Chapter 14: The Spanish Civil War – The Battle of Brunete (6)
Translated by Vine | Proofread by Lust
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July 21, 1937
11th Division Headquarters, Brunete, West of Madrid, Central Spain
Colonel Enrique Líster had risked his superior’s wrath and bypassed the chain of command, sending a telegram in a last-ditch effort to save his men. The reply from headquarters was unequivocal.
[We acknowledge the severity of your division’s losses, but there are no other units within range capable of defending Brunete. We are sending reinforcements. Hold Brunete at all costs.]
“…Idiots.”
The phrase “at all costs” in a military order had a clear meaning.
Hold the line until you’re all dead.
He doubted it was even possible, and he was sure the high command knew it too.
They had chosen a desperate gamble with the lives of their remaining elite soldiers instead of preserving them for the future by retreating.
Was this place of such strategic importance that they had to sacrifice his men, who had fought for the Republic since the beginning of the war?
No. At least, not in his opinion.
This was just a stepping stone to securing the Extremadura road.
If they abandoned the road, Brunete would become a salient, a focal point for enemy attacks.
Yet, the high command had chosen to sacrifice his men.
They had chosen a gamble to show the Soviets and the West that the Republic still held the initiative in this war.
“What did they say, Colonel?”
Líster hesitated for a moment, looking at his equally exhausted adjutant, before answering, “They want us to hold Brunete… They said they’re sending reinforcements.”
“H…here? But our division…”
They exchanged sighs.
After a moment of silence, Líster began to laugh.
“Heh… Hehehe…”
“C…Colonel?”
“Hahaha… Isn’t it funny?”
“S…sir?”
“Hehehe… Hahaha…”
Líster laughed for a long time, leaving his bewildered adjutant speechless, before speaking again, “We’re fighting and dying for our country, but the outcome is being decided by foreigners.”
The Republic had become completely reliant on the Soviet Union.
And who was to blame for being forced into a desperate gamble, risking their last remaining elite troops, just to appease the Soviets?
“And the mastermind behind this defense and counteroffensive is a new German Chief of Staff? Walther Model? Haha… How can I not laugh? A German volunteer Chief of Staff, fresh off the boat, devising a better plan than us, who have been bleeding on this land for a year?”
The adjutant remained silent.
Veteran volunteers, particularly those from Britain and France who had experienced the previous war, had initially tried to contribute their expertise.
However, their suggestions were rejected by the anarchists, wary of foreign influence, and the communists, suspicious of the democratic world.
The Nationalists had been similarly disorganized, and it hadn’t been a major issue during the early stages of the war.
But as soon as Germany intervened in earnest, the Republic began to crumble.
“And that anti-tank gun that crippled our armored units is actually an anti-aircraft gun? And it was suggested by a front-line company commander? Lieutenant Dietrich Schacht? Heh… Isn’t it absurd that a war for the fate of our nation is being decided like this?”
“Colonel, we can still fight!”
The adjutant declared with conviction. Líster, despite his fatigue and stress, knew that the war wasn’t over just because they had lost this battle.
They had been caught off guard by the German intervention. They wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
But Spain couldn’t afford to sustain such losses repeatedly.
The Nationalist uprising, Madrid, Jarama, Guadalajara, the Northern Campaign, and now Brunete… They had already shed too much blood and suffered irreversible losses.
Their air force and armored units, their advantages, had been severely depleted in this battle. Would there be another chance? And even if there was, how much would they have left to fight with?
Germany’s intervention, though still officially on a “volunteer” basis, had inflicted this devastating defeat with just an air wing and a single division.
The high command’s misjudgment, dismissing Germany, a newly rearmed nation, as a minor threat compared to Italy, one of the three major powers, had led to catastrophic consequences.
Could the Republic win against them? Or how long could they hold out? Two years? One year?
Líster was pessimistic.
But he still had a duty to perform.
“…Let’s see what kind of ‘reinforcements’ they send us.”
—
July 23, 1937
Outskirts of Brunete, West of Madrid, Central Spain
This was the first time the Condor Legion was spearheading an offensive.
And unlike their previous defensive battles, they were suffering heavy losses against the Republicans, entrenched in the urban areas.
“Aaaaagh!”
“Medic!”
The battlefield was filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder, screams, and the carnage of fallen soldiers.
“Damn it! What’s that idiot doing?!”
“Dietrich!”
He saw a soldier wandering aimlessly in the midst of the firefight and sprinted towards him, tackling him to the ground.
“What are you doing, Private?! Do you have a death wish?!”
“M…my arm…”
“What?”
“My arm… my arm…”
He looked down and realized the soldier’s left arm was gone below the elbow.
