Chapter 2
Chapter 2
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: Battle of Jarama (1)
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February 9, 1937
Rivas-Vaciamadrid, near southeastern Madrid, Central Spain
It was the fourth day since the offensive began. Our company, part of Colonel Escámez’s forces, had succeeded in capturing key towns from the south, including Rivas-Vaciamadrid. Colonel Ricardo Rada’s forces in the north had also smoothly secured the high ground west of the river.
The problem was the central force, which was supposed to be the core of the offensive. According to the plan, they should have annihilated the unsuspecting Republicans and crossed the river.
Of course, no war ever goes according to plan.
“The 11th Division? Enrique Líster? Wasn't he from Frunze? Damned Soviet-puppet Red bastard.”
“In any case, the left and right flanks did their part. If only the central force had done theirs…”
Colonel Escámez and Colonel Rada, having done their jobs, were in a relatively comfortable position. But the overall commander of this operation, General Enrique Varela, looked extremely displeased.
And for good reason. While the left and right flanks were doing their duty, the central force not only failed to cross the river but was routed by the armored units of the Republican 11th Division, led by Enrique Líster. This allowed the enemy on the west bank to retreat safely.
“Those Reds… I don't know when they got so good at using tanks.”
As Colonel Asensio, who led the central infantry force, reluctantly muttered, Baron Fernando, who sported a magnificent mustache, turned the blame on us.
“We appreciate the support, but frankly, the T-26s they're using are far more powerful than our Panzer Is! This defeat is purely due to the difference in tank performance!”
Seriously? They fought poorly and now they're blaming us? I felt a cold sweat as I turned my gaze to the man with the lieutenant general’s insignia.
“They say the performance of the Panzer I is inferior to the Soviet T-26, which is causing difficulties for the central force's advance.”
Hearing my words, the army’s Lieutenant General Wilhelm Ritter von Thoma narrowed his eyes on his long, horse-like face. Standing beside him, Colonel Wolfram von Richthofen of the Luftwaffe whistled.
I didn’t know much about Lt. Gen. von Thoma, the commander of the Condor Legion's ground forces, but my modern-day knowledge told me plenty about Wolfram von Richthofen.
Curtis LeMay, the American bombing enthusiast and stone-age aficionado who’d talked of bombing Japan and Vietnam back to the Stone Age with indiscriminate attacks on civilians and all, was probably one of the most famous air force generals of World War II.
But this Wolfram von Richthofen was the Nazi LeMay—no, he was even worse. He was the kind of man who’d openly declare what a wonderfully insane pleasure it was to watch a city burn from incendiary bombs.
Well, honestly, as an army man, I had my own problems to worry about rather than some Luftwaffe officer. The men attending this meeting were all big shots.
The reason a lowly second lieutenant like me was here, among all these generals and field-grade officers, was because Lt. Gen. von Thoma’s actual adjutant had the bad luck of getting hit by shrapnel and being sent to the rear.
So I, being in a unit stationed here in Rivas-Vaciamadrid where the strategy meeting was taking place and happening to speak both German and Spanish, was pulled in as a replacement.
And now I have to translate as they pass the buck for this failed offensive. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Really, God? Why are you doing this to me?
“The Panzer Is we provided are merely prototypes. You should bear in mind that the Condor Legion’s support is primarily focused on air and artillery. In any case, tanks are infantry support weapons; a minor difference in performance doesn't determine the success or failure of an operation.”
When I relayed a suitably softened version of Lt. Gen. von Thoma’s statement, the expressions of the Nationalist generals soured. From the perspective of a modern person who knows that armored units centered on tanks were the linchpin of World War II, this sounded like utter nonsense, but for now, at least, it was the accepted truth.
It wasn't as if you could wage a blitzkrieg with the Panzer I, which mounted two machine guns instead of the main cannon one would associate with a tank. And the T-26 they feared so much was, at the end of the day, an early-model light tank that barely had a proper main gun.
The fact that I, in my modern life, was deeply interested in Germany, especially World War II, and knew a lot about it might just help me survive in this godforsaken world.
Thanks to the far-too-ahead-of-his-time Mikhail Tukhachevsky, the Soviet army was already mimicking blitzkrieg tactics, and the Republican armored units, operating with their tanks and doctrine, were no different.
The forces under Colonel Asensio and Baron Fernando had been thrown into a panic and routed by the sudden appearance of an armored group…
But even the T-34, the masterpiece Soviet tank that became a mainstay in WWII, could be easily destroyed without infantry support. Yet these guys were already massing paper-armored T-26 light tanks and using them like a dedicated armored corps.
