Chapter 3
Chapter 3
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Battle of Jarama (2)
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On February 11, under the command of Colonel Escámez, we successfully crossed the river and even managed to capture our original objective, Pingarrón Hill.
But, as feared, the Republican forces had been heavily reinforced during the rain, and the fortified enemy on the eastern hills of Jarama resisted stubbornly.
The International Brigade, said to be from Britain, fought until even their battalion commander was killed, but despite countless sacrifices, they eventually surrendered the hill and fled.
A famous poet was also said to have died. They probably fought to the death, claiming to defend democracy and justice. The Nationalists looked upon their corpses and scoffed, calling them foolish reds incited by the Bolsheviks.
Faced with the Republicans' desperate resistance, the Nationalist high command's idiotic strategy—which amounted to throwing wave after wave of attacks whenever a plan went awry—was causing immense casualties.
Though not precisely tallied, the casualties were estimated to be at least four thousand. Four thousand? My entire company, including the commander, is 101 men. The company I served in back in Korea was about that size too.
Reading that tens of millions died in World War II and thinking, 'What a horrific war,' is one thing. But standing on this battlefield and realizing that a number of casualties more than forty times the size of my entire unit has occurred here... the weight of it feels completely different.
What's more, from my position on Pingarrón Hill, I could get a perfect view through binoculars of the Nationalist soldiers being pointlessly mowed down by artillery and machine guns as they charged.
After days of sending soldiers to their pointless deaths, the battered Nationalist offensive began to lose steam, and we faced a Republican counterattack.
-
February 14, 1937
Central Spain, southeast of Madrid, Pingarrón Hill on the east bank of the Jarama River
February 14. If I were in Korea, it would be Valentine's Day—a day I'd be annoyed by all the lovey-dovey couples, but secretly still hold out some hope.
Of course, nothing like that existed in this era.
“Enemy aircraft approaching!”
“Adjust the gun's angle! Hurry!”
The Flak 18, an early version of the famous 8.8 cm anti-aircraft gun, creaked as a soldier desperately cranked the adjuster, raising the barrel's angle. It fired with a roar, but the shell exploded, missing the enemy aircraft spectacularly.
“Damn it! Get down!”
“Aaargh!”
No sooner had the soldiers abandoned the anti-aircraft gun and dove into the trenches than machine-gun fire raked the air above their heads.
“What the hell is the damned Luftwaffe doing!”
“We've already lost air superiority! The enemy's new aircraft are clearly superior to our fighters!”
While the usually good-natured Captain Kaufmann was spewing curses, I had no choice but to report the facts as they were. We're stuck using outdated biplanes, while those bastards have already deployed new, Soviet-made I-16 monoplanes!
An Axis power that's lost air superiority... For someone getting a preview of the miserable end of World War II, all I can do is curse.
“New enemy tanks!”
Meanwhile, new enemy tanks—BT-5s—could be seen approaching at high speed from the front. The Panzer I was already outmatched by the T-26, but the BT-5s charged at a speed that made any comparison impossible.
Its only real asset was its incredible speed, making it just another light tank, but for the infantry facing it for the first time, it was terrifying enough. The Nationalist army quickly collapsed.
“Damn it, stay calm and react! If they come without infantry support, we can just blast them with anti-tank or anti-aircraft guns and it'll be over!”
First Platoon Leader Clemens ran around frantically, shouting, while his subordinate, Sergeant Kocher, slapped sense into dazed soldiers, creating a scene of total chaos.
What do you mean, we're in the rear and won't see direct combat! If the front line gets breached this quickly, this *is* the front line! You disorganized Spanish bastards!
“Aaaargh! My arm! My aaaaarm! Mamaaaa!”
While a soldier, unlucky enough to take a direct hit from a tank shell, thrashed about looking for his arm after being thrown from his Pak 36 anti-tank gun, another Flak 18 anti-aircraft gun pierced an enemy tank's paper-thin armor in a single shot, silencing it.
