Chapter 9: The Spanish Civil War – The Battle of Brunete (1)
Translated by Vine | Proofread by Lust
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June 28, 1937
Salamanca, Key Nationalist Stronghold in West-Central Spain
Colonel Walther Model was diligent.
No, he was excessively diligent.
The Condor Legion, although technically discharged from the German Wehrmacht and deployed to Spain as “volunteers,” still operated relatively loosely.
This was especially true for the Condor Legion’s ground forces, primarily deployed for equipment testing and training in rear or secondary positions due to their small size and limited combat role.
With the Nationalist abandonment of their Madrid offensive after both Nationalist and Republican forces suffered heavy losses at Guadalajara, the central front had quieted down considerably. They had become accustomed to a relaxed atmosphere.
And Colonel Walther Model, flown in from the Berlin General Staff, was highly displeased with this state of affairs. The capable and by-the-book General Staff officer was overflowing with the zeal to rectify the situation.
“Gasp, gasp… I’m… dying… Dietrich… I’m… dying…”
“Talk… gasp… later… gasp… run…”
The officers of the Condor Legion’s ground forces were running laps around the training ground since early morning. Every single one of them, regardless of battalion or company.
Even his direct superior, Major Beckers, the battalion commander, was running with a flushed face, gasping for air.
“Huff… Isn’t the… huff… morning air… huff… refreshing? Huff… A healthy body… huff… houses a healthy mind!”
Colonel Model ran at the front, tirelessly chattering away as if he wasn’t even winded. He was a Colonel in his mid-40s, and they had no choice but to follow his orders.
He had heard that Model was so frail as an officer cadet that he considered giving up on a military career. Human willpower was certainly impressive, but wasn’t this a bit too much?
Overzealous, incompetent officers usually overworked their soldiers, but Model was incredibly attentive to the soldiers’ welfare while relentlessly driving his officers.
He woke up at 5 a.m. every day, dragged all the officers out for a morning run, and spent the entire day visiting various units, assessing the situation and holding discussions. And this wasn’t just for a day or two, but every single day.
General von Thoma, the commander of the Condor Legion’s ground forces, was known for his laissez-faire leadership style. In contrast, Colonel Model became infamous among the officers within days of his arrival.
…Mostly in a bad way.
“Ugh, that damn Chief of Staff is going to kill me!”
“Hahaha…”
He was enjoying beer and sundae with Clemens after the day’s work.
Yes, sundae! He couldn’t believe his eyes when he first saw it. It looked and tasted exactly like Korean blood sausage, and he had eaten it with tears of joy.
It was called morcilla, a local delicacy in Spain. Whatever it was called, it was sundae. That chewy texture inside the casing…
…It was the taste of Korea, a memory now fading…
“I mean, there’s no combat right now, so why can’t we just relax? We’re supposed to be the ones doing the pushing, not the ones getting pushed around!”
“Uh, yeah…”
Such officers are usually called the enemy of enlisted men, my friend… he couldn’t say that aloud. Dietrich Schacht had never been an enlisted man.
However, most of the Condor Legion officers shared Clemens’ sentiment, and Colonel Model was the target of their collective resentment.
Honestly, if it wasn’t for the fact that this was the Walther Model, he would probably be complaining about some rigid, by-the-book officer making their lives miserable.
But…
“But, Clemens. I requested training from Colonel Model.”
Clemens poured his beer back into his glass. Yuck, disgusting.
“…What?”
He felt a pang of guilt at Clemens’ betrayed expression.
“I want to try indirect fire training with the 88.”
“…Huh?”
Clemens’ confusion was understandable. Indirect fire with an anti-aircraft gun was unheard of.
But the 88 could do it. It wasn’t called the “God Gun” during World War II for nothing.
The 88 could not only fire timed-fuse anti-aircraft rounds and low-angle direct fire, but with proper angle adjustments, it could achieve surprisingly accurate indirect fire.
This was a fact yet unknown to most and wouldn’t be discovered and utilized effectively until Rommel used it in North Africa. However, he needed to create achievements, even if they were based on future knowledge, to get into the War College quickly.
Colonel Model was ruthless towards lazy or incompetent subordinates, but he properly reported and recognized the achievements of those who worked hard.
Model being here was a stroke of luck.
“Why would we do that?”
Well, he felt sorry for Clemens.
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The original plan was to conduct the training and experiment quietly at the company level, with the Nationalist government’s permission, and then report the results.
