Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Spanish Civil War - Meetings and Farewells
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Two months had passed since the bombing of Guernica. While I was taking part in the Basque offensive, a series of unthinkable incidents occurred one after another.
The first was the explosion in America of the Hindenburg, the giant passenger airship that was the pride of Germany.
I had a vague recollection of the event. I just didn't know the exact date, and for Yun Seong-il, the Korean, it hadn't been a particularly memorable incident, so it had never crossed my mind.
The Hindenburg was the culmination of the German love for airships, a passion dating back to the Great War. It was a symbol of this German era, one that Nazi Germany had actively used to promote the 1936 Berlin Olympics.
Back in Germany, rumors were flying about a Jewish conspiracy, and here, the members of the Condor Legion seemed quite shaken by the news that their nation's prized luxury airship had gone up in flames, killing so many.
Once the Second World War began, a succession of calamities would make this disaster seem trivial, but for now, no one knew that.
And so, I had missed a tragedy I might have been able to prevent, had I only remembered.
Second, General Emilio Mola of the Nationalist faction—commander-in-chief of the northern front and the man leading the current Basque campaign—was dead.
Apparently, his transport plane crashed while crossing a mountain range because he had loaded it with too many of his splendid uniforms.
Franco's position grew even more secure. Conspiracy theories were floated, of course, but the reason for the crash was so utterly absurd that they eventually faded away.
Both were significant events I hadn't foreseen in the slightest.
And these incidents served as a stark warning to me, who, after meeting Willy Brandt, had been filled with plans to actively use my knowledge of the future.
I knew a great deal about this era and about Germany, but that didn't mean I knew everything.
Without the ability to look up information in real-time as I could in the modern day, the limits of human memory were an unavoidable reality.
I had to be careful. My task was nothing less than dismantling one of the most wicked and tenacious organizations in all of human history.
-
June 25, 1937
Port of Cádiz, Andalusia, Southern Spain
General Mola's death did little to slow the northern offensive. It continued unabated, and the Nationalists soon captured Bilbao, the capital of the Basque Country.
The Basque resistance abandoned the city, retreating west to the province of Cantabria. In the chaos, the Condor Legion's bombings inflicted immense losses and civilian casualties.
And the result of the Guernica air raid—the city’s utter destruction—had, at the very least, satisfied Hitler. Once the existence and exploits of the Condor Legion became known to the world, the Nazis, far from being deterred, began sending additional support without hesitation.
Lt. Colonel Richthofen had now improved to the point where he could hold simple conversations with Spanish officers, albeit with some stumbling. With additional interpreters dispatched in this wave of reinforcements, there was no longer a need for me to be attached to him.
The Condor Legion's ground forces, which had suffered heavy losses, were also receiving reinforcements, so it was time for me to return to my original unit.
This would be my last mission with Richthofen, who, aside from his penchant for incendiary bombing, had been a decent superior.
"Lieutenant, this is really your last chance. Are you sure you won't reconsider transferring? I'm not a man who makes such offers lightly."
"I know, sir. But I must respectfully decline. Thank you for the offer, Lt. Colonel."
We were here to greet the personnel arriving as reinforcements from Germany. We'd had to fly down to southern Spain in a transport plane as soon as Bilbao fell, but I didn't mind.
Because this wave of reinforcements included the Bf 109 fighter!
Richthofen gave me a strange look when I rejoiced at the news of the Bf 109's arrival—a German fighter from WWII that appeared in every movie and show—but for someone who knew the Second World War, the appearance of a familiar weapon was deeply moving.
Now, air superiority would belong to the Germans, at least until the Battle of Britain. When I thought of the suffering we'd endured after losing air superiority to those damn early-model Soviet fighters, well...
As I grinned to myself, Richthofen chuckled in disbelief.
"That happy, are you, Lieutenant? I suppose the 88—the *Acht-Acht* 8.8 cm anti-aircraft gun—is also arriving, which you had a large hand in."
"Yes, Lt. Colonel. With the Bf 109 and the improved 88, we can finally breathe a little easier."
