Spanish Civil War – Battle of Guadalajara (2)

Even pretending the war was going well was a struggle.

The heavy equipment and elite weapons of the Condor Legion had initially crushed the enemy under cover of fog. But there simply weren’t enough men to repel the waves that kept coming.

"Spread! Thirty-minute shooter at the current location!"

I relayed the message to the platoon members, braced against the crumbling wall. Gun in hand, I aimed at enemy soldiers who were now practically at arm’s reach.

When the enemy collapsed and bolts were racked back, the familiar screech of metal-on-metal pierced my nerves.

More enemies appeared, placing floating bridges across the river without hesitation. What the hell were the Italian idiots doing?

This wasn’t a small raid. This was their main push. And we only had three battalions here!

Bullets smacked into the wall with sharp pucks. The wind hissed past my ears.

"Ouch!"

Blood and dirt smeared my hands. It was just a graze, luckily. My ear was intact, but it was clear now: I wouldn’t survive another head peek from behind cover.

Still clutching my ringing ear, I pressed tighter to the wall. Clemens slid in next to me.

"Six people have already fallen! Dietrich! Captain?"

"It’s seven! Clemens, pick two or three quick-thinking messengers. Send them to battalion HQ. Wires are down! There’ll be delays, so request permission to retreat!"

My tinnitus still screeched, but I yelled anyway. Clemens, not wasting time with questions, shouted instructions to Sergeant Koher.

While Clemens dispatched two soldiers and I was returning fire, a private from the 3rd Platoon sprinted over.

"Heil—"

He straightened his back and raised his hand like we were at roll call.

Really? Send this idiot as a messenger? Havenstein's gone mad.

"Shut up and speak! What?"

"Seven casualties from the 3rd Platoon! We’re being pushed from the defenses! The platoon leutnant was shot!"

"Fuck! What were you doing? Already that many gone?"

He’d taken the time to come all the way here while bodies piled up.

"Th-that..."

"Can’t you see we’re all fighting for our lives? Say it!"

I slapped his cheek. He was near tears when he finally answered.

"Th-the Italian squads abandoned the defense and pulled back first, so I..."

Goddamn pizza-eating cowards.

"Waah, grenade!"

"Down!"

At the sudden shout, I yanked the private to the floor. The grenade didn’t land near us. But the MG34 team behind the ruined wall? Gone.

‘Death to the fascists!’ or ‘No pasarán!’ The Republican slogans were practically echoing in my ears.

This is madness. We wouldn’t last another fifteen minutes, let alone thirty. Half the company would die.

"Dietrich! Everyone will die like this!"

Clemens was panicking now. If only the captain were here...

This never would’ve happened if those damned Italian bastards hadn’t fled their posts. With the flank exposed, we were nearly surrounded.

I tried to remember the map from the briefing. There had been a tall building, a post office...

"Messenger! Go get the 3rd Platoon out! Back to the post office—it's a fallback point! First and third platoons, abandon the wall. Hold for five minutes! I’ll bring the 2nd Platoon to cover you—then retreat! Consolidate inside the buildings!"

The private nodded and ran. I grabbed Clemens as he rose.

"I don’t trust that guy. Send another messenger!"

When I opened my eyes, I saw a gray ceiling. Not a field tent—solid concrete. Gray.

"Ugh, uh, uh..."

I tried to rise. My entire body screamed. My shoulder felt like it had been pierced and scraped with iron.

"Uh-uh...uh..."

I lay trembling on the bed, gritting through the yellow haze of pain. Once it faded, my sense of reality crept back.

"This isn’t..."

This wasn’t my room in Korea. What colour had the ceiling been back home? I couldn’t remember. At that moment, I even missed that cramped, crappy room. But no colour came to mind.

That’s when I realized—my inner monologue was in German.

My throat was dry, the words rasping like metal scraping on rusted hinges.

"Heh...heh..."

"Hey there. Seems like you're back among the living."

I jumped at the sudden voice. An older man sat across from me. He poured water into a tin cup and handed it over. After gulping it down, I could finally get a good look at him.

"Thank you..."

Honestly, he looked ridiculous—long bangs, a mustache that resembled Hitler’s—but he smiled kindly.

"It’s nothing. I’ve heard all about the brave Leutnant."

Brave Leutnant? What?

No, wait... What happened? I remembered Clemens shouting in a panic... the machine guns... and then, nothing.

"You’ve been promoted for merit at Guadalajara. There’ll be a medal."

A War Medal. Awarded for bravery in battle.

Who the hell would want that?

"I heard the Iron Cross is under consideration, too. I'm envious, really! Ah, where are my manners. I’m SS-Untersturmführer (Junior Assault Leader) Oskar Dirlewanger. Yes, that Dirlewanger. Heh. And you must be Schacht’s son? A pleasure."

My blood ran cold. Dirlewanger?

I stiffened. Dirlewanger—the infamous butcher of civilians?

He noticed and chuckled.

"You might not like sharing a room with an SS man. But this hospital isn’t just ours. Heh, it's a bit of an inside joke—people with strong connections get the nice rooms, even if they look like crap."

I didn’t want to correct him. I didn’t want to talk at all.

He kept going.

"Have you heard bad things about me? That girl lied! The trial proved nothing..."

Of course. He was notorious even before the war. War crimes, rape, murder.

"It was a conspiracy! I'm reformed now! A new man! Got this wound in Spain, for my comrades!"

I didn’t want to know any of this. Yet there he was—chatting like we were old friends. Dirlewanger. The madman who used women and children as human shields. Even the Wehrmacht despised him.

He finally stopped talking and returned to his bed, muttering to himself.

I had no intention of ever speaking to him again.

But as I lay there, memories returned one by one.

Captain Kaufman... is dead.

