July 18, 1937
Central Spain, the Brunete area west of Madrid Colonel Model went around to each unit and collected the Operation Plan Docunts written by the commanders, and three days later, the counterattack began.
“Advance, advance, advance!”
The countless single gunshots of bolt-action rifles and the roar of machine guns firing ceaselessly assaulted my ears.
“Get out of the way!”
“Uwaaaaaaah!”
A long, slender airplane reminiscent of a pencil fell from the sky, burning, and as the terrified troopers scrambled to get away, it hit the ground and exploded.
That was probably one of our Do 17 Bombers.
Surely that couldn't be Lieutenant Colonel Richthofen…
As a capable pilot and a key player in World War II's Luftwaffe, he wouldn't die in a place like this, but how could I not worry when a high-ranking commander was needlessly flying a plane on the front line.
While we launched a fierce attack on the ground, over a hundred airplanes danced in the sky.
A fierce battle continued, with planes engulfed in smoke and flas falling here and there.
I heard that 80 of our air force aircraft were committed to the operation, but it seed the Republican faction had dozens of air force aircraft as well.
I could really feel that both the Republican faction and the Nationalist faction had staked their lives on this.
“Watch out!”
Just as I breathed a sigh of relief at the chilling sight of Sergeant Kocher tackling a new recruit to the ground, a fighter aircraft's machine gun raked the spot where the recruit had been-
A Bf 109 that had gotten behind the enemy fighter aircraft opened up with strafing fire from its machine gun.
The burning enemy aircraft couldn't gain altitude and crashed straight into the ground, shattering to pieces.
“Ugh, Company Commander! You could have nine lives and it still wouldn't be enough?!”
“Ha, just do your best to dodge! If you're lucky, you'll live!”
This was the first ti the Condor Legion had taken the role of key player in an offensive.
The searing heat and the tension of the battlefield felt like they were burning my throat and mind.
Get a grip, a single mistake and you're dead.
At least I was in a position to observe and command from the rear, as a commander, while the troopers charged directly into the enemy's defensive position.
Though it wasn't just once or twice that I'd heard the hair-raising sound of bullets ricocheting off the ground or cover right next to …
Right before my eyes, Panzer I tanks were frequently being hit by the main cannons of ambushing enemy tanks or by artillery as they tried to break through the enemy's defense line.
“Ah, aaaargh! Aaaaaaaaargh!”
The sight was horrific: a tanker trying to open the hatch of a tank burning from a high-explosive shell, who writhed in agony, clutching his cooked hands, before going limp and emitting smoke with the sll of sizzling at.
Did they say that tanks may look safe but are actually moving coffins? Damn it, I never wanted to end up like that.
“Klens, halt the 3rd Platoon! They've pushed out too far!”
“Yessir!”
While Klens sent a ssenger, I hurriedly unfolded the operation map to check.
Since Colonel Model's arrival, the Operation Plan Docunts had been drafted with surprising precision.
Until now, the Condor Legion had always given orders based on German-style mission-type tactics, designating an objective and leaving its achievent to discretion, but Colonel Model was the complete opposite.
He created a thoroughly detailed plan and ordered an offensive that proceeded exactly according to his commands.
The way he also prepared and sent separate contingency plans for every anticipated variable bordered on paranoia.
What surprised
a little was that the attack route for our company heavily reflected the contents I had drafted and submitted.
If this wasn't just for , did Colonel Model gather opinions from all the unit commanders and create such a detailed operational plan in just three days?
Sacrifices were mounting, but the overall war situation seed to be proceeding well according to the offensive plan. The enemy's losses were severe even from the front line, and their defense was full of holes.
A continuous cannon fire rained down from front and back, deafeningly loud, but thankfully, the gods of the battlefield were busy playing amongst themselves, so it wasn't common for artillery bombardnt to fall directly on us.
“Tsk, if we had an 88, we could've stayed back and taken it a bit easier…”
Hearing Klens grumble made
let out a dry laugh.