The Wehrmacht's famous 8.8 cm anti-aircraft gun was certainly proving its legendary effectiveness in ground attacks. If only it weren't my unit doing the proving, I might have been impressed!
The Republicans, who had started their counterattack with great momentum, seemed to realize we were a qualitatively different unit from the regular Nationalist forces when their tanks began exploding one after another under the concentrated fire of our anti-tank and anti-aircraft guns. They soon ceased their tank assaults and switched to an infantry offensive.
Seeing them react this quickly, could this be Enrique Líster's 11th Division? Whether it was or not, we had no choice but to defend.
“Fire! Fire!”
It wasn't quite 'Hitler's Buzzsaw' from '42, but the MG34, mounted on its dedicated tripod, shredded the enemy infantry with a ruthless rate of fire that belied its classification as a light machine gun.
Watching flesh and blood get torn to pieces in real time is definitely not good for one's mental health.
“Hmm, excellent. The Wehrmacht's new weapons are indeed powerful enough.”
It was only natural for a unit plastered with heavy equipment—far more than a single company should have—to perform well, given that we were a new weapons testing corps. Still, Captain Kaufmann, calmly observing the situation through his binoculars amidst the chaos, was admirable. Bu—
A goddamned, grating *phweeeooong* sound filled the air.
“Captain!”
In that instant, without a second thought, I tackled the captain and threw myself into the trench.
No sooner had we fallen into the trench than the sound of an explosion erupted, and sand pelted my head and back mercilessly. Son of a bitch. That fucking hurts...
“*Gasp, cough...*”
“*Cough, cough...*”
Coughing from the dust and spitting out the dirt in my mouth, I trembled from the shock for a long while. But thank God, it seemed nothing was blown off. The captain, who pushed me off and got up first, helped me to my feet.
“Thank you, Second Lieutenant.”
“*Cough*. It was nothing, Captain.”
This isn't right. This place was already a perfect front line. This is different from what that bastard Hitler intended!
I wanted to retreat immediately, but unfortunately, the messenger sent by our battalion commander, Major Beckers, delivered an order: since things had turned out this way, we were to test the weapons and rack up some military achievements.
I guess it was also a chance to show off to the magnificently shattered Nationalist forces.
What a shitty situation. Whether I was pissed off or not, the battle raged on.
The Republicans, who had been routed and forced to surrender the west bank of the Jarama River, now pressed their attack from all sides as if to avenge their defeat.
Meanwhile, Colonel Rada's unit, which was supposed to be holding the north, was reportedly busy fending off an enemy attack from central Madrid.
The Republican armored units, after losing more than a dozen Soviet-supplied light tanks in an attempt to retake Pingarrón Hill from the Condor Legion, had withdrawn in shock. However, they soon routed the central forces of Colonel Asensio and Baron Fernando, who had been attacking the enemy lines.
The Nationalist army didn't lose the territory they had captured, but their offensive was finished. Instead, they were preoccupied with defending against the Republican counterattack.
The losses snowballed. Just days after being horrified by a report of over four thousand casualties, the number soared to a minimum of six thousand, with estimates reaching over ten thousand.
And this was while we were on the defensive!
Even in the Condor Legion, whose equipment was a class above that of the Nationalist units, casualties mounted. In our company, which started the operation with 101 men, five were killed in action, and twelve were wounded and sent to the rear.
Third Platoon Leader Second Lieutenant Julius Habenstein seemed to be suffering from depression after losing Sergeant Neuer, his aide since the start of the deployment.
I didn't know the number of Republican casualties, but just looking at the bodies piled up in front of our defensive line, it was clear the count wasn't in the mere hundreds.
The whistle and roar of incoming shells frequently ring in my ears like tinnitus. I've even jumped out of bed more than once, mistaking the ringing for an artillery barrage.
I'd often heard that war wears a person down, but to feel myself being ground away by it was a truly shitty experience.
The Republican counterattack continued for nearly two weeks, piling up mountains of corpses.
