Spanish Civil War – Battle of Jarama (2)

February 9, 1937 – Rivas-Vaciamadrid, southeast of Madrid, Central Spain

It was Day 4 of the offensive. Colonel Escámez’s army—our company included—had successfully captured major towns like Rivas-Vaciamadrid from the south. To the north, Colonel Ricardo Rada’s army had smoothly occupied the highlands west of the river.

The problem lay with the central force—the one meant to be the spearhead of the operation. According to the plan, they should have crossed the river by now, sweeping aside the Republican forces guarding it.

But of course, war never goes according to plan.

"The 11th Division? Enrique Líster? Wasn’t he trained at Frunze? Damn Soviet lackey bastard."

"Still, the left and right wings did their job. I just need the center to follow through..."

Colonels Escámez and Rada had achieved their objectives and were, by all accounts, in stable positions. But General Enrique Barrera, the overall commander, was visibly displeased.

While the flanks held firm, the central column had not only failed to cross the river—it had been pushed back by the armored units of the Republican 11th Division under Líster. Worse, their failure allowed Republican forces to retreat safely west of the river.

"Since when did the Reds get so good with tanks?"

Colonel Asensio, who led the heavy infantry, muttered in frustration. Baron Fernando, his waxed mustache twitching, pointed fingers elsewhere.

"Thanks for the support, but to be honest, their T-26s outmatch our Panzer I’s by miles! This defeat is purely due to the difference in tank performance."

Why did it feel like they were trying to shift the blame onto us? I felt a cold sweat building and glanced at the older man with a leutnant general’s insignia.

"The performance of our Panzer I is inferior to that of the Soviet T-26s, making it difficult for the central column to advance," I translated.

Leutnant General Wilhelm Ritter von Thoma’s long, horse-like face twitched into a scowl. Beside him, Colonel Wolfram von Richthofen of the Luftwaffe gave a low whistle.

Thoma, the commander of the Condor Legion, wasn’t widely known yet. Richthofen, however, was infamous—a modern-minded officer whose name would eventually become synonymous with destruction, akin to Curtis LeMay of the U.S. Air Force. The only difference: Richthofen smiled when he saw cities burn.

But as a ground forces officer, I had little reason to care what Richthofen thought. These were high-ranking figures, and I—a mere second leutnant—was here only by accident. The original interpreter had been wounded by shrapnel and sent to the rear.

Because I spoke both German and Spanish, I was dragged from our unit in Rivas-Vaciamadrid to fill in. And now I was stuck watching generals argue over why the offensive had failed.

"The Panzer I we supplied is only a prototype," Thoma said. "The primary support of the Condor Legion lies in air and artillery. Tanks are merely infantry support weapons. A minor difference in performance does not determine the success or failure of an operation."

I delivered this version of his statement diplomatically. Still, several officers frowned at the remark.

From a modern perspective, the statement is laughable—tanks would go on to define the war. But back then, the Panzer I was armed with just two machine guns. It barely qualified as a tank. Even the dreaded T-26 had only light armor and a small cannon.

Yet, unlike us, the Soviets under Mikhail Tukhachevsky had already begun experimenting with blitzkrieg tactics. The Republican cavalry kept their tanks well-coordinated and tactically flexible.

Colonels Asensio and Fernando, leading the central force, were blindsided by an armored push and had no answer to it.

Even a superior tank like the future T-34 would be vulnerable without infantry support. And the T-26? It should’ve been easy prey for flank attacks and artillery. We had anti-tank guns like the Pak 36 and anti-aircraft guns like the Flak 18, both of which could destroy it.

The Condor Legion might’ve been small, but Hitler had filled it with the newest weapons to test them. Our equipment was advanced, even if our numbers were not.

Still, this was above my pay grade. I wasn’t supposed to inject my opinion into these translations—and I certainly didn’t want to end up court-martialed for overstepping.

"Tsk, are the Italians still dragging their feet?"

"They said it would take a month to prepare. They weren't much help in this offensive."

And so, the ambitious plan to split Madrid from Valencia had crumbled. Heavy rains had halted the operation, and Republican reinforcements were streaming in across the river.

Even I, a fluke of fate, could tell the offensive had failed. But the Nationalist leadership thought otherwise. After hours of blame and excuses, the final decision came down:

"Anyway, it's done. There will be casualties, but as soon as the rain stops, we’ll cross the river and resume the offensive as planned. Any deviation will be crushed with wave attacks. Madrid must be freed from the Reds!"

"Death to the Reds!"

It was absurd. If this were Korea, ordinary soldiers like me would be dying for decisions made in these idiotic meetings.

I was technically a second leutnant—but just a temporary liaison for a dispatched unit. At least I could avoid being thrown into a suicidal assault.