It felt like that was precisely why Colonel Model had ordered the redeploynt.
Right before the offensive, he had ford a separate unit called the ‘Multipurpose Support Artillery Unit,’ requisitioning all the 88 Anti-aircraft Guns and air defense artilleryn from each company and replacing them with more infantry.
His talent, called the ‘talent for creating and committing a reserve force on the front line’—which involved tearing up divisions if necessary to throw them into the fight—was already showing a glimpse of itself.
Since it was born as an anti-aircraft gun, the bulky and slow-to-tow 88mm gun was certainly a great difficulty for infantry to drag into an offensive, and normally, air defense artilleryn are not assigned to infantry companies.
The strange mixed formation was a peculiarity unique to the Condor Legion, mobilized only occasionally for strongpoint defense and aid at new equipnt tests…
Though it was for the sake of an efficient and rapid advance, complaints arose since it tampered with each unit's formation, and even Lieutenant General Thoma, who was the type to leave most things to his Chief of Staff, was said to be a bit reluctant.
But Colonel Model ditched his nice middle-aged man mode of telling dad jokes and, with his characteristic fierce eloquence like that of a non-commissioned officer, persuaded Lieutenant General Thoma and silenced the commanders.
Thanks to that, here I am, leading by example by following the advancing troopers on the very front line, risking my life.
It was an extrely rational and efficient unit operation, but still, it feels bad when sothing you were given is taken away.
There was definitely a reason why so many officers disliked this man…
…Fad commander or not, I'm going to resent you, Colonel Model.
-
July 20, 1937
Central Spain, Madrid, the capital of Spain - Republican Command Headquarters
“This is preposterous! How, how could everything have failed so completely!”
General Miaja slamd his desk as if about to foam at the mouth, but the colonels all kept their mouths shut and just watched him cautiously.
“The most intact division has 40% losses? There are even divisions with over 60% casualties! What in the world kind of attack did you carry out! Have losses like this ever occurred before?”
General Miaja ranted passionately, but he himself had been the one to reject the request to withdraw the attack and ordered it to proceed, even after Colonel Casado, dispatched to replace the heatstroked Colonel Jurado, had assessed the situation and requested that the assault on Carabanchel was impossible.
It was the colonels present here who had criticized Colonel Casado as a defeatist and egged him on with flattery, saying such an opportunity might never co again.
And what they said was half-right.
The Republican faction would probably never again have the chance to lead such a large-scale offensive.
Their capability to do so was completely shattered in this battle.
After pushing them to continue the offensive even as over 20% of their entire military force suffered, died, or collapsed from heatstroke and dehydration symptoms, the Republican faction had completely crumbled and was facing a counterattack from the Nationalist faction.
The Nationalist faction had brought in units from the Basque front and was attacking simultaneously from three directions, and in the Republican units, which no longer had the strength to endure, insubordination and desertion were rampant.
Even a significant number of the International Brigades, the strongest force the Republican faction had committed, grew fed up with the aningless, show-off offensive and arbitrarily deserted the front line, declaring they would return to their holands.
Even the impassioned democrats and communists, who had shouted for freedom and justice and not spared their lives even in the fiercest battlegrounds like the one dubbed ‘Suicide Hill’ in the Battle of Jarama, turned their backs, trembling with rage at the incompetence of the Republican High Command.
“What is this! What the hell is this!”
General Miaja threw the telegram sent by Líster in the face of Colonel Modesto, who had been summoned from the front line.
When his repeated requests to halt the offensive or retreat were not accepted by his direct superior, Colonel Modesto, the 11th Division Commander Enrique Líster had completely ignored the chain of command and sent a telegram directly to headquarters.
“He wants confirmation on whether the order to defend to the death Brunete is correct, despite 40% of the division being casualties and half the tanks lost? What is this! What the hell was the intel I had on the 11th Division!”
Colonel Modesto’s face twisted.
Líster, that damn bastard finally caused trouble.
