Chapter 4
Chapter 4
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: The Battle of Guadalajara (1)
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< The Spanish Civil War - Battle of Guadalajara (1) >
March 8, 1937
Guadalajara, northeast of Madrid, Central Spain
The Nationalist high command seemed quite encouraged by the immense support from Italy.
They were all excited, claiming this was their chance to retake Madrid, the Spanish capital, and break the Republicans' will to fight...
But whatever those higher-ups—the same bastards who’d ground our soldiers to dust at Jarama—were thinking, as someone who had to participate in the operation, I was seriously, *very* seriously, anxious.
The plan was fine. The troop numbers were good.
Fifteen thousand of the Nationalists' finest, plus thirty-five thousand Italian troops, made a force of fifty thousand.
And not just fifty thousand footsoldiers. Mussolini had supposedly sent a generous supply of his country's armored forces, artillery, and fighter planes.
The Republican army that fought in the last major engagement, the Battle of Jarama, had numbered thirty thousand at most.
Considering the devastating casualties they suffered at Jarama, it was certain the Republicans' available forces had been severely diminished.
On top of that, word was that even the International Brigades, the Republicans' best troops and our Condor Legion's counterpart, had taken massive losses in the last battle.
In short, this was a battle we couldn't possibly lose. That must be why Mussolini had so ambitiously poured in his resources.
The problem was—as far as I knew, Madrid never fell until the very end of the Spanish Civil War, and the war itself dragged on until 1939.
The city of Rivas-Vaciamadrid, southeast of Madrid, had already fallen.
They had managed to defend the Madrid-Valencia road, their supply line across the Jarama River, but if Guadalajara to the northeast fell, that road would be meaningless. The Republicans would have had no choice but to give up Madrid, no matter how hard they fought.
So, this battle we couldn't possibly lose was a battle we were going to lose. The Italian army was infamous for its poor performance, but even so, this...?
Could there be anyone more miserable than a soldier heading into a battle he knows he's going to lose?
Oh God, I know You have no conscience, having dropped me here in the first place, but if You have even a sliver of one left, please let me live...
-
My prayers were in vain. The operation showed bad signs from the very start. Then again, if He were the type to listen to prayers, He wouldn't have dropped me here in the first place.
When the Condor Legion and Italian air forces swarmed in like bees to bomb the defenseless Republican troops, it seemed the enemy hadn't anticipated our offensive at all. There were no fortified positions whatsoever.
The surprise advance was swift. Though they were little more than tankettes (something like a micro-tank, smaller than a light tank), the assault led by the Italian CV-33s and our Panzer Is instantly crushed the unprepared enemy forces. Victory seemed within reach.
The problem was the god-awful weather. Just like during the Battle of Jarama, when rain had come at a critical moment to help the Republicans, this time, even though winter was nearly over, fog and sleet plagued our forces.
Still, the Italians seemed uncharacteristically well-prepared. To capture an area dotted with towns and cities, they had modified some of their tankettes and equipped them with flamethrowers.
These were highly effective for clearing out Republicans hiding in buildings. They would have been even more effective if not for the damn fog and sleet.
I’ll admit it was a little chilling to find myself thinking ‘cleared out’ as I watched Republican soldiers, set ablaze by flamethrowers, fall from buildings. But I couldn't deny that in just a few short months, I was becoming desensitized, transforming from a modern man into a German soldier.
In any case, thanks to the fucking weather, the ambitious Italian airstrikes and offensive bogged down. At best, they managed to capture a few small towns before the fog grew so thick they were forced to halt near their main objective, Brihuega.
While we were floundering like this, the element of surprise was completely lost, and Republican reinforcements were surely on their way.
I felt like I’d seen this exact situation just a month ago. I had a very bad feeling about this.
The Italian commander, General Roatta, must have been anxious, having received so much support from Mussolini, but he couldn't just order an attack in fog so thick you couldn't see a foot in front of you.
“Who was that guy at the briefing who kept going on about how the central Spanish plateau was warm and dry?”
That captain, whose face I couldn't even properly recall, was probably living comfortably in Berlin right now.
