Chapter 14
Chapter 14
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: The Battle of Brunete (6)
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< The Spanish Civil War - The Battle of Brunete (6) >
July 21, 1937
Brunete, West of Madrid, Central Spain - 11th Division Headquarters
Colonel Enrique Líster had sent a telegram that defied the chain of command, risking the ire of his direct superior in a last-ditch hope. But the response from headquarters was firm.
[We acknowledge the severe losses your division has sustained, but there are no other units in a position to defend Brunete. Headquarters will send reinforcements as available. Hold Brunete at all costs.]
“...You crazy bastards.”
In a military order, the phrase ‘at all costs’ had a clear meaning.
Hold the line, even if it means every last man dies defending it.
It was questionable whether holding was even possible, and it was unlikely that High Command was unaware of that.
In the end, instead of preserving their remaining soldiers for the future, they were betting the lives of their last handful of elite troops on a gamble with abysmal odds of success.
Was this place of such great strategic value that it was worth sacrificing all of his men, who had bled for the people’s victory since the beginning of the civil war?
No. At least, not in Colonel Líster’s opinion.
This place was merely a bridgehead for securing the Extremadura Road.
If they were to abandon the Extremadura Road itself, this position would become nothing more than a salient, drawing the full force of the enemy’s attacks.
And yet, the high command had chosen to forsake the lives of his men, who had guided the Republican cause to victory since the start of the Spanish Civil War.
They had chosen to gamble, simply to show the Soviet Union and the West that the Republicans still held the initiative in this war.
“What did they say, Colonel?”
Líster hesitated for a moment, looking at his adjutant who appeared just as exhausted as he was, before answering.
“They want us to hold Brunete. ...Said they’ll send reinforcements.”
“H-here? But our division is...”
Líster and his adjutant looked at each other and sighed in unison.
After a brief silence, Líster began to laugh.
“Heh, khuhuhu...”
“C-Colonel.”
“Hahaha... Isn’t it hilarious?”
“Sir? What is?”
“Khuhuhu, hahahaha...”
Ignoring his bewildered adjutant, Líster laughed for a long while before speaking again.
“We all fought and died for our homeland, but in the end, it’s men from other countries who decide the outcome.”
The Republicans had reached a point where they could do nothing without Soviet aid.
And now, just to curry favor with that very same Soviet Union, they were forced to throw their last handful of elite troops into a reckless gamble. Whose fault was that?
“They say the new German chief of staff is leading this defensive and counter-offensive operation, right? Walter Model? Haha, hahaha. How can I not laugh? A German volunteer chief of staff who just arrived comes up with a more plausible plan than us, who have bled on this land for a year?”
The adjutant couldn't say a word.
The veteran volunteers who had been with the Republicans, especially the British and French who had experienced the Great War, had actively tried to propose strategies in the early days.
But their suggestions were all dismissed, opposed by anarchists who didn't want foreign influence to grow and by communists wary of the democratic world.
For a time, the Nationalists had operated similarly, and as long as both sides were locked in a grueling struggle, it wasn't considered a major problem.
But as soon as Germany began to intervene in earnest, the Republican front collapsed spectacularly.
“And that anti-tank gun that routed our armored units was originally an anti-aircraft gun? And the one who suggested it was a mere company commander? A ‘First Lieutenant’ Dietrich Schacht? Heheheh, isn’t it just absurd that a war for the fate of our nation is being decided like this?”
“Colonel, we can still fight!”
The adjutant shouted with determination. Though Líster had been on the verge of making an extreme choice due to fatigue and stress, he knew that this defeat didn't mean the war was over.
This time, they had been caught off guard, unaware of the full strength of the intervening German forces. They wouldn't be caught like this again.
But their homeland, Spain, lacked the national strength to endure such losses repeatedly.
The Nationalist rebellion, Madrid, Jarama, Guadalajara, the Northern Campaign, and now Brunete. Too much blood had already been spilled, and the losses were irreversible.
Their air force and armored units, once their only advantages, had suffered immense damage in this battle. Would there even be a next time? And if there was, how many cards would they have left to play?
Germany’s involvement, while said to be beyond the scale of mere volunteers, had still only amounted to an air wing and a single division, yet they had inflicted such a devastating defeat.