The Republican counteroffensive eventually ended after their air force suffered steady losses to the Flak 18 anti-aircraft guns the Condor Legion had deployed across the front. They finally lost air superiority, pushed back by the Luftwaffe's He 51s and the CR.32 fighters that Italy scrambled under pressure from the Nationalists.
The Nationalists failed to achieve their ambitious goal of cutting off the road between Madrid and Valencia. The Republicans overcame their initial disadvantage and launched a counteroffensive, but failed to retake a single one of the key positions they had lost to the Nationalists.
No one knew the exact number of casualties on either side. There was only speculation that the combined total was at least twenty thousand.
The blood that stained the Jarama River red had left nothing for either side.
-
After both the Republicans and the Nationalists suffered unbearable losses, the front entered a lull, and we were finally able to withdraw.
In contrast to the grim atmosphere of the devastated Nationalists and those who had lost their comrades, the rest of the Condor Legion was almost cruelly cheerful.
So much so that they were holding a modest banquet to celebrate, even in the midst of a civil war.
No, maybe this was just the common sentiment of the era.
“Hey, Dietrich. Enjoying yourself?”
“Well, so-so. You having a good time, Clemens?”
“Of course!”
Clemens grinned, touching the Iron Cross 2nd Class pinned to his chest with one hand while holding a beer mug in the other.
The Condor Legion had successfully blocked the Republican counterattack using Germany's new equipment and had obtained valuable combat data.
The conclusion on the Panzer I was that, while it might be useful for infantry support, it was completely useless in tank-on-tank combat. But even that conclusion was a lesson learned from battle. Besides, the Panzer I was practically a prototype, so expectations weren't high to begin with.
It was a hastily built machine that Germany, defeated in World War I and forbidden from manufacturing tanks by the Treaty of Versailles, had developed under the ridiculous name 'tractor' only after the Nazi Party came to power. It would be stranger if its quality *was* good.
The problem, if you can call it that, is that this hopeless piece of junk would be rolling on the front lines in the early stages of World War II...
In any case, the other army weapons were deemed quite useful, and the Condor Legion's performance shut the mouths of the Nationalists, who had been whining that we'd only sent a small unit out of fear of Britain and France.
Back home, they were apparently quite encouraged, as they awarded the Iron Cross 2nd Class to all officers who fought on the front lines.
Putting other things aside, they shouldn't be satisfied with the Pak 36 anti-tank gun. Its pathetic penetration power, only effective against old light tanks, would earn it the sarcastic nickname 'the gentle door-knocker' from the very beginning of World War II.
Should I write a report suggesting that the anti-tank gun's penetration is weaker than the anti-aircraft gun's? Unlike me, lost in such thoughts, Clemens was simply thrilled.
“Ahh—an Iron Cross! This means our performance was recognized, right? If we do well, maybe we could even become candidates for the General Staff!”
All I could do was smile at the ecstatic Clemens. My friend, becoming a member of the General Staff isn't that easy...
Though, I have to admit, it feels pretty significant to be wearing an Iron Cross, a medal that modern Germany abolished because of its association with the Nazis.
Once World War II starts, the Nazis will hand these out like crazy anyway. Eventually, every Tom, Dick, and Harry will be wearing one.
Come to think of it, the one we received was made during the German Empire era, before the Nazis re-instituted it in 1939. So maybe it's actually rare?
“Hey, Dietrich.”
“Hm?”
In the direction Clemens was pointing, some Spanish women in fancy dresses were smiling flirtatiously.
Was this something like the admiration Korean women felt for American soldiers right after the Korean War? Honestly, I wasn't in the mood for that kind of thing.
“Go on. Great hero of Germany.”
“Why are you holding back for once? Well, suit yourself.”
After sending Clemens off, I wondered about his 'for once?' comment. Rummaging through my memories, I realized this Dietrich fellow was quite the playboy.
Despite having attended the prestigious Heidelberg University, he'd apparently disappointed his father, Hjalmar Schacht, so he underwent officer training and then flew off to Spain, claiming he would achieve glory for the Führer...