The greatest achievement from my time with Richthofen was expediting the improvement of the 8.8 cm FlaK, the versatile anti-aircraft gun used by the German military in the Second World War.
Since it was fundamentally an anti-aircraft gun, its mobility was poor, and its design hadn't accounted for anti-tank combat. I had requested improvements that wouldn't have otherwise been implemented until next year—adding a gun shield and enhancing the gun's traverse and carriage.
The anti-aircraft guns fell partly under the Luftwaffe's purview, thanks to Göring's greed. But Lt. Colonel Richthofen had argued that they were less essential for airbase defense than initially thought and cited the 88's outstanding performance in ground combat. Thanks to his support, my request went through without a hitch.
I'd had to wrestle with reports as if writing a thesis for what might seem like a small change, but it was an important one. Thanks to it, I seemed to have earned some points with Army Command. I had Lt. Colonel Richthofen to thank.
"They're here."
Watching a group of men disembark from the transport ship that had arrived from Germany, I straightened my posture.
Knowing these people were coming had filled me with a complex mix of surprise and joy. It was a strange feeling to see figures I had only ever seen in black-and-white photographs from the distant future approaching me in the flesh.
One of them, Adolf Galland, shared a first name with Hitler and even sported a mustache, making him instantly recognizable.
Unlike Hitler's, however, his was a softer, more gentle face.
He was slightly younger than me and a rank below—a second lieutenant—but he would become one of the Luftwaffe's top aces and a key figure during the Second World War. He was a man of conviction, a rarity in the Wehrmacht, who would staunchly refuse to commit war crimes.
And the man walking at the very front...
"Heil Hitler!"
Saluting alongside Richthofen, I shouted the words loud and clear for once.
It was not a declaration of loyalty to Hitler, but a show of respect for a hero who would one day fight desperately to protect a collapsing fatherland.
"Heil Hitler."
The man in his forties, wearing a monocle, returned the salute casually and grinned.
"Colonel Walter Model, dispatched from the General Staff in Berlin. I look forward to working with you."
-
It took quite some time to unload the equipment sent as reinforcements from Germany.
There were additional Panzer I tanks, Bf 109 fighters, bombers like the He 111, Do 17, and Hs 123, and even a prototype of the Flak 36—the improved version of the 88 anti-aircraft gun fitted with a gun shield, per my request to the Condor Legion.
As far as I knew, the Stuka (Ju 87 dive bomber), famous for the sound of its Jericho trumpet during a dive, was also supposed to be tested in the Spanish Civil War, but it wasn't here yet. It was a symbol of the Luftwaffe in the Second World War, right alongside the Bf 109...
And all the while, I had to spend my time with the man I most admired and respected among all the German generals of the Second World War, breaking out in a cold sweat.
"It's hot. As hot as Africa. Should we call this place 'Spanica'?"
......?
At Colonel Model's remark, the officers, myself included, stared blankly at each other for a long moment before finally bursting into delayed laughter. I had no idea what he was talking about, but laughing seemed like the safest bet.
"Ha, haha, hahahahaha!"
"Glad you all enjoyed that so much. Makes the effort I put into thinking it up on the ship ride over worthwhile."
Watching the colonel grin, I screamed internally.
The brilliant commander who shone in the annals of the Second World War, the 'Lion of Defense,' the 'Führer's Fireman,' the 'Miracle Restorer,' the 'Guardian of the Eastern Front'—to think that Germany's last hope, the man with all these nicknames, was a person like *this*!
"Laughter is precious on the battlefield. All of you should work on honing your sense of humor."
The history books contained a single line: 'Walter Model enjoyed sharing amusing jokes with his officers and men.' I never imagined *this* is what it meant until I met him in person.
In any case, Colonel Walter Model had apparently been assigned as Chief of Staff to Lieutenant General von Thoma, a role befitting the expanded size of our ground forces.
I hadn't even known he'd participated in the Spanish Civil War. Imagine my surprise when I saw his name on the reinforcement list.
While I was away serving as an army advisor for the Basque offensive, the composition of my company had changed. The company had been on standby, but in my absence, Clemens had been appointed company adjutant and had been managing things as the acting commander.
