Chapter 9
Chapter 9
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: Spanish Civil War - Battle of Brunete (1)
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< Spanish Civil War - Battle of Brunete (1) >
June 28, 1937
Salamanca, a major Nationalist stronghold in west-central Spain
Colonel Walter Model was diligent.
No, he was a little *too* diligent.
The Condor Legion, though only on paper, consisted of volunteers dispatched to Spain after being discharged from the Wehrmacht.
As a result, it was run with a relatively lax hand, especially its army contingent, which was small in both strength and numbers, dispatched primarily for weapons testing and training, and usually deployed to the second line or the rear.
After the Battle of Guadalajara had heavily depleted the forces of both the Nationalists and the Republicans, the Nationalists abandoned their assault on Madrid, bringing the central front to a standstill. Needless to say, we had grown quite complacent.
And Colonel Walter Model, the by-the-book officer flown in from the General Staff in Berlin, was far from pleased with this state of affairs. This capable but inflexible General Staff officer was not just full of motivation to fix it—he was overflowing with it.
"Hah... haaah... ugh... hah... I'm gonna die. Hah... Dietrich, I'm dying..."
"Instead... huff... of talking... huff... run."
The officers of the Condor Legion's army detachment were running laps on the parade ground since early morning. Every last one of them, regardless of battalion or company.
Even my direct superior and battalion commander, Major Beckers, was running alongside us, his face flushed red as he gasped for air.
"Hahh... the morning air... hahh... is crisp, isn't it? Hahh... a sound mind... hahh... in a sound body!"
Colonel Model ran at the very front, chattering away as if he wasn't tired at all. A colonel in his mid-forties was running with us, so what could we do? We just had to suck it up and follow orders.
This was the man who'd supposedly been so frail as an officer cadet that he considered giving up on a military career? Human will might be a powerful thing, but this was just too much!
Overzealous brass usually ran the enlisted men ragged with training, but this man was incredibly attentive to the soldiers' welfare while running his officers into the ground.
Like some kind of machine, he'd spring out of bed at five in the morning, drag all the officers out for a run, then spend the entire day visiting one unit after another to assess their status and hold discussions. And he did this every single day, not just for a day or two.
The head of the Condor Legion's army component, Lieutenant General von Thoma, granted us autonomy—to put it nicely—or was simply a non-entity, to put it bluntly. In contrast, Colonel Model became utterly famous among the entire officer corps within days of his arrival.
...Mostly for the wrong reasons.
"Ugh, that damn Chief of Staff is going to be the death of me!"
"Hahaha..."
After the day's duties were over, Clemens and I were enjoying some beer and blood sausage.
That's right, blood sausage! I couldn't believe my eyes when I first saw it. But no matter how I looked at it, it looked and tasted just like *sundae*, and I ate it with tears of joy.
In Spain, they call it *morcilla*, a local specialty. Whatever. To me, it was *sundae*. That chewy texture packed inside the intestine... Ahhh...
The taste of Korea, a memory that was slowly fading...
"Seriously, there's no combat right now, so what's wrong with taking it easy for a bit? Huh? We're the ones supposed to be driving others, not the other way around!"
"Uh, well. Yeah..."
Usually, officers like you are what the grunts call 'the real enemy,' my friend. ...Not that I could say that out loud. Dietrich Schacht had never been an enlisted man...
But most of the Condor Legion's officers felt this way, and Colonel Model was catching all sorts of flak.
Honestly, if he weren't *the* Walter Model, I probably would have been cursing him out too, complaining about some stick-in-the-mud, by-the-book officer making our lives difficult. So I couldn't really say anything.
But...
"By the way, Clemens. I requested a training exercise with Colonel Model."
Clemens spat the beer he was drinking right back into his mug. Ugh, disgusting.
"...Come again?"
Seeing that look of utter betrayal on his face pricked my conscience a little.
"I'm going to try some indirect fire training with the 88s."
"...Huh????"
It was no wonder Clemens looked so confused. Using an anti-aircraft gun for indirect fire was something no one had done yet, at least not officially.
But the 88 could do it. It wasn't called the 'Almighty Gun' during World War II for nothing.
