Chapter 12
Chapter 12
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: The Battle of Brunete (4)
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July 11, 1937
The Brunete sector, west of Madrid, Central Spain
The rain of bombs unleashed madly by both sides, aided by the already hot and dry weather, had started a forest fire. A massive one.
The trees on the hills surrounding the open battlefield and on the mountains behind it were all ablaze.
If this weren't a war, they might have tried to extinguish it, but neither side was in a position to do so, nor was it a fire that could be put out by a few soldiers.
It wasn't like they had helicopters to drop fire retardant from the sky in this era.
Thankfully, the main battlefield was an open plain, so we didn't have to worry about the fire spreading this far, but the problem was...
“Shit... it's hot... fucking hot...”
“Hooo, I’m hot too...”
The heat from the forest fire, layered on top of the already sweltering weather, created a hellish inferno.
It was so hot that neither the Republican nor the Nationalist forces could even think of launching an offensive.
An offensive? Forget an offensive. The fire was even disrupting the supply lines that had been running relatively smoothly.
“Dietrich, can't we hand out some water?”
Despite Clemens’s plea, I shook my head.
With the supply problems, water had naturally become scarce. Drinking it now would quench our thirst and offer a moment of relief, but with the next supply run uncertain, we couldn't afford to use up all our water.
The Nationalist Colonel, Juan Yagüe, now a colonel, was a commander highly regarded by the Condor Legion and paid close attention to logistics. Those supplies were then distributed under the management of the Condor Legion's capable chief of staff, Colonel Model.
So, supplies and water were being managed as meticulously as possible, but there was no way a raging forest fire wouldn't cause disruptions.
We had spare water for emergencies, but with non-combat losses from heatstroke already occurring—not just battle casualties—I wanted to avoid a situation where our water ran out at all costs.
I could only hope that the Republicans' situation was the same as ours, or worse.
While we were stuck in this standoff, sweltering in the heat from the fire, the fighter planes, unaffected by the hellscape on the ground, were locked in combat in the skies above.
“What a spectacle. Truly a spectacle.”
The words escaped my lips unconsciously. It was indeed a sight to behold.
The ground was a sea of fire with smoke billowing into the sky, and high above it, steel hawks danced, chasing each other's tails, feinting and engaging in combat.
If someone were to capture this in a photograph, the caption "a battlefield from hell" would be perfectly fitting, but none of us had a camera.
Perhaps in an attempt to break the stalemate, the Republicans had deployed a large number of aircraft, something we had only seen in the initial stages of the attack.
But the forest fire had prevented them from actually launching their offensive, and in the meantime, Nationalist forces were steadily gathering.
Losing the element of surprise due to a natural phenomenon and having their offensive stalled... this scene felt very familiar, though our roles were reversed this time.
The Republican commanders must have been getting desperate. Even in the lull, they kept probing with their air force—the only asset they could still use—but the sky was no longer the environment they remembered.
The new Soviet-made I-16 monoplanes had held a clear advantage against the old biplanes of the Condor Legion and the Italian forces, but they were clearly outmatched by the new Bf 109 fighters, which would play a leading role in the Luftwaffe's legend in the early days of World War II.
The Republicans, who had dominated the skies since the beginning of the war by overwhelming the old biplanes with new Soviet aircraft, were now beginning to be pushed back in the air for the first time, even after committing their main air force!
“Ooooh...!”
Just then, an enemy bomber, one wing torn off, was seen plummeting to the ground, spewing smoke.
In this insane heat, with water rationed, I was glad the men at least had some entertainment.
We weren't foolish enough to deploy bombers before securing air superiority, but the Republicans, in their haste, kept sending them in sporadically despite losing the fighter engagements, only succeeding in adding to the Luftwaffe's kill count.
Thanks to them, we could leisurely watch the air show instead of frantically firing our 88s, with only our anti-aircraft gunners on standby.