On top of that, I have memories of this guy using his decent-looking face to its full advantage and playing around a lot. Damn it all, I had been single my entire life until I was discharged as a sergeant, but this guy was living it up?
A sudden wave of irritation washed over me...
Still, after being thrown into battle the moment I woke up as Dietrich, I was finally alone and had some time to gather my thoughts.
I thought about applying for discharge after this battle, but given that this was a special dispatch unit to Spain, it was unlikely to be approved. And even if it were, I'd surely be drafted again when World War II approached.
The Nazi regime wasn't generous enough to let a company-grade officer with combat experience from the Spanish Civil War return to civilian life.
Being an officer dispatched to the Spanish Civil War was something of an elite track, but from my perspective—knowing that my father, Hjalmar Schacht, would soon fall out of favor with the Nazis—there was a high chance this was all just a waste of effort.
I even considered defecting and just staying here in Spain.
But seeing the crazy shit Franco and the Nationalists were pulling, they weren't much different from the Nazis. Plus, I knew full well that after the fall of Paris, Hitler's pressure would extend to Spain, so it wasn't safe here either.
I'm not some big shot like France's Pétain who could win Franco's favor. Best case, I'd get dragged off as an officer in the division sent to the Eastern Front. Worst case, I'd be executed as a traitor who defected and abandoned his country.
Putting everything else aside, I'd rather die than be dragged into that hellish Eastern Front.
If I'm lucky enough to be stationed with the garrison in France or on the African front, should I just surrender to the Allies as quickly as possible?
I do like Germany. To be honest, it's one of the most turbulent and central nations in European history, so I was interested and know a fair bit about it.
But that doesn't mean I feel like fighting and dying for 'the great Deutschland and the Fatherland!'
Admiration for a foreign country is one thing, but reality is another, right?
And I hated the idea even more if it was for the sake of that lunatic Hitler's fucked-up government.
There were several plots to oust Hitler during the interwar period (the time before World War II) and during the war itself. So, should I do something about Hitler and the Nazis, who are going to plunge Germany and the world into a fiery pit?
If I were some big shot in Germany right now, I could try something, but stuck in Spain in the body of a mere second lieutenant, there's nothing I can do.
First, I need to get out of here and back to Germany to even attempt anything. The problem is, how do I get back?
Damn it, if this were the modern era, I could just search on my smartphone or the internet! While everyone else was enjoying the banquet, my worries only deepened as the night wore on.
-
The brutal war of attrition fought over the road connecting Madrid and Valencia—the Battle of Jarama—left both the Nationalists and the Republicans in despair.
The staggering losses were enough to make even the Nationalist high command, normally insensitive to casualties, consider abandoning their assault on Madrid.
The damage was so devastating that it overshadowed the symbolic importance of Spain's historic capital, instilling in the Nationalists a sense of crisis that they might lose the initiative in the war.
The fact that even the Nationalists' elite Army of Africa had suffered repeated losses in two attempts to besiege Madrid also played a part.
However, the Italian forces, the Nationalists' sponsors, saw this situation as an opportunity.
Italian commander General Mario Roatta, seeing that the Republican forces had been severely damaged in the Battle of Jarama, devised an ambitious plan to capture Guadalajara, northeast of Madrid, while their attention was focused on the south.
Even though they had held back during the height of the Jarama battle, claiming they weren't ready.
Italy's dictator, Duce Mussolini, was greatly encouraged by General Roatta's proposal and dispatched a force of 35,000 Italian troops, ordering them to display the might of Italy's 'Iron Army.'
At this point, it was close to a full-scale military intervention, but Mussolini's determination not to be outdone by the mere volunteers sent by Hitler was firm.
The Nationalists, for their part, had no reason to refuse a final chance to secure Madrid and readily accepted Italy's proposal for an invasion.
Before they had even recovered from the Battle of Jarama, the high command scraped together every last man from their core force, the Army of Africa, to form an army of fifteen thousand. Naturally, the Condor Legion, considered the best of the best, was included and moved to Guadalajara to support the Italian forces.
The short rest was over.