The soldier muttered incoherently, then started to get up and walk towards a nearby piece of flesh. He almost vomited.
“Damn it, that’s…”
Before he could finish his sentence, blood splattered on the soldier’s back.
He collapsed. He wouldn’t be moving again.
“Shit! Shit!”
The gunfire continued relentlessly, and it was impossible to count the number of soldiers falling.
“Dietrich… Company Commander… please be careful… we can command from the rear… can’t we?”
Clemens, having approached while crouched low, pleaded with him, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the dead soldier, who had died searching for his lost arm.
“Command from the rear while sending them to their deaths? Don’t you see what’s happening? They won’t advance if we just sit back here and tell them to die!”
He snapped at Clemens, his head pounding.
It was too loud for Clemens to hear him clearly, but the men, looking at them with anxious eyes, could see them arguing.
“Sorry, Clemens. Lost my head there.”
He apologized to Clemens, whose face was grim, and rubbed his own face.
“…It’s alright, Company Commander. I shouldn’t have said that.”
This was hell. War, whether winning or losing, was a goddamn hell.
Heroic struggles? The blood-soaked victories of patriotic martyrs? Bullshit.
He opened his canteen with trembling hands and took a long swig.
The lukewarm water soothed his parched throat, calming him somewhat.
The high command had assessed that the Republican resistance would be minimal, and so far, they had encountered little opposition.
Most of the Republicans they had encountered on the way to Brunete had surrendered after token resistance.
But they had met fierce resistance at Brunete itself.
[Stand firm! The justice of Spain and the people are on our side! I will remain here and fight with you! Do not yield to the traitorous fascists and their foreign allies! They shall not pass!]
“No Pasaran!”
The 11th Division, having spearheaded the initial Republican offensive, had suffered heavy losses. But their commander, Enrique Líster, was broadcasting throughout the city, rallying his troops.
The enemy’s battle cry, echoing through the city, chanted in response to their commander’s hoarse exhortations, sent chills down his spine, even though he didn’t understand the words.
Those who did understand, like him and the other Nationalist soldiers, felt a sense of dread.
“Damn it, those bastards are determined to die here.”
This was bad. Very bad. They hadn’t anticipated such fierce resistance.
They could probably break through, but at what cost?
How many of his men would die? Would he survive?
“Clemens, give me the map.”
He took the map from Clemens and unfolded it.
Or he tried to, but a soldier on a motorcycle, presumably a messenger, was approaching.
“A messenger… orders, perhaps…”
He clung to a sliver of hope that Colonel Model wouldn’t order them to continue this suicidal assault.
But just then, an explosion erupted in front of the messenger, sending the motorcycle and its rider flying through the air.
“Damn it!”
“Agh! Aaaaagh!”
The messenger, a corporal, landed on the ground, one of his legs blown off by the mortar round.
He quickly ducked and ran to the corporal, dragging him behind a wall.
“Medic…!”
He stopped mid-sentence.
He had seen the corporal’s entrails spilling out as he dragged him. It was a horrific sight.
Even a surgeon couldn’t save him.
“H…help me…”
The corporal whispered weakly, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond.
“Shit… shit… help me… it hurts…”
“The…”
He wanted to ask where the orders were, but he couldn’t speak.
Clemens, seeing his hesitation, spoke up, “Corporal, the orders…”
“Mama… Mama…”
The corporal called for his mother before falling silent.
“Damn it…”
This was a memory he would never forget.
He fought back the nausea and searched the dead corporal, finding the orders.
The sticky blood on his hands felt like it was clinging to his soul.
“Air raid on the city in two hours.”
Richthofen, of course. He would burn the city to the ground with incendiary bombs. He breathed a sigh of relief.
It was probably better to burn the city down than to continue this suicidal assault.
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That thought was immediately followed by a chilling realization.
Where was the man who had been so horrified by the bombing of Guernica?
It wasn’t illegal. The enemy had established defensive positions within the city, making it a legitimate target.
But there would be civilians…
He felt something within him breaking.
He swallowed his unease and issued his orders, “Clemens, engage for another hour, then pull the men back. Don’t push forward, just keep up the appearance of an attack. We don’t want to be caught under incendiary bombs. And tell them to conserve ammunition.”
“Yes, sir.”
He watched Clemens disappear behind the wall and sat down, closing the corporal’s eyes and taking his dog tags.
“Corporal… Arne Metz…”
What was the name of the soldier who had died delivering a message at Guadalajara?
…He couldn’t remember.
—
Two hours later, 11th Division Headquarters, Brunete
“…You all fought well under difficult circumstances. Thank you for your service.”
The officers bowed their heads solemnly at Colonel Líster’s hoarse words.