Being on an operation, we weren't leisurely strolling around with umbrellas here at the front. Instead, we were on standby, taking the brunt of a shitty mix of rain and snow.
Back in my old life, I would have been discharged and warm at home in Seoul...
Ah, I feel like crying. I want some of the pizza my mom used to buy me.
The food in the 21st-century South Korean army was garbage, so what do you think rations from 80 years ago are like? It's a good thing I was the kind of Korean who could live just fine without kimchi; otherwise, the misery of mealtimes might have driven me to suicide by now.
“Ugh, fuck it. It's cold. Goddammit...”
Seeing Clemens, who was even colder than I was, hugging himself and shivering, made me feel a little better, and a laugh escaped me.
The bastard has no dignity for an officer. Whether in the Korean army or the German Wehrmacht, people were all the same in the end.
“Company Adjutant, Platoon Leader. The Company Commander is looking for you.”
“Ah. Thank you, Sergeant Kocher.”
Sergeant Kocher, the second-in-command of the 1st Platoon under Clemens's command, gave a slight smile with his bandit-like face. Contrary to the image I had, the German Wehrmacht wasn't such a rigid and uptight organization.
In fact, it was a flexible organization that allowed for a fair amount of autonomy, and the relationships between officers, NCOs, and enlisted men were quite decent.
Beatings in the name of maintaining discipline were nowhere to be found. The most you'd see was a slap to the face to snap shell-shocked soldiers back to their senses during an operation.
Looking at it this way, the South Korean army really did have a lot of pointless, bullshit discipline...
“Ugh, it's so damn cold. Dietrich! Let's go, quickly.”
“Heh, happy now?”
Clemens, now in high spirits, headed with me toward the tent where our company commander, Captain Kaufmann, was.
While the enlisted men and young officers like us were out in the elements, we couldn't let our older captain get soaked by the sleet, so we had put up a makeshift tent. It was the warmest place in our company right now.
“Heil—”
“Ah, that's enough of that. Come in and have some coffee.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Our waiting company commander, Captain Kaufmann, waved his hand dismissively as he poured us coffee. We both accepted it gratefully, blowing on the warm mugs.
“You're all going through a lot. I'd like to give the men a break if I could, but it's not possible...”
“Well, for now, it seems all we can do is wait for the weather to improve.”
Even as I spoke to Captain Kaufmann, my thoughts drifted to the German-Soviet War. How many Germans had frozen to death facing Russia's General Winter, which would make this cold seem like child's play?
Sipping the warm coffee, I felt a chill run down my spine.
Captain Kaufmann watched us blowing on our coffee with a fatherly smile, then went back to what he was writing.
“Writing a letter, Captain?”
“Yes, it's been almost a month since I got a reply from the missus, and I'm only just writing back now. I'm going to get an earful when I get home.”
“Hahaha...”
Both Clemens and I burst out laughing at our superior's joke. It reminded me of how nervous I was making my first phone call home from the Nonsan boot camp.
Captain Kaufmann was a truly good superior. He had the guts to command a company on the front lines, yet he didn't drive his men hard by the book; instead, he allowed them a good deal of autonomy.
If I could work with a man like him, get promoted together, and if we were lucky enough to be deployed to the Western European or African front, maybe I could persuade him to surrender to the Allies with me...
And Clemens, too, sipping his coffee beside me with a cheerful grin.
Sergeant Kocher, if possible. And Second Lieutenant Heidemann, the quiet one who carried out his duties without complaint. And Second Lieutenant Havenstein, who was still depressed after losing his adjutant...
I had only been with them for a month, but perhaps because of Dietrich's original memories, I had grown surprisingly attached to them.
Of course, I knew all too well that would never happen. When the German-Soviet War was in full swing, most of the Wehrmacht would be deployed to that hellish Eastern Front, and just as many—no, more—would die there.
The myth of the invincible German army that sent shock and awe across the world in the early days of the war would crumble on the vast, frozen plains of Russia, thanks to the Wehrmacht's miscalculations and Hitler's blunders.