The anti-aircraft guns of this era weren't precise enough to distinguish between friend and foe and score a hit. A clumsy attempt to provide support could easily lead to a catastrophe.
With time on my hands, I was looking over the homework Colonel Model had left me: an operational plan.
No matter how I looked at it, this had to be a draft, and a very hastily written one at that.
It roughly designated unit positions, advance objectives, and operational timelines. To call this an operational plan was absurd.
The Nationalists' shoddy planning was nothing new, but this was taking it too far, wasn't it?
Or maybe he gave it to me literally as homework.
He couldn't just hand over a top-secret military operational plan to a mere company commander in advance, so I figured he meant for me to mull over this draft. A quick check confirmed that he had given one to every company commander, not just me.
“Ugh...”
As a common sergeant discharged from the Korean army, I didn't suddenly have the ability to draft a brilliant offensive plan.
But Colonel Model was so obviously testing the unit commanders that I couldn't just half-ass it.
No, Walter Model was known to be like a father to his soldiers but harsh on his staff and officers.
If I submitted something sloppy and half-baked on the front lines, forget just getting chewed out, I might end up on his bad side.
“Phew—working hard, are we, Captain?”
Just as I was feeling desperate, Clemens's teasing was a complete distraction.
That jerk. Even when he was with the troops and properly called me 'Captain,' his attitude hardly changed.
“Hey, instead of that, how about some advice? Get to work, adjutant.”
“Oh no, Captain. What would a newly minted second lieutenant like me know?”
“...Well, aren't you something.”
He’s just playing dumb. It's not like this was a wartime emergency where I could pull rank on a friend.
Still, I had secretly hoped to go to the War Academy with Clemens...
“Clemens, come on. Colonel Model is a General Staff officer from the Berlin General Staff Headquarters, right? If we make a good impression, he might recommend us for the War Academy. Don't you want to be a General Staff officer? If your advice helps, you don't think I'd take all the credit for myself, do you?”
“Uh, well. Honestly, it's not that I haven't thought about it. But seeing the chief of staff and you in action, I get the feeling that's what it takes to be a General Staff officer, and I don't think I have it in me.”
“Is that so...”
He had a point. Even I couldn't easily picture a 'Chief of Staff Fleck' or 'General Fleck.' No matter how you looked at it, this guy was more of a field officer type than a staff officer or a general.
“If I do get into the War Academy, I'll have to go to Berlin. I'd feel bad leaving you behind, so I thought I'd ask.”
“I seem to recall someone saying that becoming a General Staff officer isn't easy?”
I let out a chuckle at Clemens's smirk. Yeah, alright. Those were my words.
“Well, thanks for the thought. ...But maybe you should worry about that after you get in, Captain?”
“...You're insufferable.”
While I was busy worrying about ousting the Nazis, I wasn't really in a position to be concerned about Clemens, but he was still on my mind. Though his words were sharp, I suppose it was his way of being considerate.
Honestly, I was grateful.
Having been thrown into the insane position of a Nazi German soldier in World War II with the mind of a 21st-century Korean, this guy was a big reason I was still relatively sane.
If it weren't for the kind Captain Kaufmann who treated me so well, and Clemens, who reminded me of my army buddies back in Korea...
What kind of person would I have become by now? I couldn't say, but I doubt it would have been for the better.
“Uh, Captain. That’s a bit intense. What’s with the sudden change of mood?”
I grinned at Clemens, who was hamming it up under my gaze.
If you knew my goal was to overthrow the Nazis, what would you say?
Would you be shocked and call me crazy? Would you condemn me as a traitor? ...Or would you still trust me?
I'll never know.
Either way, I have to prevent friends like him and other Germans from dying pointless deaths because of Hitler's madness.
Whatever the cost.
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July 18, 1937
11th Division HQ of the Republican Army, Brunete, west of Madrid, Central Spain
Colonel Enrique Líster, hailed as a war hero of the Republic, sat in his chair with a haggard face and dark circles under his eyes from days of sleeplessness.
“Devastating...”