It was still raining outside. That meant no air support. The Condor Legion had little to do in this weather.

After the meeting, Leutnant General von Thoma and Colonel Richthofen were chatting when a Spanish officer with a leutnant colonel’s insignia approached me.

"Frustrating, isn’t it? We hesitate when we should act boldly, and act boldly when we should retreat."

He stared directly at me. Was he talking to me? I translated for Richthofen.

"Ah, Leutnant Colonel Yagüe. I did find it frustrating. I wish you’d taken part in the offensive," Richthofen replied.

So this was Juan Yagüe. Among all the Spanish officers, he was one of the few that the Condor Legion respected for his ability to lead both offensively and defensively.

Most German officers looked down on the Spanish Army, full as it was with politically appointed incompetents. But Richthofen and Yagüe joked easily, trading small talk as I struggled to translate every word.

"Well then, I’ll be off. Good work today, Colonel. Ensign. You may return to your unit once the leutnant colonel has concluded his duties."

"Heil—"

Leutnant General von Thoma waved me off mid-salute, uninterested. He took an umbrella from his aide and left.

The Nazi-style salute wasn’t yet standard in the Wehrmacht. It was merely recommended, and most conservative officers detested it.

These were proud men—veterans of the Great War, who’d survived disarmament under Versailles. They had little respect for a corporal-turned-Führer.

It’s something I need to remember. I don’t know what I’ll do yet, but I’d be insane to follow Hitler blindly into war and die alongside the Germans.

The Luftwaffe, being Göring’s baby, was already full-on Nazi, and many in the Condor Legion’s ranks were “pro-Nazis”—ambitious young men looking to build careers by shouting “Heil Hitler” louder than the rest.

Once von Thoma left, Richthofen continued chatting with Yagüe, tossing in broken Spanish and laughing along. Surprisingly, he spoke a bit of the language.

While I waited nearby, a man with an umbrella approached me, folded it, and asked in Spanish with a clear American accent:

"Nice to meet you. Are you Leutnant Colonel Juan Yagüe? I’m John T. Whitaker, an American journalist. Could I have a moment of your time?"

Richthofen’s smile vanished the moment he heard "American" and "journalist." For the Wehrmacht, civilians had no business being this close to a military operation.

Still, the Nationalists had invited foreign journalists. The Republicans did the same, trying to win public support abroad. Spain was crawling with reporters.

"I have a question about the Badajoz operation last August," Whitaker said. "There’s a rumor that 10% of the city’s civilian population was executed on your orders. Is that true?"

In Korea, journalists had a reputation for being vultures, but Whitaker’s question was direct and relevant. Maybe he just needed a juicy headline. Maybe he was seeking the truth.

I reflexively turned to translate, but Richthofen stopped me with a gesture. Technically, the German presence here was a “secret,” after all.

To my surprise, Yagüe smiled warmly and answered.

"Oh, of course we killed them."

Whitaker and I both froze, stunned. But Yagüe kept speaking, calm and cordial.

"What did you expect? Should I have abandoned my hard-won gains and returned to base with 4,000 Red prisoners? Or left them behind and risked having Badajoz—now a Red city—at our rear?"

Whitaker’s face hardened, but he continued taking notes.

"This is war, Yankee. Those bastards murdered and raped priests and nuns. In Toledo, they took Colonel Moscardó’s son hostage and tried to blackmail him. They’re just reaping what they sowed."

He smiled again, almost like a neighbor chatting over a fence.

"And I’m proud to be a patriot at the vanguard."

Whitaker jotted the final quote grimly, thanked Yagüe, and glanced at us, quickly realizing we weren’t going to speak. He left.

Soon after, a messenger summoned Yagüe, and Richthofen finally let me go.

I walked through the rain with an umbrella in hand. The streets were thick with mud—nothing like Seoul’s well-tiled, well-drained roads.

Even as a modern person, I couldn’t say Yagüe was entirely wrong. In war, terrible things happen. But to brag about massacring civilians?

Spain was only spared total international condemnation because even worse atrocities would soon be committed by Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan. Otherwise, Spain might have vanished from the map.

These people had no shame. They labeled massacres as "cleansing" or "political necessity."

It was a barbaric age—just dressed in the trappings of modernity.

God, I just want to go back to Korea.

As I passed a house, a girl peeked at me through the curtains—then flinched and pulled them shut.

When this rain stops, the “Reds” in this town will be slaughtered, just like Yagüe’s purge of Badajoz.

I’m starting to accept it.

I’m a German now, caught on the edge of World War II.

I keep hoping that one morning I’ll wake up back in Korea. But no. There’s no miracle coming.

So now I need to figure out how to get off this train to hell before it’s too late.

And under this lunatic Nazi regime, one thing’s already clear: I won’t survive by following orders.