The leadership’s miscalculation—that Italy, one of the three great powers, was a concern, but a newly rearming Germany was not—had led to catastrophic results.
Could the Republic win against them? No, how long could they even last? Two years? One?
Líster was pessimistic.
But despite it all, he had a job to do.
“...For now, let’s hope for those reinforcements they promised to send.”
-
July 23, 1937
Brunete, West of Madrid, Central Spain - Combat Zone on the City Outskirts
This was the first time the Condor Legion had spearheaded an offensive.
And unlike the defensive battles we had fought so far, we were taking heavy losses against the Republican forces who had established defensive lines in the city.
“Aaargh!”
“M-Medic!”
The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the battlefield, along with screams, scattered corpses, and pools of blood.
“Dammit, what is that lunatic doing!”
“Dietrich!”
Seeing a soldier standing dazed and wandering in the hail of bullets, I ran like a madman and tackled him to the ground.
“What are you doing, Private! You want to die?!”
“M-my arm...”
“What?”
“My arm, my arm is...”
Only then did I look down and realize his left arm was gone from the elbow down.
“My arm... My arm...”
The soldier muttered blankly, then got up and started walking toward a piece of flesh lying a short distance away. I nearly retched at the sight.
“Dammit, it’s already...”
Before I could finish my sentence, blood spurted from the soldier’s back.
He collapsed. He wouldn't be moving again.
“Fuck, fuck...”
At this very moment, gunfire erupted madly from both sides, and the number of soldiers falling, spewing blood, was already too high to count.
“Dietri—ah, ugh. Captain. Please, let’s be more careful, huh? We can give orders from a little further back, can’t we? Right?”
Clemens, who had quickly scurried over while crouched, muttered pleadingly, but my eyes were fixed on the corpse of the soldier who had died looking for his arm.
“Just order them to charge and die from the rear? Don’t you see what’s happening out there? If we comfortably order them to go forward and die from behind, you think they’ll advance?!”
My blood was boiling, and I snapped at him without thinking.
The battlefield was too loud for him to have heard me clearly, but the sight of us arguing must have been visible to the soldiers watching us with anxious eyes.
“Sorry, Clemens. I lost my temper.”
I apologized to Clemens, whose face had hardened, and wiped my face.
“...No, sir. It was my mistake.”
Hell isn't somewhere else. War, whether you’re winning or losing, is just a goddamned hell.
Heroic struggles? A victory earned through the blood, sweat, and tears of patriotic martyrs? Tell them to shove that bullshit.
With trembling hands, I opened my canteen and took a swig.
The lukewarm water moistened my parched throat, cooling the heat in my head a little.
Headquarters had analyzed that the Republicans’ capacity for resistance was exhausted, and indeed, we had met little resistance on our way here.
Before reaching Brunete, most of them had put up sporadic resistance before surrendering.
But here, at our objective of retaking Brunete, we were met with fierce opposition.
[Hold fast, the justice of Spain and its people are on our side! I, too, will remain here and fight alongside you! Do not lose to the traitors who have sided with foreign fascists! They shall not pass!]
“No Pasaran!!”
The 11th Division had been at the forefront of the offensive and had suffered severe casualties, but their commander, Enrique Líster, was broadcasting throughout the battle, galvanizing his soldiers.
The battle cry shouted in unison by the enemy in response to their colonel’s encouragement—his voice now cracked and hoarse from shouting all day—was enough to unnerve even the German soldiers who couldn't understand the words.
For me and the other Nationalist soldiers who did understand, it was even more chilling.
“Dammit, those bastards really look like they’re ready to die here.”
This was not good. Not good at all. We hadn't expected this level of desperate resistance.
If ordered to break through despite the sacrifices, it would be possible.
But how many would die in the process? Would I survive?
“Clemens, give me the map.”
I took the map from Clemens and began to unfold it.
Or rather, I was about to, when a soldier who looked like a messenger came riding toward us on a motorcycle.
“A messenger. Orders, I see...”
I held on to a sliver of hope that Colonel Model wouldn't order us to keep charging into this hellscape.