The 88 could not only perform anti-aircraft fire using time fuzes and low-angle direct fire, but with the right adjustments, it could also achieve considerable accuracy with indirect fire.
No one knew that yet; Rommel would only figure it out later in the North African campaign and put it to good use. But for me, who needed to create achievements out of thin air to get into the War Academy quickly, I had to turn what I knew for certain into tangible results.
Colonel Model was merciless toward lazy or incompetent subordinates, but he was also the type who would never steal credit from a hardworking subordinate, always reporting their achievements properly and ensuring they received commendations.
It was a stroke of luck for me that Colonel Model happened to be here.
"Why the hell are *we* doing that?!"
Well, sorry, Clemens.
-
The original plan was for the Condor Legion to get permission from the Nationalists and then quietly conduct the training and experiment at the company level before submitting a report.
So why was Colonel Model here in person?
The training objective I had submitted was to test the indirect fire capabilities of the Flak 37 version of the 88 anti-aircraft gun, a brand-new prototype for which we had no data yet.
"Hmm. Indeed, this is useful. The effective range to guarantee accuracy seems to be about two kilometers."
Firing the 88 all day alongside Colonel Model in the sweltering heat, while enduring the resentful glares of Clemens and the platoon leaders, was quite an ordeal.
But this was Walter Model, after all. He observed the impact points through a telescope right next to the 88, and if he couldn't see well, he'd drive out to the location and back himself. Tapping away at a calculator, he created something akin to a firing table at an astonishing speed.
Normally, that kind of thing was created by firing tens of thousands of rounds under highly controlled conditions and plugging the data into complex formulas and calculation tables. But he was doing it manually, on a battlefield? In a single day?
I was the one who proposed the training, but Colonel Model was the one doing all the actual work. He was a monster on a completely different level; I was speechless.
I guess this is what it means to be one of the greatest commanders of World War II... He was in a class of his own.
As I stood there dumbfounded, Model walked over, gave me a broad smile, and patted my shoulder.
"An excellent idea, Lieutenant Schacht. We'll need to conduct more test firings, but this certainly has practical applications. I heard you were the one who suggested many of the improvements for this prototype. I was skeptical, but it seems you truly have a keen eye."
"Th-thank you, sir..."
It felt like I hadn't actually done anything, but I seemed to have achieved my goal. My apologies to Rommel for stealing his future accomplishment, but I had made a good impression on Colonel Model.
To become a General Staff officer, a recommendation from one is the best way.
"Haha, at this rate, we might have to start calling this anti-aircraft gun the SS—Schacht-Schacht—instead of the 88, Acht-Acht."
"...Ha. Ha. Ha."
"It was a joke. Don't look at me like that."
Everything else is fine, but I wish you'd stop with the constant jokes, Colonel Model.
In any case, time was short. Soon, my father, Hjalmar Schacht, would be dismissed from his ministerial post.
Before that happens, I need to secure a place in the War Academy. Without the protection of the Wehrmacht, there's no guarantee the fallout won't reach me.
Furthermore, the Anschluss—the annexation of Austria—is in March 1938. From that point on, the world will begin its rapid descent into World War II.
Fortunately, Hitler's Nazi Germany was a far more unstable regime than people commonly imagine, and it faced the threat of a coup on several occasions.
Knowing this, I might just be able to turn one of those threats into an actual coup.
Overthrow the Nazi regime and prevent World War II!
Even if I can't stop the war itself, I have to prevent the future where Germany becomes a symbol of evil, fights the entire world, and is left as nothing but ashes.
The Anschluss is only half a year away. I have to get back to Germany as soon as possible.
At the latest, before the Munich Agreement in September 1938!
-
July 2, 1937
Central Spain, Madrid, the capital - Republican Headquarters
Colonel Enrique Líster, a hero of the Republic who struck fear into the Nationalists and commander of the famed 11th Division, was attending a strategy meeting that only made him sigh in frustration.
"So, you intend to launch an offensive in this sweltering heat? Right next to Salamanca, the Nationalist Army of the Center's headquarters?"
Líster's direct superior, fellow colonel Juan Modesto, shot him a pointed look, but Líster didn't back down.
