Spanish Civil War – Battle of Jarama (3)

On February 11, under the command of Colonel Escamez, we succeeded in crossing the river and even succeeded in capturing the original goal of the Pingarrón Hills.

However, as feared, the Republican army was strengthened during the rain, and the fortified enemies on the eastern hills of Jarama stubbornly resisted.

It is said that the International Brigade, which came from England, fought back until even the battalion commander was killed—despite countless sacrifices—but in the end, they gave up the hill and fled.

A famous poet also died. They probably fought a deadly battle in the hopes of defending democracy and justice. The Nationalists looked at their corpses and ridiculed them as stupid Reds instigated by the Bolsheviks.

In the face of fierce resistance from the Republican faction, the Nationalist leadership's foolish operation called the Wave Offensive resulted in great sacrifices.

Although the exact count is not known, the number of casualties is estimated to be at least 4,000. 4,000 people? The total number of our company is 101, including the commander. The company I served in back in Korea was about the same.

Tens of millions of people died in World War II. When you read the records, it feels like a horrendous war—but standing here now, realizing that over 40 times the number of people in our unit were sacrificed on this single battlefield, it hits differently.

Much worse, even here in Pingarrón Hill where I am now, I could see—through binoculars—Nationalist soldiers ripped apart by artillery and machine guns during meaningless charges.

After driving the soldiers to death like that for several days, the tattered Nationalist offensive gradually weakened, and we met the Republican counterattack.

February 14, 1937
The Pingaron Hills over the Jarama River, southeast of Madrid, central Spain

February 14th. If I had been in Korea, it would have been a day I looked forward to—even if it meant being annoyed by couples dyeing their hair—since it was Valentine’s Day.

Of course, there was no such thing in this era.

"A bogey is approaching!"

"Adjust the angle of the gun! Quickly!"

An early version of the famous 8.8 cm anti-aircraft gun, the Flak 18, creaked as the soldier turned the control dial, raising the cannon and firing—but the shell gracefully missed the enemy aircraft and exploded.

"Hey, sir! Bow down!"

"Aww!"

Machine guns scratched overhead as the soldiers dropped their anti-aircraft guns and dove into the trenches.

"What the fuck is the Luftwaffe doing!"

"The planes have already been neutralized! The enemy’s new aircraft are clearly superior to ours!"

While the good-natured Captain Kaufman was swearing, I had no choice but to report it straight. We were using an old-fashioned biplane, but the enemy had already deployed the new Soviet-made I-16 monoplane!

Being an Axis power deprived of air superiority was humiliating—especially for someone like me who already knew the horrors of the war’s outcome.

"It's the enemy's new tank!"

Meanwhile, the enemy’s new BT-5 tank appeared, approaching at high speed. It moved so fast that the outdated Panzer 1 tank, still trailing behind the T-26, couldn’t compare.

It was a light tank, fast and agile—but terrifying for infantry seeing it for the first time. The Nationalist troops quickly broke ranks.

"Damn it, stay calm! If they come without infantry support, we can grind them down with anti-tank guns or Flak!"

A mess unfolded as 1st Platoon Commander Clemens ran frantically, shouting orders with his leutnant Sergeant in tow.

"What’s behind us isn’t in direct engagement! If the front line breaks through instantly, this becomes the front! These idiotic Spanish bastards!"

"Aaahh! My arm! Aaahh! Mom!"

The other Flak 18 anti-aircraft gun pierced the enemy tank’s thin armor and silenced it, while a soldier—unluckily hit by a direct tank shot—rolled from the Pak 36 position, desperately searching for his arm.

The famous 8.8 cm gun was proving itself against ground targets, just as it was reputed to. If it wasn’t our unit proving that now, they’d be stunned!

The Republicans, launching their counterattack with great momentum, watched as their tanks exploded under concentrated fire from anti-tank and anti-aircraft guns. Realizing this was no ordinary Nationalist Army, they halted tank attacks and switched to infantry assault.

Was this really Enrique Líster's 11th Division? True or not, we had no choice but to hold our ground.

"Crush it, grind it!"

Though not quite as powerful as Hitler’s chainsaw of ’42, the MG34 mounted on its tripod shredded enemy infantry with a ruthless rate of fire—ignoring its classification as a mere light machine gun.

The sight of flesh tearing apart in real time is absolutely devastating to one’s mental health.

"Well, that’s great. Indeed, the new weapons of the Wehrmacht are strong enough."

