Chapter 4: The Spanish Civil War – The Battle of Guadalajara (1)
Translated by Vine | Proofread by Lust
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March 8, 1937
Guadalajara, Northeast of Madrid, Central Spain
The Nationalist high command seemed quite encouraged by the massive Italian support. They were excitedly talking about finally retaking Madrid, the capital of Spain, and crushing the Republican spirit…
However, regardless of what the higher-ups, the same ones who had ground their soldiers to dust in Jarama, thought, he, as a participant in the operation, felt seriously, very seriously uneasy.
The operation itself was sound. The force size was good too.
15,000 of the Nationalist’s most elite troops, plus 35,000 Italian troops, totaled a whopping 50,000.
And it wasn’t just 50,000 infantrymen. Mussolini had generously provided everything from Italy’s armored forces to artillery and fighter planes.
The Republican forces that participated in the previous major battle, the Battle of Jarama, numbered around 30,000 at most.
Considering the horrific casualties at Jarama, it was certain that the Republicans’ available manpower would be significantly reduced.
Moreover, it was also known that the International Brigades, the Republican’s best force and the equivalent of their Condor Legion, had suffered heavy losses in the previous battle.
In short, this was a battle they couldn’t lose. That’s probably why Mussolini had poured so much into it.
But the problem was—as far as he knew, Madrid hadn’t fallen until the very end of the Spanish Civil War, and the war itself lasted until 1939.
Rivas-Vaciamadrid, a city southeast of Madrid, had already fallen.
They had defended the Madrid-Valencia road, the supply line across the Jarama River, but if Guadalajara to the northeast fell, the secured road would be meaningless, and the Republicans should have given up on Madrid, no matter how hard they tried.
So, this battle, which they couldn’t lose, was a battle they would lose. The Italian army was notorious for its poor combat record, but even so… this…?
Was there anything more disheartening than a soldier going into battle knowing they would lose?
God, I know you have no conscience for dropping me here, but if you have even a sliver of it left, please save me…
—
As if to mock his prayers, the operation didn’t bode well from the start. Well, if He was the type to listen to prayers, he wouldn’t have been dropped here in the first place.
When the Condor Legion and Italian Air Force planes swarmed the skies, bombing the defenseless Republican forces, it seemed the enemy hadn’t anticipated their offensive at all, and there were no fortified defensive positions.
The surprise attack was swift. Although little more than tankettes, the offensive, spearheaded by the Italian CV-33s and their Panzer Is, quickly crushed the unsuspecting enemy forces, and victory seemed within reach.
The problem was the dreadful weather. Just as the rain had aided the Republicans at a crucial moment during the Battle of Jarama, now, even though winter was almost over, fog and sleet plagued their forces.
Still, unlike their usual selves, the Italians seemed to have prepared considerably. To capture the area, dotted with various towns and cities, they had modified some of their tankettes to equip them with flamethrowers.
These proved highly effective in clearing out Republicans hiding in buildings. They would have been even more effective if not for the damned fog and sleet.
He shuddered slightly at the sight of Republican soldiers, caught in the flames from the flamethrowers, falling from burning buildings, now thinking of it as “clearing out.” He couldn’t deny that he was becoming desensitized, transforming from a modern man to a German soldier in just a few months.
In any case, the wretched weather hampered the Italians’ ambitious air raids and offensive. They only managed to capture a few small towns, and the increasingly dense fog forced them to halt near Brihuega, their main objective.
While they were stumbling around like this, the element of surprise would be lost, and Republican reinforcements would be arriving.
He felt like he had seen this situation just a month ago. This didn’t bode well.
General Rota, the Italian commander, must have been anxious after receiving massive support from Mussolini, but even he couldn’t launch an attack in the blinding fog.
“Who was the one who boasted during the briefing that the central Spanish plateau was warm and dry?”
He couldn’t even remember the face of that captain from Dietrich’s memories. He was probably comfortably stationed in Berlin right now.
Since they were in the middle of an operation, they were on standby, exposed to the wretched sleet, instead of leisurely strolling around under umbrellas like they could back at the front line.
If he were back home in Seoul, he’d be warm…
Oh, he wanted to cry. He wanted to eat the pizza his mom bought him.
The 21st-century Korean army rations were terrible, so what would the rations from 80 years ago be like? Thankfully, he was Korean but could live without kimchi. Otherwise, he might have committed suicide by now just to escape the agony of mealtimes.
“Ugh, f*ck it. I’m freezing. This is sh*t…”
Seeing Clemens shivering and hugging himself, even colder than he was, made him chuckle.
Look at this guy, no officer’s dignity. Whether Korean or German, soldiers were all the same.
“Company Adjutant, Lieutenant. The Captain is looking for you.”
“Ah. Thank you, Sergeant Kohr.”
Sergeant Kohr, the adjutant of the 1st Platoon commanded by Clemens, smiled faintly with his bandit-like face. Contrary to his preconceived notions, the German Wehrmacht wasn’t a rigid, by-the-book organization.
Rather, it was a relatively flexible organization that allowed considerable autonomy, and the relationship between officers, NCOs, and soldiers was quite decent.
Hazing and physical punishments, supposedly meant to maintain discipline, were nowhere to be seen. At most, they might slap a soldier suffering from shell shock to bring them back to their senses during an operation.
