Spanish Civil War – Collateral Damage (2)

April 25, 1937 – Vitoria, Basque Country, Northern Spain

The Nationalist offensive in the north progressed smoothly. The first target lay within the Basque Country, situated in the eastern part of north-central Spain.

From the outset, the Basques were conservative and ideologically distinct from the progressive-left Republican governments—particularly the anarchists, who formed a major component of the latter.

However, the Basques also had strong regional separatist leanings and opposed the Nationalist vision of a unified, centralized Spain.

Franco’s government recognized this contradiction and launched an offensive, offering peaceful treatment in exchange for surrender—and it worked.

The Basque forces, which had been mostly sidelined and ideologically detached from the Republican core, suffered from low morale. Many of them began retreating or surrendering under the illusion of promised clemency.

Meanwhile, the Condor Legion supported the advancing Nationalist troops and, at Franco’s personal request, was already making "mistakes."

Given that the request came from Franco himself, it’s doubtful he ever intended to uphold his promise of peaceful treatment.

During this campaign, Richthofen—leading the Luftwaffe—dropped firebombs on the towns of Ochandiano and Durango, both of which were virtually undefended from the air. Civilian casualties were, predictably, heavy.

He had an almost pathological obsession with firebombs—more than I’ve seen in any modern context. He used them in nearly every operation. Even when discouraged, he would personally fly a bomber and carry out the raid himself.

If he ever met Arthur Harris, who bombed Dresden, or Curtis LeMay, who orchestrated the Tokyo firebombing, they’d probably get along famously. Just don’t expect them to meet the family members of those whom they burned alive.

All that aside, I did learn a lot about aerial operations under Richthofen. I submitted several reports to higher command.

I made a conscious effort to suppress my modern sensibilities when writing them—hopefully that worked in my favor.

Still, as someone carrying the memories of a future era, flying alongside Richthofen left me deeply unsettled.

Thanks to my knowledge of WWII air doctrine, though, I was able to maintain engaging discussions with him.

He was especially enthusiastic about his vision of battlefield coordination through geo-space wireless communication, dive bombing, and radio—a vision that would become the central doctrine of the Luftwaffe during WWII.

He appreciated my input, especially when I pointed out potential gaps or enhancements to this yet-untested doctrine. I even taught him Spanish, and over the course of a month, we grew surprisingly close.

"Leutnant, have you ever considered joining the Luftwaffe full-time?"

"No, Colonel. I haven’t."

"Think about it. Quite a few army officers have transitioned to the Luftwaffe. You wouldn’t have trouble adjusting. You don’t even need to be a pilot. There’s the Airborne Division. With your grasp of doctrine, you’d be promoted far faster than in the bloated and conservative Army."

He made the offer half-jokingly, half-seriously—multiple times. I think he truly meant it. But no matter what, I needed to get to Berlin. My focus was on entering the War College.

Also, the Luftwaffe was the most Nazi-aligned branch of the Wehrmacht, heavily influenced by its commander, Hermann Göring. And since I was planning to eliminate the Nazis from within, joining it was out of the question.

Even after being ousted in the final stages of the war by Bormann’s conspiracy, Göring remained steadfastly loyal to Hitler—through Hitler’s death, and even after his drug withdrawal during the Allied war crimes trials.

As Hitler’s designated successor and the Nazi Party’s second-in-command, Göring symbolized everything I planned to dismantle.

While Richthofen and I were chatting, a messenger arrived with a telegram. To any observer, I probably looked like his aide. Well, technically, as his interpreter, I was half that already.

"Colonel, this is from General Mola. The Republicans are retreating through Guernica. Refugees are flooding the area and slowing their evacuation. He's requesting that you destroy the bridge and block the escape route."

"Ah, time for a sortie."

Richthofen grinned. Guernica... the name struck a chord.

After a moment, I remembered. Guernica—the town later immortalized by Picasso for the Luftwaffe’s massacre. A global symbol of civilian suffering in war.

"Are you flying this mission yourself, Colonel?"

"Of course! A pilot that doesn’t fly is a wasted pilot. Haha!"

"But you said I could join the Luftwaffe without being a pilot?"

We had grown close enough to joke like this. Though honestly, I was still deeply nervous around him.

Toward the end of WWII, Luftwaffe ace Adolf Galland famously refused to carry out the army’s genocidal directives, asserting the Luftwaffe's independence. Galland, who had the decency to reject both war crimes and even kill counts, would later clash with Göring—whose leadership had deteriorated under addiction. He often spoke fondly of Richthofen, who had retired early due to health issues.