It was natural for a new weapons test unit like ours to be overloaded with heavy gear. Still, Captain Kaufman calmly observed the situation with a telescope, which was admirable—until...

Damn it. I heard an annoying sound.

"Captain!"

Without thinking, I tackled the captain and threw both of us into the trench.

As soon as we fell in, sand blasted our heads and backs with the sound of a nearby explosion. Shit. That hurt like hell.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…"

"Cough, cough…"

I trembled in shock, coughing at the sand and dust, spitting soil from my mouth. Luckily, nothing seemed broken, and the captain—who had pushed me out first—stood up.

"Thank you, Leutnant."

"Captain."

This place... this front line... it was already hell. Damn Hitler’s intentions were clearly different!

I wanted to retreat immediately, but the messenger sent by Major Beckers, our battalion commander, delivered new orders: test the weapons and establish a major foothold.

Probably trying to win some respect from the Spanish Nationalists by showcasing our firepower against the Republicans.

Whether I was agreed or not, this damned war would continue on.

The Republicans, after being pushed off the west side of the Jarama River, began swarming from every direction with renewed fury.

Meanwhile, Colonel Rada’s troops—supposed to guard the north—were being held up by enemy forces attacking from central Madrid.

The Republican cavalry, having lost over a dozen Soviet-supplied light tanks trying to recapture Pingarrón Hills from the Condor Legion, fell into disarray—but soon repulsed the heavy troops of Colonel Asensio and Baron Fernando that tried to storm the enemy camp.

The Nationalist managed to hold on to the land that it had occupied, but any further advance was over. Now, they were just desperately defending against the Republican counterattack.

Losses piled up like snow. Just days after hearing reports of 4,000 casualties, the toll had risen to at least 6,000—maybe even 10,000.

Even now, we were still locked in a defensive battle.

The Condor Legion—better equipped than the rest of the Nationalist units—suffered heavy losses. Our company, which started the operation with 101 men, was pulled back with 5 dead and 12 wounded.

Leutnant Julius Havenstein, commander of the 3rd platoon, looked broken after losing his sergeant.

I don’t know the Republican casualties, but looking at the bodies piled up in front of our defensive line—it wasn’t just in the hundreds.

The sound of incoming shells and explosions continued to ring like tinnitus in my ears. Even when I tried to sleep, I mistook the ringing in my ears for bombardment and jolted awake.

They say war devastates people. Experiencing it first hand... I couldn't agree more.

The Republican counterattack continued, building up a mountain of corpses for nearly two weeks.

The Republican forces were gradually overpowered by the fire of the Flak 18 anti-aircraft guns supplied by the Condor Legion, deployed across the front line by the Luftwaffe. Eventually, with the arrival of the Luftwaffe’s He-51 and the CR series aircraft, the Republicans lost air superiority.

The Nationalists failed to achieve their ambitious goal of cutting off the border between Madrid and Valencia. The Republicans, after overcoming their initial weakness, tried to launch a counteroffensive but failed to reclaim any of the strongholds they had lost.

No one knew the exact number of casualties on either side, though it was estimated that the total exceeded 20,000.

The blood that dyed the entire Jarama River red was the shared cost of both sides.

After a lull on the front, with both Republicans and Nationalists suffering unmanageable losses, we were finally able to withdraw.

Unlike the grim atmosphere among the Nationalists and those who had lost their comrades, the Condor Legion remained spirited—wildly so.

Even amidst the civil war, they were throwing banquets and enjoying themselves. Perhaps this was a typical sentiment for the time.

"Hey, Dietrich. Are you enjoying it?"

"Well, it's so-so. How are you doing, Clemens?"

"Never been better!"

Clemens smiled, proudly touching the Iron Cross, 2nd class on his chest, a beer mug in one hand.

The Condor Legion had successfully intercepted the Republican counterattack using new German equipment and gathered valuable combat data.

Though the combined arms coordination between tanks and infantry wasn’t perfect, it was concluded that tank warfare was at least viable—if not ideal.

Germany, having been banned from manufacturing tanks after World War I due to the Treaty of Versailles, had secretly developed them under the label of “tractors.” Only after the Nazi Party’s rise to power did tank development accelerate.

The issue now was that these unproven machines were rolling into live battlefields during the early days of WWII.

In any case, most of the other weapons were deemed effective, and the Condor Legion's performance silenced even the most hesitant Nationalists, who proposed requesting troops from Britain and France.

Back home, all frontline officers were awarded the Iron Cross, 2nd class, a symbolic morale boost.