But just as the soldier neared, an explosion erupted in front of him. The motorcycle and its rider were thrown into the air before crashing back down.
“God, damn, it...!”
“Ugh, uwaaah, aaaaaah...!”
The soldier, a corporal, had been unlucky enough to be hit by a mortar. One of his legs was blown off, and he writhed on the ground.
I quickly ducked and ran to him, dragging him behind a wall.
“Med—!”
I started to shout, but then I stopped.
The gruesome sight of his entrails strewn along the path where I had dragged him was visible.
Not even a military surgeon could save him now.
“P-please save me...”
The corporal whispered weakly, but there was nothing I could say.
“Fuck... fuck... save me... it hurts so much...”
“The or—...”
I needed to ask where the orders were, but the words wouldn't come out.
As I hesitated, Clemens, unable to watch any longer, asked for me.
“Corporal, the orders...”
“Mama... Mamaaa...”
The corporal couldn’t answer. He called for his mother, and then even that sound ceased.
“This is fucked up...”
This would be a goddamned memory I’d never forget.
Fighting back nausea, I rummaged through the dead corporal’s uniform and found the order sheet.
The sticky blood on my hands felt like it was clinging to my very soul.
“Hoo... Bombing run on the city in two hours, huh.”
Knowing Richthofen, he would probably burn the city to the ground with incendiary bombs. I let out a sigh of relief.
Yes, rather than continuing to slam our heads against such a defensive line in urban warfare, it might be better to just burn the small city down.
The thought had barely crossed my mind when a chill ran down my spine.
Where was the man who had been so shocked by the bombing of Guernica?
Legally, there was no issue under international law.
Since the enemy had established defensive lines within the city, it was undeniably a combat zone.
But there would surely be civilians.
I could feel something that a human being ought to have breaking inside me.
I forced myself to swallow that unpleasant feeling and issued my orders.
“Clemens, engage for one more hour, then pull the men back. Tell them not to push forward recklessly, just to keep up the pretense of an attack. We can’t have incendiaries dropping on our heads. Oh, and tell them not to waste too much ammo.”
“Understood, Captain.”
I watched Clemens disappear over the wall, hunched low, then sank to the ground. I closed the corporal’s eyes and took his dog tags.
“Arne Metz... Corporal.”
What was the name of that messenger who died back in Guadalajara?
...I couldn't remember.
-
Two hours later, Brunete city center – Republican 11th Division Headquarters
“...It was a tough situation, but you all did well. Truly, thank you for your hard work.”
As Colonel Líster spoke, his voice completely hoarse, the unit commanders bowed their heads solemnly.
The Condor Legion, Nationalist forces, and Italian troops.
The three-pronged assault had relentlessly hammered the defenders of Brunete.
Líster had personally shouted himself hoarse encouraging his men to hold on, but casualties had reached a point where they had given up trying to count them.
The so-called reinforcements from headquarters were, to put it kindly, battle survivors; to put it bluntly, they were nothing more than a tattered group of routed soldiers.
When Líster first greeted these ‘reinforcements,’ he had been so dumbfounded he couldn't speak, but the situation was so dire that he had to use every man he could get.
Even the elite soldiers of his 11th Division, who revered the Republican hero Colonel Líster, were on the verge of mutiny from the burning thirst and pointless losses. It was obvious what state the other units were in.
Fortunately or unfortunately, most of the other units that had been on the offensive had been nearly wiped out and had disintegrated, which meant the water and supplies reaching Brunete were now plentiful.
After receiving cool water and a hearty meal for the first time in a long while, the men had fought with all their might to defend the city, despite it being a suicidal order.
But that had only bought them a few days.
“However, we must now admit that we have clearly reached our limit. Spain, or at least I, will not forget your cooperation. Perhaps it would be best for the International Brigades, at least, to withdraw now?”
Líster’s polite question was directed at the commander of an International Brigade unit, who had managed to lead his battered troops to Brunete after a near-suicidal offensive.
“If there are soldiers fighting here for communism and the people, we will remain here as well. We have no home to return to, anyway.”
“....”
Líster slowly closed his eyes as he looked at the German officer of the International Brigade, who spoke with a grim smile.
