Spanish Civil War – Battle of Guadalajara (1)

March 8, 1937 – Guadalajara, northeast of Madrid, central Spain

The Nationalist leadership seemed emboldened by the overwhelming support from Italy.

I felt an unexpected sense of excitement. This time, we were marching to retake Madrid—the capital—and finally break the Republicans' will.

But I kept thinking of the high-ranking officers, the kind who'd swapped out their men after the bloodbath at Jarama. The numbers looked fine, and our troop strength appeared sound. If 35,000 Italians had joined the 15,000 Nationalist soldiers, we were looking at a formidable force of 50,000.

It was said that Mussolini had sent not just infantry, but also his own armoured divisions, artillery, and air support. Not just 50,000 boots on the ground—but a full military package.

On the other hand, the Republican army that had fought in the Battle of Jarama was about 30,000 strong. Considering the brutal losses they’d suffered there, their available fighting force had certainly diminished. Even the International Brigades—the Republican elite comparable to our Condor Legion—had reportedly been decimated.

This, then, was a battle we could not afford to lose. Perhaps that's why Mussolini had gone all-in with such fervour.

But the problem was—I already knew Madrid never fell during the war. The Spanish Civil War dragged on until 1939. Rivas-Vaciamadrid, the southeastern town near Madrid, had already fallen. Though the Madrid–Valencia road over the Jarama River had been defended, if we lost at Guadalajara, that supply line would be rendered meaningless.

This was a battle we could not lose. And yet, it was a battle we would lose.

Even with the fearsome reputation of the Italian army and its atrocities, the outcome was grim. Is there anything more demoralizing than marching into battle already knowing you'll lose?

God, I know you have no conscience—you dropped me into this madness. But if there’s even a sliver of humanity left in you, a conscience the size of a rat's whisker—please, save me...

Despite our prayers, the operation began with no sign of good fortune. But then again, if prayer had ever mattered, I wouldn't have been dropped into this timeline.

At first, the Condor Legion and Italian aircraft swarmed like bees, bombing the undefended Republican positions. The enemy clearly hadn’t anticipated an attack—there were no fortifications in place. Our rapid advance seemed unstoppable. Even though our tanks—mostly Italian CV-33s and our own light models—were closer to miniatures than true armour, they rolled over the Republican lines with ease. Victory appeared close.

But then came the cursed weather. At Jarama, rain had come at a crucial moment and saved the Republicans. Now, though winter had passed, we were hit with dense fog and sleet—this time hobbling our own side.

The Italians weren’t well-prepared. To deal with the Republican forces embedded in towns and cities, some of their tanks had been retrofitted with flamethrowers. These were terrifyingly effective against enemies hiding in buildings. Watching soldiers fall from windows, engulfed in flames, was a deeply disturbing sight—but I had grown numb. In just a few months, I had transformed from a modern Korean man into a hardened Wehrmacht soldier.

Still, the weather slowed everything. Airstrikes were useless in the fog. Progress stalled after only a few minor towns were taken. Our primary objective—Brihuega—remained out of reach as the fog thickened.

The window for a surprise attack was quickly closing. Republican reinforcements were surely on their way.

It was Jarama all over again. And I had a terrible feeling about it.

General Rota, commander of the Italian forces, was visibly nervous. He had received enormous support from Mussolini but was now stuck, unable to attack through fog so thick you couldn’t see your own hand.

"Who was the genius who said the highlands of central Spain were warm and dry during the briefing?"

The captain whose face haunted my memory was probably sitting comfortably back in Berlin now. Meanwhile, we stood shivering in sleet that felt like a cruel mix of rain and snow.

If only I could be back home—discharged and warm in Seoul…

I wanted to cry. I missed the pizza my mother used to buy me.

Even the army food in modern Korea—jjjambap—felt like a beggar’s meal. What was it like 80 years ago? I was lucky I wasn’t one of those who needed kimchi to survive. Otherwise, I might have already ended it all out of sheer exhaustion.

"Ugh, damn, I'm freezing..."

I glanced at Clemens, who was hugging his arms and shivering more than I was. Somehow, seeing him like that made me laugh a little.

Officers or not, whether it was the Korean army or the Wehrmacht, they were all the same in the end—miserable in the cold.

"Company leutnant, platoon commander. The company commander is looking for you."

"Ah. Thank you, Sergeant Koher."

