Chapter 15: The Spanish Civil War – End of Tour
Translated by Vine | Proofread by Lust
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July 24, 1937
Nationalist-occupied Brunete, West of Madrid, Central Spain
Brunete had fallen.
They had won.
The Republican forces, having held out to the last, finally succumbed to the relentless bombing by the Condor Legion and the Italian Air Force, followed by a ground assault. They were routed.
The ambitious Brunete Offensive had ended with the Republicans losing all the territory they had gained, pushed back to their original lines.
But he didn’t care.
Thirteen of his men were dead. Seventeen were wounded.
He hadn’t realized so many of them would be willing to die to save him money.
…Had he made the right decisions?
The thought that he could have minimized the casualties lingered in his mind.
Regardless of his feelings, the Nationalist high command was elated by their victory, bought with the blood of their soldiers.
Elated enough to be committing atrocities.
Although the battle was over, the sounds of gunfire continued in the burned-out ruins of the city.
Captured Republican soldiers, those who couldn’t or wouldn’t flee, were lined up and shot.
He averted his gaze from their faces, contorted with fear and despair.
As he hurried his men along, a Spanish broadcast blared from the loudspeakers that Líster had used to rally his troops, now in Nationalist hands. It was more like insane propaganda than a radio broadcast.
[We killed a thousand Reds today! Let’s rape a thousand Red bitches tomorrow!]
“What’s it saying?”
“Crazy shit…”
Clemens asked him, since few in their unit spoke Spanish. That was all he could say.
“Come here!”
“Waaaaah! Mama!”
Two young girls, barely in their teens, were being dragged away by Moorish soldiers.
He knew what would happen to them, and he couldn’t just ignore it. He approached the lieutenant who seemed to be in charge.
“What are you going to do with them?”
The lieutenant eyed him warily for a moment, then relaxed when he realized he was a Condor Legion Lieutenant, not a high-ranking Nationalist officer.
“Nothing much. Just the usual.”
“With children?”
The lieutenant frowned at his question, then grinned, revealing his white teeth against his brown skin, “Don’t worry. They won’t last more than two hours anyway.”
Was that supposed to be an answer? He wanted to punch the man.
But he wasn’t their superior, and as a foreign volunteer, he had no authority to intervene.
He felt sick to his stomach. This was a truly insane era.
A radio broadcast encouraging rape, and soldiers carrying it out…
Nazi Germany would be even worse. The thought soured his mood.
He ignored the girls’ screams as they were dragged into a building and started walking again. The lieutenant shouted after him, “Don’t be so uptight! Reward your men for their hard work!”
What the hell was wrong with this guy?
He turned around angrily and saw one of his men looking at him expectantly.
Damn it… Was this what they had fought and bled for?
They had won the battle, but there was no glory, no joy.
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—
A month had passed since the Battle of Brunete.
The Nationalists, having hastily redeployed their troops to the central front, had returned to the north and resumed their offensive. The Republicans, weakened and demoralized, offered little resistance, and the northern front was collapsing rapidly.
His unit, having suffered heavy losses in the offensive, was undergoing reorganization.
He had attended the funerals of his fallen men and, as promised, bought drinks for his surviving troops once the wounded had recovered.
They had laughed, talked, and drank like madmen.
He usually limited his alcohol intake, but this time, he drank until he blacked out.
Listening to Clemens and his platoon leaders recount his drunken antics, laughing along with them as they nursed their hangovers, he was able to forget everything, if only for a while.
And he celebrated his first birthday in this body.
…August 15th.
Was it a sign to remember his homeland, even in this distant land?
Or was it a cruel joke by the god who had thrown him into this hell?
Being born on a date no Korean could forget made him even more melancholic.
His homeland, South Korea, didn’t exist yet. Neither did 21st-century Seoul.
Who was more unfortunate, the Koreans under Japanese rule, or him?
Hitler’s Germany, following the course of history, would ally with Imperial Japan.
There might not be any direct interaction with the distant Korean peninsula, but if he failed, he would become an enemy of Korea.
What could he do for Korea in this bloody era, when he was struggling just to survive the upcoming war?
—
August 25, 1937
Condor Legion Headquarters, Salamanca, Nationalist-held territory, West-Central Spain
He stood with the other officers, nervously swallowing their saliva.
“Human wave attacks?! You call this a plan?!”
Colonel Model’s roar echoed from behind the closed doors of his office, making them even more anxious.
“You fools sent your men into machine gun fire while hiding in the rear like cowards! What are you wearing those rank insignia for?! To get your men killed?!”
Oh, god. Hearing Model’s infamous dressing-down in person, even though it wasn’t directed at him, sent shivers down his spine.
“Get that pathetic look off your face and get out of my sight! Next time you want to see me, try putting some oil in that rusty brain of yours! Get out! Now!”
“H…Heil Hitler!”
The captain stumbled out of the office, pale and sweating profusely.
His eyes were completely unfocused.
“Next!”
“Lieutenant Schacht, please come in.”
His turn.
He cleared his throat and entered Model’s office, under the mixed gazes of the other officers – some pitying, some expectant.
The Condor Legion mostly used the Nazi salute, but Model accepted his regular salute without comment.
He looked at him coldly over his monocle and said, “You seem nervous. Don’t worry. I only yell at idiots.”
“With all due respect, Colonel, if that’s true, the future of the German Army looks bleak.”