Excellent soldiers like us, who had built up experience and distinguished ourselves in Spain, Poland, and France, would all be killed off, replaced by boys who should have been in school and old men scraped from the bottom of the barrel.
When I studied history, I just cursed that fool Hitler and moved on. But now, it wasn't about Germans in a history book. It was hitting me on a visceral level that my comrades, the men braving the cold shoulder-to-shoulder with me, were the ones who would die like that.
If this was going to happen, I wish I'd been reincarnated as someone who could actually do something. As Hitler, or Göring, or even Himmler, Goebbels, or Heydrich. Then I could have tried to stop World War II, or if that was impossible, I could have at least tried to overthrow the Nazis or change them into some semblance of a normal organization...
But I'm just a second lieutenant, and not even in Germany proper, but in Spain.
Nothing has happened yet, but starting next year, the madness of the Nazis will rapidly drive Europe toward war.
The Anschluss. There was now exactly one year left until the annexation of Austria, when all of Germany would praise Hitler, oblivious to the fact that it was the beginning of their ruin.
-
As soon as the fog lifted, we crushed what little resistance there was and captured Brihuega, but we had no idea what the overall situation was.
The Italian tanks—no, tankettes—that they brought for their "armored unit" were no bigger than a passenger car in Korea, maybe even smaller! Even our Panzer Is looked flimsy, but to bring *that* and call it armor!
Once again, Enrique Líster and his 11th Division had supposedly used their Soviet-made T-26 and BT-5 tanks to smash the Italian armored division—armored in name only—and block their advance on the road.
He and his 11th Division were slowly becoming feared by all Nationalists. Imagine how it feels to watch a war hero be born on the enemy side of your battlefield. It's not a good feeling.
But the real problem was that we had no way of grasping the situation after that. There were no portable radios like you'd associate with an army today. This was still an era where messengers traveled by bicycle, or motorcycle if they were lucky!
Naturally, there were no regular orders or situation reports being delivered to the units. We were just stationed in Brihuega, waiting blankly for days on end.
The shitty, constantly foggy weather gave us extremely limited visibility. That bastard who said central Iberia was hot and dry, ugh...
In the skies, the Luftwaffe, the Italian Air Force, and the Republican Air Force were tangled in dogfights or bombing each other, but aircraft weren't that advanced yet, and bombs rarely fell on our position, which was away from the main front across the river.
“Good grief. I just can't get used to this damn fog.”
“You can say that again. Captain, any orders from battalion headquarters?”
Captain Kaufmann and I were talking on the defensive line set up on the outskirts of Brihuega.
“Nothing from command. I'm only telling you this because it's you, Second Lieutenant, but there's talk that Colonel Moscardó is being too passive.”
“Hmm, that makes sense. The original plan to take the objective with a surprise attack and minimal casualties seems to have gone down the drain, so maybe he doesn't want to exhaust his elite troops.”
Is that why our unit, under the command of the Nationalist Colonel Moscardó, is just sitting here with nothing to do? The Italians have to fight no matter what, since they've been spoon-fed support by Mussolini.
But that was only a viable strategy if the Italian army could overwhelm the Republicans on their own. They had the numbers, but I just couldn't bring myself to trust them.
Just then, I saw figures in the fog. What was that? Friendlies?
“Captain, were there any units scheduled to join us from this direction?”
“No, nothing like that...”
The only units stationed in Brihuega were our Condor Legion battalion and two Italian battalions.
Seeing the quick-witted captain sprint toward the city wall, I also began to back away slowly, shouting in Spanish.
“Halt! Who goes there!”
“D-don't shoot! We're friendlies!”
The reply was in Spanish. Son of a bitch! I broke into a full sprint toward the wall, this time shouting in German.
“Battle stations! Battle stations!”
“Huh? What the—?!”
The defensive line erupted into chaos in an instant. At that moment, a damned gust of wind blew in and began to clear the fog.
“Shit! We're fucked!”
In the suddenly cleared view, I could see several pontoon bridges set up on the distant river, with Republican troops swarming across them.
“Hurry up, Dietrich!”
“Just shoot!”
No sooner had I answered Clemens than gunfire erupted from both sides.