But why was Colonel Model here in person?
The stated training objective was to test the indirect fire capabilities of the Flak 37, the latest prototype version of the 88 anti-aircraft gun, for which there was no existing data.
“Hmm. Not bad. An effective range of 2 kilometers with acceptable accuracy, I’d say.”
Spending the entire day firing the 88 under the scorching sun, enduring the complaints of Clemens and the platoon leaders, was quite a chore.
But this was Walther Model. He observed the firing points from right next to the 88 with a telescope, personally driving back and forth to confirm the results, and calculated firing solutions with remarkable speed, creating something akin to a firing table.
Normally, such tables were created under strictly controlled conditions, firing tens of thousands of rounds and using complex formulas. But he was doing this manually, on the battlefield, in a single day?
He had suggested the training, but Colonel Model was doing all the work.
He was so far beyond his league that he was speechless.
Was this the class of one of the greatest generals of World War II?
Model, approaching him as he stood there dumbfounded, patted him on the shoulder with a smile, “Excellent idea, Lieutenant Schacht. We need more test firings, but it certainly seems practical. I heard that you submitted many of the improvement suggestions for this prototype. I was skeptical, but you truly have a keen eye.”
“Th… thank you…”
He felt like he hadn’t done anything, but he seemed to have achieved his goal. He had made a good impression on Colonel Model, even if it was at Rommel’s expense.
To become a General Staff officer, a recommendation from a General Staff officer was the best.
“Haha, at this rate, we might have to call this anti-aircraft gun the SS (Schacht-Schacht) instead of the 88 (Acht-Acht).”
“…Ha. Ha. Ha.”
“I’m joking, don’t make that face.”
He was a great man, but he wished Model would stop with the incessant jokes.
In any case, he didn’t have much time. His father, Hjalmar Schacht, would soon be dismissed from his ministerial position.
If he didn’t get into the War College and secure the protection of the Wehrmacht before then, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t be affected.
Furthermore, the Anschluss (annexation of Austria) would take place in March 1938, and from that point on, the world would rapidly hurtle towards World War II.
Fortunately, Hitler’s Nazi Germany was a far more unstable regime than commonly perceived, facing several coup threats.
With his knowledge, he might be able to turn those threats into actual coups.
Overthrow the Nazi regime and prevent World War II!
Even if he couldn’t prevent the war itself, he had to avert the future where Germany, a symbol of evil, fought the entire world and ended up in ruins.
Only six months until the Anschluss. He had to return to Germany as soon as possible.
By September 1938, before the Munich Agreement, at the latest!
—
July 2, 1937
Republican Headquarters, Madrid, Capital of Spain
Colonel Enrique Líster, the hero of the Republicans, commander of the famed elite 11th Division, sat in a frustrating operational meeting, sighing deeply.
“So, you’re proposing an offensive in this scorching heat? Right next to Salamanca, the Nationalist central army headquarters?”
Colonel Juan Modesto, his direct superior and fellow Colonel, openly glared at him, but Líster remained undeterred.
He had been rapidly promoted and only held the rank of Colonel in name. It wasn’t the first time he hadn’t been treated like one.
“That’s right, Colonel Líster. We will capture Brunete and pressure those fascist rebels besieging Madrid. If we succeed in cutting off the Extremadura road, we can expect the encircled Nationalist forces to retreat entirely due to supply shortages!”
General José Miaja, the Republican commander of the central army, outlined the operational objectives and their rosy prospects with a twitching, plump face.
“That’s assuming we can pull it off. We haven’t fully recovered from the losses at Jarama and Guadalajara.”
Líster’s blunt words forced Miaja to redden and fall silent.
“Colonel! Such defeatist talk! Are you suggesting we just stand by and watch the Nationalists seize the north? As long as the freedom of Spain and the justice of the people live, we cannot allow that!”
Líster grimaced at the words of his superior, Juan Modesto.
That damned defeatism. The results of their ambitious offensives, launched after branding opposing commanders as defeatists, were mostly disastrous.
Almost all the Republican commanders in the meeting room, except for General Miaja, were Colonels. Colonel under Colonel under Colonel.
This ludicrous situation had arisen because while incompetent Colonels ground down their subordinates, lower-ranking officers steadily earned merits and rose to the rank of Colonel.
Yet, these “incompetent Colonels” still held their command positions and were responsible for planning most of the operations.
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