The Pak 36 anti-tank gun, however, was disappointing. Its penetration capabilities were so poor it was jokingly called a “door knocker,” especially when compared to the effective Flak 18 anti-aircraft gun, which doubled as a tank killer.

I considered writing a report suggesting that anti-tank guns had less penetration power than anti-aircraft guns. But unlike me, Clemens was simply thrilled.

"Wow—the Iron Cross medal! Isn’t our work being recognized? If we do well, won’t we become general staff candidates too?"

I smiled at his enthusiasm. My friend, joining the general staff isn’t so easy…

Still, the Iron Cross we wore predated the Nazi-era reissuance in 1939. It was from the German Empire—perhaps making it rarer.

"Hey, Dietrich."

"Yes?"

In the direction Clemens pointed, Spanish women in fancy dresses were smiling.

It reminded me of how Korean women might have looked at American soldiers after the Korean War. But honestly, I wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it.

"Go. Germany’s great warrior."

"You also enjoy yourself."

I sent Clemens off. Why? Because I felt skeptical about all this. Looking through Dietrich’s memories, I realized he was quite the carefree type.

He had trained as an officer to meet his father Hjalmar Schacht’s expectations, who had wanted him to study at Heidelberg. Then he ran off to Spain to serve the Führer…

He also had a decently handsome face and seemed to have made good use of it. Damn it. I had been single until my discharge as a sergeant, and this man seemed to have been playing around nonstop?

It was all very irritating.

Still, now that I had a moment of solitude, I was able to organize my thoughts.

I had thought of applying for discharge after this battle. But knowing the nature of the Spanish contingent, it was unlikely my application would be accepted. And even if it was, with WWII approaching, I’d likely be conscripted again.

The Nazi regime was not the kind to let a battle-experienced officer just walk away.

Being dispatched to the Spanish Civil War was an elite course, in its own way. But with my father, Hjalmar Schacht, soon to fall out of Nazi favor, this might all be for nothing.

Maybe I should just stay in Spain.

But with Franco and the Nationalists as crazy as the Nazis, and knowing that Hitler’s influence would extend here after the fall of Paris, this place wasn’t safe either.

I wasn’t a favorite of Franco’s like Pétain in France. If things went badly, I could end up in a chemical warfare unit.

Even if everything else was the same, I didn’t want to be dragged into the hellish war of toxins. If I were lucky enough to be stationed in France or Africa, maybe I could just surrender quickly to the Allies.

I did like Germany—genuinely. It’s one of Europe’s most turbulent and interesting countries. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to die for it.

I had no desire to fight for Hitler’s monstrous government.

There were many historical attempts to oust Hitler before and during WWII. What needed to happen was clear—Hitler and the Nazis had to be stopped before they burned Germany and the world.

If I were a key figure in Germany right now, I might’ve tried something. But as just a second leutnant, and stationed in Spain, what could I do?

First, I needed to get back to Germany. But how?

Damn it, if it were modern times, I’d just search it on the internet.

Others were enjoying the banquet. But for me, it was a night of deepening worries.

The disastrous attrition from the Battle of Jarama, fought over the road between Madrid and Valencia, left both the Nationalists and Republicans frustrated.

Even the Nationalist leaders—normally indifferent to casualties—began wondering whether the attack on Madrid should be called off after suffering such shocking losses.

The overwhelming damage, which went beyond the symbolic value of Spain’s capital, made even the staunchest believe they were losing momentum.

Even the African Expeditionary Force—the elite soldiers of the Nationalists—had suffered heavy losses in two failed attempts to siege Madrid.

But the Italians saw opportunity in this failure.

Italian commander General Mario Roatta, after seeing the Republican forces badly damaged at Jarama, proposed a bold plan to capture Guadalajara, northeast of Madrid, while the Republicans’ attention was focused south.

During the height of the Jarama battle, he had claimed to be unprepared. Now, he was ready.

Italian dictator Mussolini, encouraged by Roatta’s plan, dispatched 35,000 Italian troops to show off the might of Italy’s so-called “steel army.”

By this point, they were effectively acting as regular military. Mussolini was determined not to be outdone by Hitler’s volunteers.

The Nationalists, seeing this as perhaps their last chance to take Madrid, readily agreed to the Italian invasion plan.

After Jarama, they scrapped the battered African Expeditionary Force and assembled a new 15,000-strong army. The Condor Corps, as the elite among them, was included.

We were ordered to move to Guadalajara to support the Italian offensive.

The short break was over.