Koher, the NCO under Clemens’ command, had a rough face that almost made him look like a bandit. Contrary to what I'd expected, the Wehrmacht wasn’t a tight, fear-based organization. It was relatively flexible, and officers, NCOs, and soldiers often spoke comfortably with one another.

I had yet to see the kind of beatings I’d feared. At most, someone might get slapped during shell shock—but nothing more. Looking at this, the Korean army really was a pile of garbage...

"Ugh, it’s so cold. Dietrich! Let’s go!"

"Kuk, are you okay?"

Clemens was already headed toward the company tent, where Captain Kaufman would be waiting. We couldn’t let the old man stand in sleet, so the tent—undoubtedly the warmest place in our unit—had been prepared.

"Hail—"

"Oh, that’s enough. Come in and get some coffee."

"Thank you!"

Captain Kaufman waved us inside and poured coffee. We gratefully accepted and let the warmth flow into our frozen bodies.

"The hardships are severe. I want to take care of the men, but..." he said, shaking his head.

"Well, for now, we just have to wait for the weather to clear," I replied, sipping my coffee. My mind drifted to the brutal Russian winters. How many Germans would freeze to death on the Eastern Front?

Even with the coffee, a chill settled in my chest.

Captain Kaufman smiled gently at us and went back to his writing.

"Are you writing a letter, Captain?"

"Yeah. It’s been over a month since I got a reply from my wife. I’m only just writing back now. When I get back, I’m going to give her hell."

"Hahaha..."

Clemens and I both laughed. I remembered calling home for the first time from the Nonsan Training Center. I’d been just as nervous.

Kaufman was a truly good officer. Smart, but not overbearing. He gave his subordinates autonomy and respected them. If we could rise together—if we were lucky enough to end up posted in Western Europe or Africa—we might be able to surrender together to the Allies...

Clemens, sipping his coffee beside me, seemed content. There was Sergeant Koher, the blunt but dependable NCO. Leutnant Heidmann, stoic and silent. Leutnant Havenstein, still grieving after losing his own superior...

It had only been a month, but perhaps because of the memories from Dietrich’s life, I felt surprisingly attached to all of them.

Of course, I knew better. Most of the Wehrmacht would end up deployed to the brutal Eastern Front. And most would die there.

The myth of the invincible German army, which once terrified the world, would shatter in the frozen wilderness of Russia—doomed by poor judgment and Hitler’s catastrophic decisions.

Here in Spain, Poland, and France, soldiers like us—experienced, trained—would die, and in their place, boys and old men would be conscripted.

When I studied history, I used to curse the idiocy of Hitler. But now, it wasn't about Germans in textbooks—it was about comrades. Men freezing beside me, day by day.

If this was how it had to be, I wish I had arrived in a body with real power. As Hitler, Göring… even Himmler, Goebbels, or Heydrich. Someone who could stop World War II. Or at least, sabotage the Nazis from within—turn it into something less insane.

But I was just a second leutnant.

And not even in Germany.

Nothing had happened yet, but next year everything would start unraveling. The Anschluss—the annexation of Austria—was only a year away. It would be glorified in Germany, but in reality, it marked the beginning of the end.

As soon as the fog cleared, we crushed little resistance and immediately captured Brihuega, but the overall picture of the war remained unknown.

The tanks and vehicles brought by the Italian army, which were considered to be armored units, were barely on par with civilian cars we had seen in Korea—or even smaller. Our own Panzer 1 looked makeshift, but theirs—was that really what they called armor?

Word spread that Enrique Líster and the 11th Division used Soviet-made T-26 and BT-5 tanks to destroy the Italian Panzer Division, which was barely armored in reality, effectively halting the Nationalist advance. He and his 11th Division had begun to strike fear into the hearts of every Nationalist soldier. Imagine seeing a war hero being born on the battlefield—on the enemy’s side. It was not encouraging at all.

But the real issue was the lack of situational awareness. We had no portable radios or reliable military communications. It was still an era where messengers rode bicycles—or, if we were lucky, motorcycles. Naturally, there were no proper orders or updates being delivered to units. We were simply stationed in Brihuega, waiting blankly for days.

The weather made visibility a joke. That one guy who said central Iberia was hot and dry? I’d like a word with him.

Above us, the Luftwaffe, the Italian air force, and the Republican air force tangled constantly in skirmishes and bombings. But aircraft weren’t yet advanced enough to guarantee effectiveness, and at least nothing significant was falling on our side—not yet.

