Chapter 15
Chapter 15
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: End of Tour
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< Spanish Civil War - End of Tour >
July 24, 1937
Brunete, West of Madrid, Central Spain - Nationalist-occupied territory
Brunete had fallen.
It was our victory.
The Republican forces, who had held out until the very end, were routed, unable to withstand the fierce bombardment by the Condor Legion and the Italian Air Force, followed by the ensuing assault.
The Republicans' ambitious Brunete Offensive came to an end, with them losing the city and all other captured territories, pushed back to their original lines.
But none of that mattered.
In this offensive, thirteen men from my company were killed and seventeen were wounded.
I never imagined there would be so many fools willing to die just to save me some money.
...Was my command the best it could have been?
The thought that I could have reduced the sacrifices, even by a little, wouldn't leave my mind.
Regardless of my mood, the Nationalist high command was greatly encouraged by the gains made with the blood of soldiers.
Encouraged enough to do something insane.
The battle was over, but the sound of gunfire never ceased in the half-burnt ruins of the city.
Republican soldiers who couldn't escape, or had given up and surrendered, were being lined up in front of a pit and executed by firing squad.
I didn't want to look at the faces of those waiting for their turn, weeping and terrified.
As I led my men and quickened my pace, a Spanish broadcast blared, as loud as the gunshots executing the prisoners.
[Today, we killed a thousand Reds! Tomorrow, let's rape a thousand Red bitches!]
From the loudspeaker Enrique Líster once used to rally his Republican soldiers, a Nationalist radio broadcast—no, insane propaganda—now poured out.
“What’s it saying?”
“Pure madness…”
Clemens asked me, since almost no one in the unit could speak Spanish, but that was all I could say.
“Come here!”
“Aaaah, Mommyyy!”
Right before our eyes, two girls who looked to be in their early to mid-teens were being dragged away by Moorish (North African) soldiers.
I knew what they were going to do without having to see it, but it was hard to pretend I didn't. I approached the first lieutenant who appeared to be their commander.
“What are you planning to do with them?”
The lieutenant looked at me warily for a moment, but relaxed when he realized I was a first lieutenant from the Condor Legion, not a Nationalist superior.
“It’s nothing. This sort of thing happens all the time.”
“With children?”
At my question, the Moorish lieutenant frowned for a moment, but then broke into a grin, his stark white teeth flashing against his brown skin.
“Ah, don’t you worry. They’ll last two hours at most, anyway.”
Was that supposed to be an answer? I wanted to knock him flat.
But I wasn't his superior, just a foreign volunteer. I couldn't stop him.
I felt sick to my stomach. This truly was a mad era.
The madmen on the radio encouraging rape, and the ones actually doing it.
My mood soured further when I realized Nazi Germany would be worse, not better.
I didn't want to exchange another word. As I started walking again, trying to ignore the screams of the girls being dragged into the building, he shouted at my back.
“Don’t be so uptight. Men who’ve fought hard deserve a reward!”
What is that crazy bastard saying.
I spun around and glared at him without thinking, only to meet the eyes of one of my own men, who looked tempted by his words.
Fuck. Did we bleed and fight for this?
We had won the battle, but there was no glory, no joy.
-
A month passed after the Battle of Brunete.
During that time, the Nationalists hurriedly moved their forces from the central front back to the north and resumed their offensive. With the Republicans nearly decimated and unable to respond, the northern front was collapsing rapidly.
As the spearhead of the offensive, we had suffered considerable losses and were in the process of reorganizing.
I held funerals for the dead, and when the wounded had recovered, I bought drinks as I'd promised.
I think we laughed, talked, and drank like madmen.
Even during my university retreats, my motto had been to drink only until I made a fool of myself. This time, I drank until I blacked out.
When Clemens and the platoon leaders roared with laughter, recounting my drunken antics, and when we all suffered from hangovers together, I could forget everything for a little while and just laugh.
And then, I celebrated my first birthday in this body.
...August 15th.
Was it a sign that I should remember my original homeland, even in this distant foreign land?
Or was it simply the god who dropped me in the middle of this hell mocking me?
Having a birthday on a date no Korean could ever forget only made me more distraught.
Forget 21st-century Seoul; my—Yun Seong-il's—homeland, the Republic of Korea, did not yet exist.