Two new officers had also joined our company: Second Lieutenant Egon Roth, to take over as 1st Platoon Leader in place of Clemens, and Second Lieutenant Karlheinz Beckermann, to take over as 3rd Platoon Leader.
Second Lieutenant Julius Habenstein, who had been suffering from depression after losing his adjutant, seemed to have had his spirit completely broken by the horrors of the Battle of Guadalajara. He had applied for discharge while I was away.
He was being scorned within the Condor Legion as a weakling. It felt strange, thinking I could have easily chosen that same path.
"Well, the unloading seems to be finishing up. Shall we be off? We are the *Kondor* Legion, after all, so let's go offer our enemies our *Kondolenz*!"
"Ha, haha, hahaha...."
My respected Field Marshal Model... no, *Colonel*. Even for you, this is a bit much....
-
Lt. Colonel Richthofen took command of Second Lieutenant Adolf Galland's newly arrived 3rd Flying Group and, in a grand gesture, flew off, personally piloting one of the new Bf 109s.
It was a little bittersweet, but it was a farewell befitting the man.
I traveled by road with the support personnel, including mechanics, and the army reinforcements.
I'd been dispatched to the Luftwaffe as soon as I was appointed company commander, so I had yet to actually perform the role...
Still, I was their company commander, so I felt a certain pressure to build a good relationship with the two new arrivals, Second Lieutenants Roth and Beckermann.
But as we traveled together, I realized there was no need for such pressure. None at all, surprisingly.
We'd spent the entire journey enduring Colonel Model's incessant jokes, and a sense of camaraderie naturally formed between us, making it easy to grow close.
The history books said that Walter Model's 9th Army was renowned for its strong camaraderie and cohesion. Surely this couldn't be the reason....
Nah, no way.
...Give me back the brilliant commander of my imagination.
-
After arriving in Salamanca, a major base for Nationalist Spain, I parted ways with Colonel Model and personnel from other units. Then, with the two second lieutenants in tow, I reported our return and their transfer to Major Beckers, the battalion commander I hadn't seen in a long time.
Only then could I finally return to my company, which I had missed, if you could call it that. I'd been away for nearly three months...
"Clemens!"
"Dietrich!"
Only after sending Second Lieutenants Roth and Beckermann to their respective platoons could I embrace Clemens, now my adjutant, and share our joy at reuniting.
"It's long overdue, but thank you, Clemens. I survived because you looked out for me."
"Hey, what are friends for? Oh, wait. I should be calling you First Lieutenant now."
"Like I care. It's just the two of us here."
It was a bit embarrassing for two grown men to be hugging, but Clemens had been the one to look after me after I was hit by an airstrike during our frantic retreat from Guadalajara. He was a dear friend and the man who had saved my life.
"So, how was it being the Luftwaffe's gopher?"
"Eh, it was what it was. Got pretty close with a certain high-and-mighty lieutenant colonel. What about you?"
"Well, we mostly had it easy on standby. Only because so many were killed or wounded, though."
"Right... I guess you didn't have much to do. Is that why you look so refreshed?"
"Oh, you think so? With nothing else to do, I spent my time meeting pretty girls! Haha!"
"Anyway, the reinforcements are here now, so the good times are over."
He was right. Our company had taken such heavy losses in the last battle that we'd been relegated to the rear, occasionally assisting with training Spanish troops. But now, we would be heading back to the front.
That attention-seeker Hitler, thrilled by the world's focus on the Luftwaffe's exploits, was now expecting the army to produce results of its own.
The problem, of course, was that they were less 'exploits' and more 'massacres,' and the world's 'focus' was closer to 'horror.'
As the two of us were chatting and I was being briefed on what had happened, a knock came at the door just as our conversation was ending.
"Hm?"
Normally, my adjutant—well, he was right next to me—or an NCO would enter first to announce a visitor, but there had been no such announcement.
"It's Habenstein, First Lieutenant."
"Ah, come in."
The former commander of the 3rd Company, Second Lieutenant Julius Habenstein, entered with a timid expression and gave the Nazi salute.