He might have skyrocketed through the ranks to become a colonel, but it wasn't the first time he'd been treated as anything but.
"That's right, Colonel Líster. We will capture Brunete and put pressure on those fascist traitors surrounding Madrid. If we succeed in cutting off the Extremadura road, we can expect the besieging forces, their supply lines severed, to retreat altogether!"
The commander of the Republican Army of the Center, General José Miaja, spoke of the operation's objectives and rosy prospects, his puffy face twitching.
"That's only if it's possible, isn't it? We still haven't recovered from our losses at the Jarama and Guadalajara."
Líster's blunt remark made the general flush and fall silent.
"Colonel! How can you make such a defeatist statement? Are you suggesting we just stand by and watch the Nationalists seize the north? As long as freedom and the justice of the people live on in Spain, we cannot let that happen!"
Líster scowled at the words of his direct superior, Juan Modesto.
That damned defeatism. The results of ambitious attacks, launched after branding any opposing commander a defeatist, had almost always been disastrous.
Aside from General Miaja, nearly all the Republican commanders in this meeting room were colonels. A colonel under a colonel under a colonel.
The reason for this ridiculous situation was that while the incompetent men who had always been colonels were busy grinding their subordinates into dust, those of lower rank had diligently earned achievements and risen to become colonels themselves.
And yet, that clique of 'incompetent colonels' remained their superiors, and they were the ones drafting most of the operations.
"Well said, Colonel Modesto! Their main forces are all tied up in the north anyway. You think we can't beat the rest? Colonel Líster, you should stop being so greedy for glory and focus on leading the battle well!"
He had to admit, he was hungry for glory. After suffering under incompetent leadership, he had ground his teeth and chased after military achievements, desperate for enough influence to have a say in this headquarters.
But even after becoming a colonel himself, not much had changed. Seeing the 'incompetent colonels' all eagerly backing each other up, Líster had to struggle to suppress a sigh.
Besides, the northern separatists weren't people who truly understood communism anyway.
They had joined the cause to gain autonomy, yet now they couldn't even defend their own region, forcing us to suffer losses for their sake?
Líster, at least, did not want to spill the blood of his cherished subordinates on the scorched, dry earth to save them—a feat he didn't even think was possible.
"Ahem, that's right. We must take Brunete, no matter what, and show our comrades in the Soviet Union that the legitimacy and initiative in Spain lie with us!"
"Exactly, General. If this offensive succeeds, we can persuade those cowardly, opportunistic French to open the border and receive even more support!"
This was how Republican operations usually went. Most of them focused not on the rationality or likelihood of an offensive's success, but on the political gains to be had if it did succeed.
But you only get those gains if you succeed, don't you? Enrique Líster was undoubtedly a communist, a pro-Soviet figure who had studied advanced Soviet military techniques at the Frunze Military Academy in Russia.
But the Republic of today was becoming increasingly incomprehensible.
Are we, who are preparing for a battle to impress the Soviets while exhausting all of Spain's strength, truly fighting for Spain?
Enrique Líster himself was bleeding and fighting with the skills he had diligently learned at Frunze for the sake of Spain, not to turn his homeland into a Soviet puppet state.
Even now, the commanders of the anarchists and the International Brigades sat with their lips sealed, their faces clearly showing their displeasure.
How much longer would the volunteers from democratic nations and the anarchists fighting for freedom against state oppression continue to fight for the Republic, watching soldiers be sacrificed just to curry favor with the Soviets for more aid?
According to intelligence, German forces had recently been reinforced in large numbers. The Republican high command seemed to think of their unit, the 'Condor Legion,' as being on par with their own International Brigades, but Líster thought differently.
They were qualitatively different. Though small in scale, they were distinctly stronger than the Nationalist army or the Italian forces, which were large only in number.
The one area where the Republicans held a clear advantage over the Nationalists was in their armored units and air force, generously supplied by the Soviets. Yet even those were suffering constant losses, and a significant portion of that bleeding was caused by the Condor Legion.
"At the very least, I hope we don't see those damn Germans in this attack..."
Watching the high command enthusiastically discuss their rosy grand strategy amongst themselves, Líster could only mutter his lament.
< Spanish Civil War - Battle of Brunete (1) > End