The Koreans living under Japanese rule, a regime as insane as the Nazis, and me, right now. Who was more unfortunate?
Germany—Hitler's Nazi Germany—would, according to the original history, join hands with the Japanese Empire to form the Axis powers.
Though there would be no direct contact with the peninsula in the Far East, if I accomplished nothing, it meant I would become an enemy of Korea.
I, who was still struggling just to survive the coming Second World War, what could I possibly do for the Korea of this blood-soaked era?
-
August 25, 1937
Salamanca, a major Nationalist stronghold in west-central Spain - Condor Legion Headquarters
I was standing with the other unit commanders, swallowing nervously.
“A wave offensive?! Is this what you call a plan?!”
The roar of Colonel Model, the source of our tension, reached us unfiltered as we waited outside his door.
“It was morons like you who sent soldiers into machine-gun nests during the Great War while you cowered in the rear! What are you wearing that rank for? To get your men killed?!”
Oh, damn it. I had only heard stories of Walter Model's tirades, but hearing one in person sent a chill down my spine, even though it wasn't directed at me.
“Get that pathetic, stupid face out of my sight! If you ever want to stand before me again, you'd better grease those rusty gears in your head! Get out. Now!”
“H-H-Heil Hitler!”
The captain who burst through the door was pale, sweat streaming down his face.
My god, the man's eyes were completely unfocused.
“Next!”
“First Lieutenant Schacht, you're up…”
Ah, so it's my turn.
Receiving looks of pity and anticipation from the other officers, I cleared my throat and entered the office of Colonel Model, who had already crushed the souls of several men.
Most in the Condor Legion used the Nazi salute, but Colonel Model accepted my standard military salute without a word.
He gave me a cold look through his monocle before speaking.
“You're nervous too, I see? Don't worry. I only scold fools.”
“Forgive me for saying so, Colonel, but if that's true, then the future of the German Army is bleak.”
At my implication—that every officer called in today had been torn to shreds—Colonel Model paused for a moment, then chuckled.
“Seeing that reaction, perhaps you really aren't a fool. I like that.”
Honestly, I thought a comment like that might bring out his humorous side, but I guess this was Model in superior-officer mode.
As I swallowed, Model gestured for me to come closer.
When I approached, he showed me the operational plan spread out on his desk.
It was the plan Colonel Model had assigned to the unit commanders like homework during the Battle of Brunete.
My offensive plan.
Ah, so that was it.
So the officers had been getting chewed out because they'd submitted shoddy offensive plans.
I hadn't realized, since every officer who came out practically fled in a panic.
“You've got the basics down, Lieutenant. At least you didn't just slap this together because it was a bother.”
“…Because if that plan were executed, my men would be the ones dying, Colonel.”
I didn't know how the other officers had perceived the new chief of staff's sudden order to draft a potential offensive plan in the middle of an operation.
Frontline company commanders just do as they're told; drafting offensive plans is normally the job of higher-ranking commanders or staff officers.
Judging by today's events, it seemed many had seen it as an annoyance or an imposition. But since I already knew his personality, I'd pored over it whenever there was a lull in the fighting, even while busy with the battle.
And what I'd said to him wasn't just empty words.
I, at least, could never simply accept that soldiers die in war as a matter of course.
I didn't know if that was a curse or something else, living as an officer in Germany during the Second World War.
Colonel Model glanced at me after my remark, then his eyes returned to the operational plan.
I was struck again by how, although Colonel Model's features were ordinary, his intense gaze through the monocle was incredibly intimidating when he was in work mode.
It was hard to imagine he was the same cheerful man who usually joked around with the soldiers, telling dad jokes.
“You proposed a heavy concentration of troops in this sector. Why?”
Colonel Model asked, pointing to the operational map, and I answered without hesitation.
“That sector is close to the road leading from Madrid, which would allow for rapid enemy reinforcements. Depending on the situation, I believed the enemy might dispatch defenders from the Madrid front.”
“And if intelligence indicated no sign of additional reinforcements from Madrid?”
I paused, trying to figure out Colonel Model's intent with that question, but couldn't come up with an answer.
After all, I hadn't received proper staff officer training yet.
“In that case, we could move two or three companies to the reserve, but I believe it would be best to maintain the rest of the forces as planned.”
