his fist on the table, but his Colonels remained silent, exchanging uneasy glances.
“Forty percent casualties for the division in the best shape? We have divisions with over sixty percent casualties! What kind of attacks were they conducting?! Have we ever experienced such losses before?”
General Miaja raged, but it was he who had ordered the continued attack on Carabanchel, even after Colonel Casado, sent to replace the incapacitated Colonel Jurado, had assessed the situation and requested permission to withdraw, deeming the objective unattainable.
It was the Colonels present who had urged him on, denouncing Casado as a defeatist and flattering him by saying such an opportunity might never come again.
And they were half right.
The Republicans would likely never again have the opportunity to launch such a large-scale offensive. Their capacity to do so had been utterly destroyed in this battle.
They were now facing a Nationalist counteroffensive, completely broken, having pushed their troops to the limit in a reckless offensive under extreme heat, with over twenty percent of their forces suffering from heatstroke and dehydration.
The Nationalists, having pulled troops from the Basque front, were attacking from three directions simultaneously, and the Republican forces, already stretched thin, were experiencing widespread insubordination and desertion.
Even a significant portion of the International Brigades, some of the Republic’s best troops, disillusioned by the pointless and costly offensives, had abandoned the front lines, declaring their intention to return home.
Even the ardent democrats and communists, who had fought valiantly for freedom and justice, even at the “Suicide Hill” in the Battle of Jarama, one of the fiercest battlegrounds, had turned their backs on the Republic, disgusted by the incompetence of their leadership.
“What is this?! What is the meaning of this?!”
General Miaja threw the telegram from Líster at Colonel Modesto, who had been summoned from the front lines.
Colonel Enrique Líster, commander of the 11th Division, having repeatedly requested permission to halt the offensive or withdraw, to no avail, had bypassed the chain of command and sent a telegram directly to headquarters.
“He wants confirmation that the order to hold Brunete is correct, despite forty percent casualties and half his tanks lost? What is this?! What happened to the 11th Division I knew?!”
Modesto grimaced. Líster, that damn bastard, had finally done it.
“You demanded air support, and I pulled it from Carabanchel, despite the difficult situation there! Sixty aircraft, sixty! And what were the results?! You even falsified the casualty reports!”
There were no results. None whatsoever.
The Nationalists had deployed a massive air force, exceeding the 60 aircraft the Republic had scraped together, including new German fighters clearly superior to the Soviet ones.
Whether at Carabanchel or Brunete, the Republican air force wouldn’t have made a difference.
This battle had defied all expectations. The Republicans hadn’t anticipated a situation where their tanks and air force, which they believed to be superior to the Nationalists’, would be ineffective.
But what good were excuses now?
Should he have raised Líster’s initial request to bypass the Condor Legion’s defenses? It would have been dismissed, but at least he wouldn’t be taking the blame.
If he had accepted Líster’s repeated requests to withdraw after the wildfire had disrupted their plans, they might have had enough forces to hold Brunete, even if Carabanchel fell.
Of course, he had dismissed Líster’s requests after witnessing Colonel Casado, who had made similar requests at Carabanchel, being denounced as a defeatist and ordered to continue the attack.
His promotion to General was out of the question.
If he had at least feigned disagreement with the high command, intoxicated by the swift capture of Brunete… He couldn’t escape the blame for this failure.
“We pushed the attack too hard in the heat, the enemy unexpectedly used their anti-aircraft guns as long-range anti-tank weapons, and the Germans intervened…”
“Silence!”
The Republicans, through reports from their spies within the Nationalist ranks, had finally learned that the dreaded “anti-tank field guns” were actually the 8.8cm Flak, the 88 anti-aircraft guns already in use by the Germans. They also confirmed that Walther Model, the Condor Legion’s new Chief of Staff, had played a significant role in planning this operation. It was too late now, though.
“Those filthy fascists have become slaves to Germany! Why did we let the Germans interfere with our strategy?! Why is a mere volunteer acting as Chief of Staff?!”
Both Italy and Germany had sent forces far exceeding the scale of “volunteers,” but no one dared to point out this grim reality.
Especially not after the Republican high command had just sacrificed their troops in an operation intended to appease the Soviets.
“And what’s this, a Lieutenant’s suggestion? Ha! Our entire tank force was decimated because of some idea a Lieutenant came up with on the fly? Is that what you’re telling me?”
The Colonels averted their gaze as General Miaja, enraged, slammed his fist on the table.
“Impossible! It’s just an excuse! An excuse to cover up your incompetence!”
He had demonstrated the epitome of incompetence as a commander-in-chief, sacrificing his troops in a reckless offensive under extreme heat.
But the Republican high command, dominated by political officers, was more concerned with concealing their mistakes than acknowledging reality.
He glared at his Colonels with bloodshot eyes and spat out his orders, “Unfortunately, Líster’s 11th Division, with forty percent casualties, is the most intact unit we have left. Tell him to hold Brunete. Gather the remnants of the other units and send them to Brunete as well!”
Everyone present knew that even if they scraped together all their remaining forces, they wouldn’t match the strength of a single Nationalist army, let alone the three currently engaged in the counteroffensive.
“We must hold Brunete! At all costs!”
But no one spoke the truth. If they could hold Brunete, they could claim some measure of success and deflect blame.
Everyone in the room just wanted to escape this oppressive meeting as quickly as possible.
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