Model paused at his comment, then chuckled. “Judging by that response, you might not be an idiot after all. I like that.”
He had expected Model to revert to his jovial, joking self, but it seemed he was in full “superior officer” mode.
Model beckoned him closer. He approached the desk and saw his own offensive plan, the one he had submitted to Model, spread out on the desk.
Ah, so that was it.
The officers were being reprimanded for their poorly drafted offensive plans.
He hadn’t realized, since they had all fled the office so quickly.
“You have the basics down, Lieutenant. At least you didn’t just slap something together.”
“…The ones dying when that plan is executed are my men, Colonel.”
He didn’t know how other officers had reacted to the new Chief of Staff’s order to draft an offensive plan, as if it were homework.
Front-line company commanders simply followed orders. Devising offensive plans was the responsibility of higher-ranking officers and staff.
Judging by what he had seen today, many of them must have resented or been annoyed by the task. He, however, had known Model’s tendencies, so he had meticulously drafted his plan, even during the lulls in the fighting.
And he had meant what he said to Model.
He couldn’t simply dismiss the deaths of his men as an inevitable part of war.
Even if it was a curse, this was his life as an officer in the German army during World War II.
Model glanced at him, then looked back at the plan. He had to admit, Model, despite his ordinary appearance, had an intimidating presence when he was in work mode, his gaze piercing through his monocle.
It was hard to imagine him as the jovial, joke-cracking man who fraternized with the troops.
“You suggested a heavier troop deployment in this area. Why?” Model pointed at a section of the map.
“The road from Madrid is close by, allowing for rapid enemy reinforcements. I anticipated the possibility of them sending troops from Madrid’s defenses, depending on the situation.”
“What if our intelligence reports indicate no signs of reinforcements from Madrid?”
He pondered Model’s question but couldn’t discern his intent.
He hadn’t received formal staff training.
“In that case, we could redeploy two or three companies as reserves, but I would recommend maintaining the rest of the deployment.”
“Why?”
Model’s cold stare was making his throat dry.
“Intelligence isn’t always accurate, and even if it was at the time of reporting, there could be units dispatched later.”
Model listened silently.
“…And if that happens, the enemy can move quickly by road, while we would struggle to redeploy in this heat.”
“Hmm.”
“They could send reinforcements from other areas, but we had air superiority, so we could respond effectively if we detected them in time.”
He waited nervously for Model’s response. After a moment of thought, Model said, “Lieutenant, you’re too cautious.”
Ouch.
He hadn’t expected praise from one of the greatest military minds of this era, but this was still disheartening.
“Your preparedness and foresight are commendable, but sometimes, a swift and decisive operation, concentrating our forces based on accurate assessment, results in fewer casualties.”
He was speechless. It was too logical to argue with.
Had he become obsessed with avoiding the worst-case scenario after witnessing so much death on the battlefield?
“I’m not one for beating around the bush. Based on the battle reports and the evaluations from your NCOs, you’re an average unit commander.”
A cold dread washed over him. The German army of this era was, tactically speaking, the best in the world. Had he been arrogant to think that his modern knowledge would be enough to make him a general staff officer?
“You’re not a coward, but you’re not heroically brave either. You think too much. Prudent, but lacking in decisiveness.”
Model’s blunt assessment hit him hard. What was he thinking, trying to take down the Nazis?
Had he believed in some kind of protagonist’s privilege just because he had been transported from the modern era?
Model didn’t yell or curse at him like he had with the other officers, but he felt his mind reeling.
“However, your diligence, considering all possibilities and preparing meticulously, is highly commendable. And it has borne fruit.”
He blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden shift in Model’s tone.
“I believe your talents would be better suited as a staff officer than a field commander. What do you say? If you’re interested, I’ll recommend you for the General Staff course.”
“…Sir?”
He blurted out, then quickly clamped his mouth shut. Model grinned, as if he hadn’t just been staring at him coldly.
“Don’t you want to?”
“No, sir! It would be an honor!”
He couldn’t control his expression. He could imagine how wide his eyes must be.
“Well, even without my recommendation, you’re a strong candidate for the War College. The 88 incident and Lieutenant Colonel Richthofen’s glowing recommendation have put you on the map.”
“Ah…”
“Of course, my recommendation still carries weight. Connections are important in the military. Unless you want to avoid troublesome superiors like me.” Model said with a playful glint in his eye.
He knew exactly how his subordinates perceived him.
“It would be a once-in-a-lifetime honor to be recommended by you, Colonel!”
Walther Model was a legend, the man who had inflicted defeats on renowned Allied commanders like Georgy Zhukov, Bernard Montgomery, and Omar Bradley, even during the darkest days of World War II.
He was still a colonel now, but he would become a field marshal, the Lion of Defense, whose performance even Hitler couldn’t ignore.
To be recommended by such a figure was deeply moving.
But his enthusiasm seemed to make Model uncomfortable.
“It’s not that big of a deal… are you good at flattery too?”
Had he come across as too much of a fanboy?
He knew Model’s future and held him in high regard, but Model barely knew him.
He couldn’t explain himself, so he simply said, with the utmost sincerity, “No, sir! I’ll strive to be worthy of your recommendation!”
“Alright, then. I expect great things from you, Lieutenant Schacht.”
This hellish Spanish Civil War had been grueling, but he had finally done it.
He was going to the War College! He was going back to Germany!
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