Many of the International Brigades had withdrawn, disgusted by the shameful conduct of the Republican high command, but some still remained, throwing themselves into this hopeless battle.
In their homelands, Germany and Italy, the fascists had already seized power, and communists were either suppressed or exiled.
Like the Republicans, they had nowhere to retreat.
“I’m sorry. If our military had been even a little wiser, this situation...”
“We’re just the ones who have to do as the higher-ups say. What can you do? Looking back now, we should have been trying to kill that bastard Hitler instead of fighting the Social Democratic Party. The Comintern is a bunch of idiots.”
“...Hahaha.”
It was a rather reactionary statement for a communist, but the German commander of the International Brigade despised the Soviet Union as much as he did the fascists.
While the German Communist Party was busy brawling with the Social Democratic Party under the orders of the Soviet Union and the Comintern, Hitler had seized power with ease and pronounced a death sentence on German communism.
Many of the German communists who fled that inferno to the Soviet Union, far from being rewarded for their efforts, were even now being swept up in Stalin's Great Purge.
Having escaped his homeland, he had come to Spain to fight, crying out for the justice of the people and communism. But now, having lost most of his comrades, he remained only out of stubborn pride.
“Well, we learned an expensive lesson. No matter how good the motives are, no matter how hard you fight for the people, the outcome isn't always good.”
Líster felt a bitter taste in his mouth as well.
What reward had they given the International Brigades, who had come to a foreign land to shed their blood, believing only in the banner of freedom and the people’s justice against the fascist traitors?
The honor of having fought for justice? The freedom they bestowed upon the people?
“...Our courage may be trampled, but it will not be today. The people’s struggle may fall, but it will not be today. We are not finished yet.”
“That’s right. With men like you, Colonel, the day will come when the justice of communism and the people will take root in this country.”
Just as Líster and the last remaining officers exchanged grimly determined smiles, the building shook with a sudden explosion.
“Whoa!”
“Uwaah!”
As the building trembled and the officers stumbled, the adjutant burst through the door.
“Colonel! It’s an air raid!”
“Tch, so they didn’t retreat to regroup, they pulled back for a bombing run!”
Líster rushed into the hallway and looked out the window, and the words died in his throat.
“Aaargh!”
“Uwaaaah! Help meeee!”
Soldiers and civilians alike were in a panic. Right before Líster’s eyes, an enemy plane flew past, and a rain of fire from an incendiary bomb fell upon the fleeing people.
“Aaargh, it’s hot, uwaaaaaah!”
“E-Emil! Wait, I’ll... Ah, aack! Uwaaaaaaaah!”
The hellish scene of a man catching fire as he tried to run to a fallen, burning comrade to put out the flames unfolded unfiltered before Líster’s eyes.
“C-Colonel! It’s dangerous!”
“You crazy...”
Even as his subordinate pulled him away from the window, Líster couldn't tear his eyes from the city’s horrific state.
He had heard about the bombing of Guernica, but to think they would openly drop incendiary bombs on a city!
The residents here were people who had been cooperating with the Nationalists until just recently!
“L-Líster, Colonel! This building is on fire!”
As flames and smoke rose from all over the city, an incendiary bomb struck the town hall they were using as their headquarters.
This wasn't why they had risked their lives to defend the city. The city they had protected with every last ounce of their strength, with the blood of countless soldiers, was now burning to the ground.
“Damn it all...!”
As Líster spat out his rage, a new wave of aircraft appeared, dropping their bombs indiscriminately on civilians and soldiers alike before turning back.
Seeing more German bombers approaching from the opposite direction, far in the distance, Líster felt a wave of despair.
“You bastards! Are you trying to leave nothing but ruins?!”
There was nothing more he could do.
“Colonel! You have to get to cover!”
All he could do was wait for the bombing to end and pray that as many of his men as possible survived.
“...Walter Model, Dietrich Schacht...”
All Líster could do was grit his teeth and burn the names of the enemies who had handed him this defeat into his mind.
“Those goddamned Germans...”
His battle was over.
The bombing continued for over four hours, raining down on the city filled with the civilians and soldiers who had fought to the last under his command.
< The Spanish Civil War - The Battle of Brunete (6) > End