That just makes them prey for infantry flank attacks or artillery. Like, for instance, the Pak 36 anti-tank guns and Flak 18 anti-aircraft guns our Condor Legion had in abundance.
But it wasn’t my place as a mere substitute translator to interject, and the other side had their own interpreter.
It was customary for both sides to have an interpreter for military operations, and since their guy was listening, I could get away with slightly altering the phrasing, but injecting my own opinions could have serious consequences.
Besides, these were lessons they would naturally learn while slogging through the Spanish Civil War, so I had no intention of being chewed out for being an overstepping second lieutenant. Not yet, anyway.
“Tsk, what about the Italians? Are they here yet?”
“Those leisurely fellows said they’ll need a month to prepare. We can forget about getting their help for this offensive.”
In any case, the ambitious offensive to cut the link between Spain’s historic capital, Madrid, and the Republican stronghold of Valencia had been soundly blocked. As torrential rain poured down, halting the advance, reinforcements were surely arriving at the Republican positions across the river.
Even a lowly second lieutenant like me could sense that this offensive was already a failure. Unfortunately, the Nationalist command seemed to think otherwise. After a series of fruitless discussions, this was their conclusion.
“It's practically a done deal anyway. There will be some sacrifices, but as soon as the rain stops, we will cross the river and resume the offensive as planned. We'll overcome any deviations from the plan with a wave of attacks. Madrid must be liberated from the Reds!”
“Death to the Reds!”
It was disheartening. If a war had broken out back in Korea, regular soldiers like me would have been sent to die pointless deaths, charging on the orders of some bullshit strategy meeting like this one.
A second lieutenant wasn't in a much different position, but at least I was an adjutant in a dispatched unit, so I could take some comfort in the fact that I might be able to avoid a meaningless end.
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Outside, the downpour continued. In this weather, air support was obviously impossible, so there wasn't much for the Condor Legion to do.
After the meeting, as I was following Lt. Gen. von Thoma and Colonel Richthofen, a Spanish officer with lieutenant colonel’s insignia came up and spoke to us.
“Frustrating, isn't it? They're cautious when they should be swift and bold, and bold when they should give up.”
The lieutenant colonel looked pointedly at me. Was he talking to me? No… I immediately translated, and Richthofen replied.
“Ah, Lieutenant Colonel Yagüe. I was just thinking how frustrating this is. It would have been better if you had participated in the last offensive.”
Lt. Colonel Yagüe. That was a name I recognized.
Juan Yagüe. Among the officers of Nationalist Spain, led by Emilio Mola, he was one of the very few adept at swiftly and decisively transitioning between offense and defense. He was one of the only Spanish commanders respected by the Condor Legion.
The German officers were unbelievably arrogant, and they tended to look down on the Spanish army, which had many politically appointed officers who were militarily incompetent. To be known as capable among the Condor Legion meant his skills were the real deal.
Richthofen and Yagüe seemed to know each other fairly well, as they bantered back and forth. I just wished they’d spare a thought for my plight, having to translate every bit of their trivial conversation.
“Well, I’ll be on my way. Good work today, Colonel. And you, Lieutenant. You may return to your unit once the Colonel is finished.”
“Jawohl! Heil—”
Lt. Gen. von Thoma, seeming uninterested, waved his hand dismissively and walked away under an umbrella held by his adjutant.
The so-called Nazi salute wasn't yet the standard for the entire Wehrmacht; it was merely recommended, and conservative Wehrmacht generals did not welcome it.
The pride of the veteran German army generals, who had endured the horrific First World War and the military cutbacks of the Treaty of Versailles, was more than enough for them to disregard a leader who was a mere corporal.
This was something I needed to remember.
I hadn't decided exactly what I should do yet, but no matter how I looked at it, fighting as a soldier under the mad Führer Hitler and going down in flames with Germany seemed like a damn stupid idea.
Of course, the Luftwaffe, a force created by Nazi high official and air force general Göring himself, was different from the army and had uniformly adopted the Nazi salute.
The army contingent dispatched here to the Condor Legion was largely composed of young soldiers who hadn't had many opportunities for military glory—among them, a significant number of so-called "pro-Nazi" types sent to build their records and careers. Like the air force, they all proudly shouted, “Heil Hitler.”
After von Thoma left, Richthofen continued his conversation with Yagüe, mixing in a little broken and awkward Spanish. Yagüe seemed quite pleased by this and continued the idle chat.