"Heil Hitler!"
"......."
I had no desire to shout 'Heil Hitler,' so I gave a lazy wave in return. He seemed to misinterpret the gesture and shrank back even further.
It felt strange. Not long ago, we had been equals, both second lieutenants. Now, I was the one receiving his salute.
Looking at him now, I wondered if he had been waiting outside the entire time we were chatting.
Habenstein hesitated. Seeing the undisguised look of contempt Clemens shot his way, I could guess how he had been treated during my absence.
If I hadn't become company commander, if I had begged Major Beckers for a discharge back at that hospital, would Clemens have looked at me with that same expression?
I didn't know. But it was a pitiable sight.
"You're here about your discharge, I assume? Second Lieutenant."
"Yes, that's right, First Lieutenant."
Since the new 3rd Platoon Leader, Second Lieutenant Beckermann, had only just arrived, Habenstein would have had to remain at his post. He must have come here after handing over his duties, ready to return home.
"Coward..."
Hearing Clemens mutter it loud enough to be heard, I couldn't just stand by and watch anymore.
"Second Lieutenant Fleck?"
When I deliberately used his official title, Clemens gave me a puzzled look.
"Could you give us a moment?"
"...Yes, First Lieutenant."
Clemens left without another word. I'd have to apologize to him later.
I stood up from my seat and approached Habenstein.
"Second Lieutenant Julius Habenstein."
The second lieutenant flinched, looking at me with a 'what's he doing?' expression. I placed my hands on his shoulders and straightened his posture.
"Square your shoulders. We've served together for a good while. What are you so afraid of? Why are you cowering?"
"B-but I... n-no, I am..."
This was an era before the official term PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, was established, with only the concept of shell shock.
It's common for soldiers to suffer from it on the battlefield, but those who experience it severely become unfit for frontline service.
That's common knowledge in the modern era, but such understanding didn't exist yet.
Enlisted men who broke down were condemned, but the atmosphere was even less forgiving for officers, who were expected to be paragons of courage and military virtue.
The story of Patton cursing and striking a subordinate suffering from battle fatigue, calling him a coward, is famous, but he was far from the only one.
But this isn't an affliction that only strikes cowards. It's only a matter of degree.
Even I was still tormented by the phantom sound of incoming shells.
"You're not a coward. I guarantee it. You held your position to the end at Guadalajara, didn't you?"
He may have made the mistake of sending a private as a runner, but he had lost one adjutant in the battle just before, and when his new one fell, he still carried out my orders for the delaying action. He held his position until permission to retreat was granted.
I couldn't let a man who didn't abandon his comrades and run away to save himself, no matter how painful and scary it was, be branded a coward and sent home in disgrace.
"I'm sorry. I, I can't..."
"It's alright. If being unaffected by killing is something to boast about, then the men who do the boasting are the strange ones. At least I know how hard you tried."
I took out a small pouch I had been carrying since the Battle of Guadalajara and pressed it into the tearful Habenstein's hand.
"This is..."
"It's Captain Kaufmann's dog tag and the letter he wrote to his family. You deliver them. A man who fought bravely in the captain's final battle has earned that right."
"First Lieutenant...."
"Now, go. I won't offer you platitudes about your service. If anyone says another word against you, I'll take it as an insult to myself. Now, carry out your final order and go home!"
It was more embarrassing than I'd expected for a rookie company commander to be striking such a dramatic pose.
Still, the final expression on Second Lieutenant Habenstein's, no, Julius Habenstein's face as he left didn't seem too bad.
But if the Nazis started the Second World War and the German-Soviet war broke out, not only those discharged like him, but even children and old men would all be dragged to the battlefield.
It was still a god-awful era, but for the first time in a while, I felt a sliver of gratitude to God.
At the very least, I had been given a body and mind strong enough to endure the battlefield without breaking.
And I had a chance—a chance to stop people like him from being driven back onto the battlefield.
To overthrow the Nazis—those bastards without parallel—and prevent the most terrible disaster in human history. I was here for a reason.
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