“At your request, I pulled the entire Air Force from Carabanchel, where things were already difficult, and sent them over! 60 planes, a whole 60 planes, I tell you! But what were the results! You even lied about the losses?”
There were none.
Absolutely none.
The Nationalist faction, from god-knows-where, had committed a huge number of air force aircraft, exceeding the 60 that the Republican faction had scraped together, and among them were even German-made new model fighters that were clearly superior to the Soviet-made ones.
Whether at Carabanchel or Brunete, the Air Force would have been powerless.
Everything about this battle was unexpected.
The Republican faction had never anticipated a situation where their armored units and Air Force, which they believed held superiority over the Nationalist faction, would be rendered powerless.
But what was the point of making such an excuse now?
Should I have ntioned it here when Líster first requested a detour? It would have been dismissed all the sa, but at least it wouldn't have beco my responsibility.
When we missed the timing for the offensive because of the forest fire and Líster again requested to withdraw the attack, if I had accepted it then, even if the army at Carabanchel was annihilated, we would have had enough strength to at least defend to the death Brunete.
Of course, the reason he ignored Líster's withdrawal request and forced the attack was that he had seen Colonel Casado, who made the sa withdrawal request at Carabanchel, get criticized as a defeatist and forced to attack.
'In any case, my promotion to general is out of the question now.'
Regardless of what the High Command, drunk on the swift fall of Brunete, had said, if he had at least pretended to resist, maybe things would be different, but he could not escape responsibility for this failure.
“We pushed the attack too hard in the heat, the enemy unexpectedly mobilized anti-aircraft guns as long-range anti-tank weapons, and those German bastards ca out in force…”
“Aaargh, be quiet!”
Only now, with the battle in its final stages, did the Republican faction learn from the reports of spies in the Nationalist faction that the ‘anti-tank artillery’ that had caused them such horror was the 8.8cm Flak, that is, the 88 Anti-aircraft Gun, which the German military had been using all along.
They also confird that Walther Model, the new Chief of Staff of the Condor Legion, had been significantly involved in the Nationalist faction's latest operation. Not that knowing now ant anything.
“Are those filthy Fascist bastards trying to beco Germany's slaves! Why are they letting those German bastards interfere with strategy! No, in the first place, why does a re volunteer soldier get to be Chief of Staff!”
Both Italy and Germany. The military they had dispatched to the Nationalist faction had already far exceeded the scale of ‘volunteer soldiers,’ but no one dared to open their mouth and point out that grim reality.
Especially since the Republican High Command had just ground up their military force in an operation to curry favor with the Soviet Union.
“And what’s this, a First Lieutenant proposed it? Ha! Are you telling
that our Republican faction’s armored units were all destroyed because of sothing so First Lieutenant riff-raff thought up on the fly?”
As the enraged General Miaja slamd his fist on the desk, all the colonels averted their gaze.
“That can’t be true! That’s just an excuse! An excuse to hide your incompetence!”
He had shown the height of incompetence as Commander-in-Chief, grinding up soldiers in this reckless offensive amidst the extre heat.
But in the Republican faction, where most were political officers, everyone was too busy hiding their own faults to point out the reality.
He glared at the colonels with bloodshot eyes and spat out his words.
“The reality is that Líster’s 11th Division, which was damn near 40% wiped out, is sohow the most intact, so tell him to defend to the death Brunete.
Tell the other units that were committed to the offensive to gather their remaining forces and head to Brunete!”
Everyone here knew full well that even if they scraped together all the remaining forces, let alone Líster’s 11th Division, and threw them into Brunete, they wouldn't even match the military force of one of the three-pronged force of the counterattacking Nationalist faction.
“You must defend Brunete at all costs! No matter what price you have to pay!”
But no one spoke of that reality.
Because if, by so chance, they could defend Brunete, they could cover up their responsibility by claiming it as a minimal success.
Everyone in the High Command just wanted to escape this grim eting as soon as possible.
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