The sound of a bullet slicing through the air right next to my ear sent a shiver down my spine.
I summoned every ounce of strength I had, sprinted, and slid, barely managing to get behind the wall.
As I coughed, covered in dirt and dust, the captain extended a hand and helped me up.
“My apologies, Second Lieutenant. I hope you understand.”
“*Cough*, it was a wise decision for a commander, Captain.”
To be honest, I did feel a bit resentful, but if the company commander gets shot and killed at the start of a battle, the battle is already lost.
The city was thrown into chaos in an instant.
Soldiers were ringing bells everywhere, and the crack of Kar98k rifles, the popcorn-like rattle of MG34 machine guns, the thud of mortars firing, screams, curses—
And the roar of something flying in.
“Get down!”
At that all-too-familiar, damnable sound, I yelled and flattened myself against the wall. Not even a few seconds later, an explosion covered me in dust.
Dammit, I can't take this shit! Should I take comfort in the fact that 21st-century artillery would have killed me instantly whether I ducked or not?!
“Ah, aaack, aaaaaah...!”
Coughing, I got up to see a private from the 1st Platoon, someone I'd seen several times, screaming and flailing on the ground next to me. Private Lerner, was it? Just from the amount of blood, I knew he was a goner.
“Damn it, damn it all...! Dietrich! Are you alive?!”
“I'm okay!”
Clemens was plastered against the wall, busy commanding his platoon, but at least he looked unharmed. But I couldn't see Captain Kaufmann.
I started to call out for him but stopped myself. It was wrong to think it, but if by some chance he was killed in action, causing a commotion would do no good.
Finding Captain Kaufmann was an incredibly difficult task. Even now, at this very moment, gunfire was ringing out ceaselessly, and every so often, an artillery shell would fly in and shatter the city walls.
“*Cough*, Schacht.”
“Captain!”
It was a miracle I'd caught his faint voice amidst the cacophony of the battlefield.
His condition, however, was not.
A piece of rebar, from God knows where, was sticking out of his chest. He had lost a significant amount of blood.
“Oh, my God...”
“*Cough*, it hurts. Schacht, *choke*. ...Am I... going to make it?”
Even as he asked, he didn't seem to expect a positive answer.
The superior I had struggled to find, dodging shell after shell and getting covered in dust, was dying.
“Captain Kaufmann... I would have wanted to serve under you for a long time.”
“*Kk*, hehehe... Even my missus wouldn't say something like that...”
He wasn't the kind of man who deserved to die so futilely in a place like this.
“It hurts. I always thought, if this moment ever came... I wanted to go out in style... It hurts, it hurts so much...”
Captain Kaufmann's trembling hand tried to reach into his chest pocket, but it fell limply. I reached into his coat for him and pulled out a piece of paper, half-soaked in blood.
“*Cough*, thank... you. Sorry, please deliver that...”
That was it. Captain Kaufmann never moved again.
“Company Adjutant! The Platoon Leader, *gasp*...!”
As I stared down at him blankly, a runner from the 1st Platoon came sprinting over, only to freeze at the sight of the captain's body. This goddamn battlefield gives you no time to wallow in sentiment.
“Hoo... Private Kraut, wasn't it? Run to battalion headquarters immediately and report this: Company commander KIA due to enemy surprise attack across the river under cover of fog. Heavy losses. Position untenable. Requesting permission to withdraw!”
“Ye-yes, sir!”
Despite seeing his company commander down, Kraut immediately turned to run on my order, but with the sound of a bullet cutting through the air, he spattered blood and collapsed.
Blood was pouring from his head. An instant kill. Shit, goddammit, shit!
“I'm sorry, Captain. I'm sorry, Private.”
Knowing no one could hear me, I muttered the words as I stuffed the captain's unfinished letter into my breast pocket, then broke off his and the private's dog tags and took them.
Then I stood up and picked up the rifle the private had dropped—a Kar98k.
The company commander was dead, which meant I was in charge of this shitty situation. First, I needed to send more runners.
With no radios, I could easily end up like Soult, who screwed up at Waterloo.
I can't die like this on this god-fucking-awful battlefield.
Never