“Reason?”
Ugh, that cold gaze from behind the monocle was making my throat go dry.
“The intelligence we receive isn't always accurate. And even if it was correct at the time it was gathered, enemy units could have been dispatched since then.”
Colonel Model listened to my opinion without saying a word.
“…And if that were to happen, the enemy could move quickly via the road, whereas our own troop movements would be hampered by the extreme heat, leaving us vulnerable.”
“Hmm.”
“Reinforcements could come from other directions, but in those cases, we would have a degree of air superiority. As long as we identified them in time, we could respond under the same conditions.”
Having finished, I waited nervously for his reaction. He thought for a moment, then spoke bluntly.
“Lieutenant, you are overly cautious.”
Ugh.
Honestly, I wasn't expecting praise from one of the greatest commanders of this era, but to get this kind of evaluation after racking my brain so hard…
“Your preparedness for contingencies isn't bad, but grasping the situation, concentrating your forces, and executing the operation swiftly can ultimately result in fewer casualties.”
It was such a textbook answer that I had nothing to say.
Had I become obsessed with avoiding the worst-case scenario after seeing so much death on the battlefield?
“I'm not one to beat around the bush, so I'll be frank. Based on the combat reports and the evaluations from your NCOs, you are an average unit commander.”
A cold feeling washed over me.
When I thought about it, the German army of this era was, at least in terms of tactics, the best in the world.
Was it arrogant of me to think I could become a general staff officer just because I had knowledge from the modern era?
“You're not a coward, but you're not heroically brave either. You think too much. Cautious, but somewhat lacking in decisiveness.”
Colonel Model's cold assessment cut me to the core. Overthrow the Nazis? This was insane.
Did I really believe that just because an ordinary modern man who'd just finished his military service was thrown into another era, he'd get some kind of protagonist plot armor?
Colonel Model didn't curse or yell at me like he had with the other officers, but my mind was reeling.
“However, your diligence in considering all possibilities and working meticulously is highly commendable. And it has borne fruit.”
I was so taken aback by his next words that I could only blink, unable to respond for a moment.
“In my opinion, your talents would be better utilized as a staff officer rather than a frontline commander. What do you say? If you're amenable, I will recommend you for the General Staff course.”
“…Sir?”
Stunned, I questioned him, then immediately clamped my mouth shut. Colonel Model, as if he'd never glared at me with cold eyes, broke into a grin.
“You don't want to?”
“N-No, sir! It's an honor!”
Ah, damn. I can't control my expression.
My face had broken into such a wide grin that I knew exactly what I looked like without needing a mirror.
“Well, even without my recommendation, you're already a strong candidate for the next War Academy class. The business with the 88s, and Lieutenant Colonel Richthofen of the Luftwaffe also gave you a very high evaluation.”
“Ah…”
“Of course, that doesn't mean my recommendation is meaningless. Connections are important in the army. Unless, of course, you'd rather not be associated with a troublesome superior like me.”
Model said this with a hint of playfulness.
This man knows exactly what his subordinates think of him…
“Not at all, sir! To receive a recommendation from someone like you is the honor of a lifetime!”
Who was Walter Model?
Even in the desperate final days of World War II, he was a legend who handed defeats to the Allied Forces' greatest generals, like Georgy Zhukov, Bernard Montgomery, and Omar Bradley.
He was only a colonel now, but by the end of the war, when countless German field marshals were being dismissed, he was the Lion of Defense, a marshal whose performance silenced even Hitler until the very end.
The fact that such a man would actually recommend me was overwhelming.
But perhaps because I was so overtly moved, Colonel Model seemed a bit taken aback.
“Well, it's not that big of a deal… Do you have a talent for flattery as well?”
Uh, hmm. Did I come off as too much of a fanboy?
For me, who knows the future, I have boundless respect and trust for Model. But from his perspective, he hasn't known me for very long…
I couldn't exactly explain that, so I could only speak with the deepest possible respect.
“Not at all, sir! I will work hard not to be a disgrace to your recommendation!”
“Well now. Alright. I'll be expecting great things, First Lieutenant Schacht.”
This god-awful Spanish Civil War was hell, but in the end, I made it.
I can go to the War Academy. I can go to Germany!
< Spanish Civil War - End of Tour > End