Líster let out a deep sigh.
The ambitious offensive to drive the Nationalists away from Madrid had ended in complete failure, despite pouring in all of the Republic's resources.
In the initial assault, Líster had lost ten tanks due to the blunders of a Lieutenant Colonel Malo, who was blinded by the prospect of glory. Even after providing proper infantry support, the already demoralized armored units had to withdraw after suffering immense casualties.
He had judged that breaking through the defensive line established by the Condor Legion was impossible and requested a halt to the attack along with a report of the staggering losses. But for whatever reason, the high command demanded he continue the offensive with air support.
However, the balance of power in the sky, where the Republicans thought they had the upper hand, had already been overturned.
The Soviet-made fighters that had seemed invincible were no match for the new German fighters they were seeing for the first time.
The high command's assessment was that the enemy's new weapons, which appeared to be anti-tank field guns, would be helpless against bombing, but that was only true if the bombing was possible in the first place.
Just shaking off the enemy fighters was a challenge, and the bombers that managed to break through after sacrificing their fighter escorts were often shot down by concentrated anti-aircraft fire.
Anti-artillery fire from their field guns, anti-tank guns, and anti-aircraft guns. Just how many cannons had those Germans brought with them?
To make matters worse, the forest fire had caused them to miss their window of attack. Líster, confirming the arrival of enemy reinforcements, had again requested a withdrawal, but in the end, he received an unconditional order to attack.
The result was catastrophic. The troops, who charged into the same open field without proper air support, now had to advance while being bombed by the Nationalist air force. They were literally ground to pieces.
The German Luftwaffe demonstrated a new feat: diving vertically from high altitudes to drop their bombs. This bombing method had a terrifying accuracy, far superior to anything they had seen before, and it shattered their precious tanks.
And then there were the enemy's anti-tank guns. The Soviet-made tanks, the Republic's most valuable asset, were destroyed in droves.
His 11th Division was undoubtedly an elite unit, but the continuous offensive under the scorching heat, without enough water and with countless sacrifices, had crushed even their morale.
No matter how many messengers he sent to the high command begging for at least enough water, it was always in short supply.
Líster stared at the loss report with bloodshot eyes. Forty percent of his men were casualties. Half of his 100 tanks were destroyed or had withdrawn for repairs.
The number of soldiers lost to heatstroke due to water shortages was as high as the number of combat casualties.
He couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it, but reality was cruel. His elite unit, once called the best division in the Republic, was all but destroyed.
Now, the enemy was preparing a counterattack with reinforcements from the Basque front in the north.
Continuing the offensive was out of the question; even holding the line was difficult. To save his remaining men, Líster requested permission to retreat from high command.
The reply was not just devastating, but utterly tragic.
[Regrettably, your request cannot be granted. Your unit is currently the one with the most preserved strength; therefore, you are to establish a defensive line at Brunete and hold the position.]
He was certain he had reported the 40% loss of personnel without any reduction. And yet, they were the unit with the most preserved strength?
What in God's name was the situation with the other units? We who fought for the people—what did we hope to gain by sacrificing so many of them?
Should he have disobeyed the order to attack? Given the atmosphere, he figured it would have only resulted in his dismissal.
The Republic had bet too much on this offensive, and the easy capture of Brunete had turned out to be a poisoned chalice.
But if he had defied the order, at least he wouldn't have sent his men to their deaths with his own command.
Líster stared at the telegram for a long time before his gaze shifted to the pistol on his desk.
Would the Republic ever have another chance to take the offensive?
They had already lost too much to suppress the corruption of Spain and the madness of the nationalists, and to raise the banner of the people and communism.
Slowly, Líster raised the pistol and brought it to his head.
“Colonel! The enemy is attacking!”
At that moment, his adjutant burst in, and their eyes met.
“C-Colonel!”
Feeling the last of his strength drain away, Líster gave a hollow laugh.
“Those damned Germans. They won't even let a man die in peace.”
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