I was a bit surprised that Richthofen knew any Spanish at all, but he said he'd picked up a little locally.
In the middle of their conversation, a man holding an umbrella approached, folded it, and asked in Spanish with a distinct American accent.
“A pleasure, you must be Lieutenant Colonel Juan Yagüe? My name is John T. Whitaker, an American journalist. Might I have a moment of your time?”
Richthofen, catching the words “American” and “journalist,” immediately scowled and fell silent. From the perspective of a regular army under a dictator—that is, the German Wehrmacht—a civilian like this being in a military operational area was unthinkable.
But the Nationalist leadership had no intention of hiding their actions, and the Republicans were also trying to win diplomatic victories through media campaigns with foreign journalists and reporters. So you could find people like him all over Spain.
Even in this era, journalists would go through fire and water to make a name for themselves. The Spanish Civil War was such a mess, with chaotic front lines and no clear distinction between operational and civilian areas, that maintaining security was a nightmare.
“I wanted to ask about the operation in Badajoz last August. There are rumors that civilians, amounting to 10% of the city's population, were killed on your orders, Lieutenant Colonel. Pardon my asking, but is that true?”
In Korea, the word "journalist" often conjured the image of a hack, but this man, in the middle of a living hell like this civil war, got straight to the point.
Whether it was a sense of journalistic duty for democracy or just a need for a sensational story, I couldn't say.
I reflexively started to translate for Richthofen, but he raised a hand to stop me. Right, the German presence in Spain was a secret of sorts. I almost fucked up.
Lieutenant Colonel Yagüe… surprisingly, smiled a good-natured smile and answered kindly.
“Ah, of course we killed them.”
For a moment, neither I nor Whitaker could control our expressions, but Lieutenant Colonel Yagüe continued, unconcerned.
“Oh, I don't know what answer you were expecting, but was I supposed to abandon the front line I had worked so hard to advance, just to march 4,000 Red prisoners all the way back to base? Or should I have just left them and pushed forward, only to be surrounded by a Badajoz that had become a Red city again behind my back?”
Whitaker couldn’t hide his stiff expression, but he showed his professionalism by taking down Lieutenant Colonel Yagüe’s words verbatim. Yagüe, still with that good-natured smile, continued.
“This is war, Mr. Yankee. Those Reds killed and raped innocent priests and nuns, and in Toledo, they took the son of the proud Colonel Moscardó hostage, demanding he betray his country. They are simply paying the price.”
Having said that, Yagüe smiled like a friendly neighborhood uncle and added.
“And I am very proud to be a patriot at the forefront of that.”
With a stony face, Whitaker wrote down everything Lieutenant Colonel Yagüe said, then gave a perfunctory thank you for the interview. He glanced our way for a moment, but seeing our expressions, he must have realized we wouldn't be granting any interviews and left immediately.
Not long after Whitaker was gone, a runner came from headquarters looking for Yagüe and took him away. Only then did Richthofen, who had been a constant bother, finally release me with a word of thanks for my efforts.
Under my umbrella, I walked back toward my base, not on the well-drained tiled streets of Seoul, but on a Spanish road that had turned into a muddy, slushy mess.
Honestly, even from my modern perspective, if you only listened to Lieutenant Colonel Yagüe's words, you might think he wasn't entirely wrong. A civil war had already broken out, and if war couldn't be avoided, sacrifices might be necessary.
But to massacre even the civilians who had nothing to do with it, and then to boast about it so proudly?
It was only because even crazier bastards like Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan had appeared, and the deliverers of democracy had been exhausted dealing with them, that Spain wasn't wiped off the map like Nazi Germany.
These people, both during and after the civil war, openly carried out massacres within their own country, slapping labels like "political prisoner" on their victims without any attempt to hide it.
It really hit home that this was a savage era hiding under a modern veneer. Ugh, I want to go back to Korea!
On the way, my eyes met with a girl watching from behind a curtain in her house. Startled, she quickly drew it shut.
When this downpour stops, before the offensive begins, the "Reds" in this town will be cleaned up, just like they were in Badajoz.
I'm slowly starting to accept that I'm a German on the brink of the goddamn Second World War.
It seems there won't be any miracle where I wake up and—ta-da!—I'm back in Korea.
In that case, I have to figure out how to get off this hell-bound train I never wanted to board.
And the all-too-obvious conclusion was that nothing good could come from being under this insane Nazi regime.