“I can never get used to this terrible mist.”

“Captain, do you have any instructions from the battalion headquarters?”

Capt. Kaufman and I were standing on the defensive line outside Brihuega.

“The command team isn’t saying anything. You didn’t hear this from me, but some say Colonel Moscardó is being passive.”

“Hmm. Maybe he thinks that since the original goal of a surprise attack has already been accomplished with minimal losses, there’s no point exhausting elite troops further.”

So now, under Colonel Moscardó of the Nationalist faction, we were simply sitting around, doing nothing. It was the Italian army’s turn to carry the weight of Mussolini’s ambition.

But that kind of strategy only made sense if the Italian army alone could overpower the Republicans. And that was a big assumption.

Then, through the mist, I saw movement. A silhouette. A group approaching.

“Captain, was there any unit that said they would join us from this direction?”

“No, nothing like that…”

Only our Condor Legion battalion and two Italian battalions were stationed in Brihuega. Seeing the Captain sprint toward the wall, I slid behind cover and shouted in Spanish.

“¡Alto ahí! ¿Quién eres?”

“¡No disparen! ¡Soy amigo!”

The answer came in Spanish.

Shit.

I ran toward the wall and this time shouted in German.

“Battle stations! Battle stations!”

“What?!”

In an instant, the defensive line stirred to life. A wind cut through the air, and as the fog lifted, I saw them.

Across the river, floating bridges had been laid, and the Republican army was charging across.

“They’re coming fast! Dietrich!”

“Just shoot!”

Clemens’ shout was followed immediately by the sound of gunfire. Bullets screamed by, and I felt a jolt of fear ripple through my spine. I sprinted and dove behind the wall just in time.

Coughing, dazed, and covered in dust, I felt a hand pull me to my feet. It was the Captain.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I hope you understand.”

“You made the right call, sir.”

Honestly, it was a bit rough, but if the company commander died at the start of the battle, the entire unit could fall apart. He made the right move.

The city descended into chaos.

Shouting soldiers. Ringing bells. The crack of the Kar98k rifles. The steady bursts of the MG34. Screams. Mortar fire. And the low howl of something incoming—

“Get down!”

I screamed instinctively, recognizing the sound. We dove just as the shell hit nearby with a thundering boom.

Dust, debris, and ringing in my ears.

Damn it. I really can’t do this anymore. In the 21st century, I’d be dead in an instant. That’s comforting—kind of?

“Ahh, ahhh—!”

A familiar soldier from 1st Platoon was screaming nearby—Private Lerner. He was bleeding out—too much.

“Damn it, damn it…! Dietrich! Are you alive?!”

“I’m okay!”

Clemens was still pinned to the wall, barking orders and holding the platoon together. But Captain Kaufman—he was nowhere in sight.

I tried to shout for him but stopped. If he was dead, creating a panic wouldn’t help.

Then, faintly through the cacophony—

“Cough… Schacht…”

“Captain!”

I found him slumped beneath rubble. A steel beam had pierced his chest. Blood pooled beneath him.

“Oh my God…”

“Schacht… can I… live?”

He didn’t sound like he believed it.

“Captain Kaufman…”

He wasn’t someone who should die like this—not in a place like this.

“It hurts. Someday, I hoped… when it happened… it’d be heroic… This… hurts too much…”

He tried to lift his hand to his chest, but it trembled and fell. I helped him by pulling out a piece of paper from his coat—already soaked in blood.

“Thank you… please tell her…”

And that was it.

He never moved again.

“Company commander…!”

The messenger from 1st Platoon ran in, saw the Captain’s body, and froze. But war didn’t allow time for grief.

“Kraut, right? Go! Run to battalion headquarters. Tell them we’ve suffered heavy losses from a surprise attack across the river. The company commander is dead. We need permission to retreat!”

“Yes, sir!”

He turned and sprinted—only for a shot to ring out. His body crumpled, blood spurting from his head.

He died instantly.

Fuck.

“Sorry, Captain. Sorry, Kraut…”

No one was listening, but I whispered the words anyway. I slid the Captain’s letter into my coat, took his and Kraut’s dog tags, and picked up the Kar98k dropped nearby.

The Captain was gone.

So now, this shitty situation is mine to lead.

There were no radios. Only runners. If we didn’t act fast, we’d end up like Napoleon’s army—slaughtered while waiting.

I refuse to die like this.

Not here. Not on this godforsaken battlefield.

Never.