He was kind. The kind of superior who offered hot coffee to shivering soldiers. He didn’t die for Germany—but in someone else’s civil war.

When the Italians fled, we held out, fell back to the post office, made a stand, and waited for battalion HQ to grant retreat. We survived, barely.

But as I turned and ran, I got caught in an airstrike. That’s how I ended up here.

My body still hurt. But I was alive. I only hoped Clemens and the others were too.

Still, nothing about this made sense.

It was one thing to vaguely imagine war—thinking I’d surrender to the Allies if posted west or to Africa. It was another to see a respected superior die, or to feel yourself nearly die.

I wasn’t just in Nazi Germany now. I was one of its officers. One of the Axis.

Germany. Italy. Japan.

Italy—those cowards didn’t even fight. And Japan? Sure, they looked powerful, but what did they contribute to the Axis besides dragging the U.S. into the war?

And me? I had no desire to bleed for any of them.

I wasn’t mad enough to support the Nazis. I had no interest in marching to hell with them.

Especially not with lunatics like Dirlewanger.

Sure, not every SS man was a monster, and not every Wehrmacht officer was noble. But even that made it worse.

Captain Kaufman was genuinely good. What did he die for?

I wasn’t close to all my men, but they fought hard. And too many died under my watch.

After the war, many German soldiers wept—asking what they’d fought for. All that bloodshed... for a ruined homeland and a condemned regime.

That’s all Hitler left behind.

As soon as I’m discharged—or when the officer visits—I need to request a transfer or resignation. If not, I’ll pretend to be shell-shocked or broken.

First, escape the army. Then, leave Germany.

Even if Dietrich had family, I had no emotional connection to them. His memories felt distant and shallow. If they tried to stop me, I’d convince them—or fake it.

His father, Hjalmar Schacht, was still Minister of the Economy. That might complicate things. But it didn’t matter.

Fortunately, both Dietrich and I were fluent in English.

Let’s go to America. That’s the plan.

...But how the hell did God drop me into a mess like this?

I was so annoyed I couldn't sleep well because of the snoring of that damn Dirlewanger. The very next day, just after I woke up, Major Edmund Beckers—the battalion commander—came to visit me.

It used to be just symbolic, but now the Nazi-style salute genuinely annoyed me. Fortunately, I couldn’t salute because of the injury to my right arm, and the major seemed to understand.

"I'm glad you woke up safely, Leutnant Schacht. Oh, I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but you were promoted after the Battle of Guadalajara."

"Thank you, Major. May I ask a question, if it’s not too forward?"

"Of course."

I swallowed dryly and asked the only thing that had been weighing on me.

"What were the casualties... of my company?"

I was ready to walk away from it all, but I couldn’t help worrying about the men who had fought beside me—even for a short time. I had resigned myself to it, but still… if at least Clemens had made it…

"There were seventeen killed, fourteen wounded, and nine missing. Captain Kaufman..."

"...was among the fallen."

"Eighteen killed. Eight missing," Major Beckers corrected, in a calm tone.

I had braced myself, but this was a hard blow.

In modern warfare, a loss of 20% of a unit's strength is considered decimation. That applies to modern militaries with extensive logistics and support units. But in WWII infantry companies? That standard hardly applies.

Still, out of the 101 men who had been with me since I woke up in Dietrich’s body, nearly 20 were killed. I was stunned.

As I sat there speechless, the Major continued.

"It was a major disappointment, thanks to the Italians. But Leutnant Schacht—thanks to your decisions, we were able to withdraw safely with minimal losses. The entire battalion owes you."

...What? I honestly didn’t know what he was talking about. All I did was hold out until the retreat order was given.

"I was informed by Leutnant Fleck. Despite the company's severe losses from the siege caused by the Italians’ collapse, you used the buildings to execute a successful delaying action. It gave the battalion time to withdraw. Thanks to you, the valuable artillery and equipment of the Condor Legion were preserved."

"Ah..."

Leutnant Fleck—that’s Clemens. So he’s alive. But what the major said… technically, yes, that’s what happened. But…

Captain Kaufman had been shot in the head, the unit was falling apart, and panic was spreading. I had acted on instinct. If I hadn’t let them fall back, the men would have broken.

We had artillery and heavy equipment that needed time to be withdrawn. From a command perspective, if I had forced them to hold the line any longer, more would have died. But now it’s been packaged as some sort of heroic resistance by a brave officer.

At battalion HQ, it seems they saw me as a hero: a wounded leader, rallying a shattered company into noble resistance for the good of the battalion.

Unbelievable. A textbook fascist propaganda figure.

"Sir, it was your command. I was simply following orders."

"You have excellent bearing, Leutnant. As your commanding officer, I thank you—and I intend to recommend you for the Black Medal of Honor. Once your injury heals, the First Class Iron Cross will also be awarded in advance."

Even though it's a former general’s commendation… First Class Iron Cross. That’s serious. But I don’t want any of this! I want out of this damned war!

"And Leutnant Schacht—upon return, you will take command of 2nd Company. It's a bit early, but considering your actions in the last engagement, command believes you’re ready to succeed Captain Kaufman."

"What?!"

Oh, no! This can't be happening! But my shocked reaction must’ve seemed like surprise to the major, who smiled faintly as he continued.

"Curious about the outcome of the Battle of Guadalajara? I’ll leave a report here. The staff praised your decisions as a model case study in delaying tactics. Berlin is taking an interest in you. We look forward to your continued valour. Now, rest."

And with that, Major Beckers left.

Just like that. Say what you want and walk off, boss? Great...

I sat there, stunned. My eyes wandered—and landed on Dirlewanger again, who seemed to be studying me as if we were going to be best friends now.

Fight the Allies and the Soviets under Hitler's command... with this guy at my side?

...We're doomed.