In that sense, the Korean Army had a lot of unnecessary bullsh*t…
“Ugh, so cold. Dietrich! Let’s go!”
“Haha, having fun?”
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Clemens excitedly headed with him to the tent where Captain Kaufmann, their company commander, would be.
While the soldiers and younger officers like them had to endure the sleet, they couldn’t let the older captain get soaked, so they had set up a makeshift tent, which was currently the warmest place in their company.
“Heil-”
“Ah, that’s enough. Come and have some coffee.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Captain Kaufmann, their company commander, waved his hand dismissively and poured them coffee. They gratefully accepted, blowing on the hot coffee and taking sips.
“You’ve been working hard. I wish I could give the soldiers a break, but…”
“Well, it seems all we can do is wait for the weather to improve.”
As he spoke to Captain Kaufmann, his thoughts drifted to the Eastern Front. This cold was nothing compared to the Russian winter. How many Germans froze to death there?
Despite the warmth of the coffee in his hands, a chill ran down his spine.
Captain Kaufmann smiled paternally as he watched them blow on their coffee and continued what he had been writing.
“Writing a letter, Captain?”
“Yes, it’s been almost a month since I heard from my wife. I’m finally writing back. I think I’ll be in for some nagging when I get back.”
“Hahaha…”
Both he and Clemens laughed at their superior’s joke. It reminded him of nervously making his first phone call home from Nonsan training camp.
Captain Kaufmann was truly a good superior. He had the guts to lead his company on the front lines, yet he gave them considerable autonomy instead of rigidly enforcing rules and regulations.
If he could work with this man, get promoted together, and if they were luckily deployed together to the Western European or African front, perhaps he could persuade him to surrender to the Allied forces…
And Clemens, sitting next to him, happily sipping his coffee with a grin.
If possible, Sergeant Kohr too. And Lieutenant Heidmann, the quiet but dutiful officer, and even Lieutenant Habenstein, who was still grieving the loss of his adjutant…
Despite only being together for a month, perhaps due to Dietrich’s existing memories, he felt surprisingly attached to them.
Of course, he knew it was highly unlikely. During the Eastern Front campaign, most of the German Wehrmacht would be deployed to that hellish battlefield, and they would die in equally large numbers. Or even more.
The myth of the invincible German army, which had shocked and terrified the world in the early stages of the war, would crumble in the vast, frozen wasteland of Russia due to the Wehrmacht’s miscalculations and Hitler’s blunders.
Excellent soldiers like them, who had gained experience and earned accolades in Spain, Poland, and France, would all die, and boys who should be in school and old men would be scraped together to fill the ranks.
When learning history, he used to simply curse Hitler’s stupidity, but now, it dawned on him that the Germans in history books weren’t just names, but comrades who would endure the cold alongside him and die like this.
If this was going to happen, it would have been better to have been born into a body that could actually do something. If he were Hitler, Göring, or even Himmler, Goebbels, or Heydrich, he could have prevented World War II, or if that was impossible, overthrown the Nazis, or at least tried to transform them into a more sane organization…
He was just a lieutenant, stationed not even in Germany, but in Spain.
Nothing had happened yet, but starting next year, the Nazi madness would quickly plunge Europe into war.
Only one year remained until the Anschluss, the annexation of Austria, which would mark the beginning of their downfall, even as all of Germany would celebrate Hitler, unaware of their impending doom.
—
As soon as the fog cleared, they crushed the meager resistance and immediately captured Brihuega, but the overall war situation remained unclear.
The Italian tanks, or rather tankettes, which were supposed to be their armored force, were no bigger than a passenger car, or even smaller, from what he remembered seeing in Korea! The Panzer I looked flimsy enough, but to bring those things as armor…!
Once again, Enrique Líster and the 11th Division, leading the Soviet T-26 and BT-5 tanks, were said to have crushed the nominally armored Italian division and blocked their advance on the road.
He and his 11th Division were becoming a figure of fear among the Nationalists. Imagine how it felt to witness the birth of a war hero for the enemy on your own battlefield. Not pleasant.
But the real problem was that they had no grasp of the situation after that. Portable radios, which one would normally associate with modern armies, didn’t exist yet. This was an era where messengers rode bicycles, or motorcycles if they were lucky, to deliver messages!
Naturally, orders and situation reports, which should be constantly relayed to each unit, were nonexistent, and they had been idly stationed in Brihuega for several days now.
The constant fog made visibility extremely limited. That bastard who said central Iberia was hot and dry…
In the sky, the Luftwaffe, the Italian Air Force, and the Republican Air Force clashed and bombed each other, but since aircraft technology wasn’t that advanced yet, and they weren’t near the main front lines across the river, they were rarely targeted.
“This persistent fog is something I can’t seem to get used to.”
“Indeed. Captain, is there any word from battalion headquarters?”
He and Captain Kaufmann were talking at the defensive line outside Brihuega.
“No word from command. Just between you and me, Lieutenant, there’s talk that Colonel Moscardó is being too passive.”
“Hmm, true. Since the initial plan of a swift, low-casualty capture has already failed, perhaps he’s reluctant to expend his elite troops.”
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