The Condor Legion, supported by Nationalist and Italian forces, had attacked relentlessly from three sides, pushing the defenders of Brunete to their limit.
Líster had personally rallied his troops, but the casualties were too numerous to count.
The “reinforcements” sent by headquarters were, at best, survivors of previous battles, and at worst, a ragtag group of defeated soldiers.
Líster had been speechless when he first saw them, but the situation was so dire that he had no choice but to deploy them.
Even his elite 11th Division troops, who had revered him as a hero, were on the verge of mutiny, driven to desperation by thirst and pointless losses. He could only imagine the state of the other units.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the near-total collapse of the other units involved in the offensive meant that Brunete was now receiving more supplies and water.
His men, finally given access to cool water and decent food, had fought valiantly to defend the city, despite the suicidal nature of urban warfare.
But they had only bought themselves a few days.
“…But we have to acknowledge our limitations. Spain… or at least, I will not forget your support. Perhaps it’s time for the International Brigades to withdraw.”
Líster addressed the commander of the International Brigades, who had led his battered troops to Brunete.
“If there are troops here willing to fight for communism and the people, we will stay. We have no home to return to anyway.”
“….”
Líster closed his eyes slowly, looking at the German officer of the International Brigades, who spoke with a wry smile.
Many International Brigades had withdrawn in disgust after witnessing the incompetence of the Republican high command, but some remained, committed to this hopeless battle.
Their home countries, Germany and Italy, were now under fascist rule, and communists were persecuted and purged.
Like the Republicans, they had nowhere to retreat.
“I apologize. If only our government had been wiser…”
“We’re just following orders. In hindsight, we should have killed Hitler instead of fighting the Social Democrats. The Comintern is a bunch of idiots.”
“…Haha…”
It was a rather reactionary statement for a communist, but the German commander of the International Brigades hated the Soviet Union as much as he hated the fascists.
While the German Communist Party followed the Comintern’s instructions and fought the Social Democrats, Hitler seized power unopposed and condemned German communism to death.
Many German communists who had fled to the Soviet Union weren’t rewarded for their efforts. Instead, they were being swept up in Stalin’s purges.
He had escaped his homeland and come to Spain to fight for the people and the ideals of communism, but now, having lost most of his comrades, he remained out of sheer stubbornness.
“Well, we’ve learned a valuable lesson. Even with the best intentions and fighting for the people, things don’t always work out.”
Líster felt a bitter taste in his mouth.
What had they given the International Brigades, who had come to a foreign land and shed their blood for the ideals of freedom and justice?
The honor of having fought for justice? The freedom they had brought to the people?
“…Our courage may be trampled, but not today. The struggle of the people may be crushed, but not today. We are not finished yet.”
“Indeed. With people like you, Colonel, the day will come when communism and the justice of the people will prevail in this land.”
As Líster and his remaining officers exchanged wry smiles, a sudden explosion shook the building.
“Whoa!”
“Agh!”
As the building shook and the officers stumbled, the adjutant burst through the door.
“Colonel! Air raid!”
“So, they didn’t withdraw to regroup, they withdrew to bomb us!”
Líster rushed to the window and looked outside, speechless.
“Aaaaagh!”
“Help me!”
Soldiers and civilians alike were panicking. An enemy aircraft flew overhead, and incendiary bombs rained down on the fleeing people.
“Agh! It burns! Aaaaagh!”
“Emil! Wait! Agh! Aaaaagh!”
A man, trying to extinguish the flames engulfing his fallen comrade, caught fire himself. Líster watched in horror.
“C…Colonel! It’s dangerous!”
“Those bastards…”
Líster, pulled away from the window by his adjutant, couldn’t tear his gaze away from the carnage.
He had heard about the bombing of Guernica, but to use incendiary bombs on a civilian population…
These people had been cooperating with the Nationalists just a few days ago!
“Colonel Líster! This building is on fire!”
Flames and smoke were rising from all over the city, and incendiary bombs had struck the town hall, their headquarters.
This wasn’t what they had fought for. The city they had defended with their lives, with the blood of countless soldiers, was burning.
“Damn it!”
As Líster cursed, more aircraft appeared, indiscriminately bombing everything in sight before turning back.
He felt a sense of despair as he saw more German bombers approaching from the distance.
“Bastards! You’re going to turn this into a wasteland!”
There was nothing more he could do.
“Colonel! We have to leave!”
He could only pray for the bombing to end quickly and for as many of his men to survive as possible.
“…Walther Model… Dietrich Schacht…”
All he could do was grit his teeth and etch the names of his enemies into his memory.
“Damn Germans…”
His battle was over.
The bombing continued for over four hours, raining down on the city filled with his men and civilians, who had fought to the very end.
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