So, while Richthofen had a disturbing fondness for bombing civilians, he wasn’t the kind of officer who forced ideology onto his subordinates or blindly obeyed superiors.

"The objective is to destroy the bridge, so we won’t be needing incendiary or anti-personnel bombs this time, Colonel."

Richthofen paused for a moment and then smiled.

"Oh? What’s going on, Leutnant? Should I take that as a sign you're reconsidering the transfer?"

"Not quite..."

"This sortie will use a range of munitions as usual. Our mission isn’t just combat—it’s about understanding the tactical utility of our arsenal and reporting it back home."

Did he mean "utility" in terms of how effectively it killed civilians? Or was that something being demanded by the Luftwaffe command?

"But Colonel, the presence of so many civilians complicates things. Anti-personnel bombs in such a situation could inflict serious harm—not just on retreating enemy units, but on innocent people too."

"There will be damage. But does that matter, Leutnant? Once the enemy enters Guernica, it becomes a combat zone. You haven’t flown a bombing mission yet, so you wouldn’t know—but precision bombing is still unreliable due to current technology."

Before the advent of strategic bombers and carpet bombing, accuracy had always been a problem. That’s why dive bombing—though dangerous—became standard practice.

"We can’t guarantee we’ll hit the bridge directly. So it’s better to blanket the area. Even if we miss, the enemy will suffer. As for the refugees? They’re probably Republican sympathizers fleeing Nationalist territory. Señor Franco will be pleased."

"......"

His reasoning was brutal. But technically, I couldn’t dispute it. Not without raising an ethical objection—which wouldn’t hold water in this command structure.

"I get your point. Prussian chivalry is admirable. But if you're truly loyal to your country, focus on the most effective way to win."

Richthofen seemed to take that as a traditional soldier’s sentiment. Without any sign of irritation, he patted me on the shoulder and gave the go-ahead for the sortie.

Even knowing what was about to happen—even knowing a massacre would take place—I couldn’t stop it.

Knowing the future means nothing if you lack the power to change it.

I need to rise. Higher. And fast.

The horrors of Guernica were published in newspapers.

"The peaceful city of the Pyrenees becomes the ruins of death!"

"German fascists burn freedom and justice!"

In the end, Richthofen and the Luftwaffe devastated Guernica.

Previously, incidents of "collateral damage" or "misidentification of Republican forces"—such as the bombing of religious processions resulting in 250 civilian casualties—might have been dismissed as accidental during wartime operations.

But Guernica was different.

At the direct request of General Emilio Mola, commander of the Northern Offensive, Guernica was bombed for four hours. A city crowded with refugees and civilians became an official military target.

The German Luftwaffe doctrine—considered the most advanced of the interwar period—relied on building airfields close to the front and conducting rotational bombing runs. This strategy proved effective, as the Condor Legion obliterated the small town, killing at least 1,000 people.

Despite initial attempts to keep their involvement secret, the Condor Legion’s role in the Spanish Civil War could no longer be hidden. Everyone knew it was the Luftwaffe that burned Guernica.

French public opinion, which leaned toward the Republicans, was furious. But thanks to Britain's reluctance—driven by lobbying from Spanish capitalists fearful of the left—nothing was done.

France had tried several times to challenge Germany between the wars, but in the end, it would be dragged along by Britain through the Munich Agreement and the invasion of Poland.

The bombing of Guernica became known internationally as a German atrocity—an image the Nationalist government and the Nazis dismissed as leftist propaganda.

Italy, despite sending large forces to fight in Guadalajara, had suffered humiliating defeat. In contrast, Germany proved the Luftwaffe’s superiority with only a small number of "volunteers."

Richthofen was summoned to Burgos—the Nationalist provisional capital—to receive a medal from Franco. Thanks to this, I got a brief respite from my duties as interpreter and military adviser.

"It's bullshit…"

I muttered in German, reading the newspaper while eating at a village restaurant. Someone nearby, also speaking German, responded:

"What bullshit?"

He looked about my age—early to mid-twenties.

"Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. My name is Willy Brandt, a correspondent from Norway."

He flashed his passport with a polite smile. But the moment I heard his name, something clicked.

"Willy Brandt?"

"Yes, that’s what I go by. Any problem...?"

He looked me in the eye, not expecting me to recognize him.

Of course, at this time, few would know that Willy Brandt was a pseudonym. But I knew.

He would go on to become the leader of Germany’s Social Democrats in exile and, more famously, Chancellor of the postwar Federal Republic of Germany. His kneeling before the Warsaw Ghetto memorial became a defining image of modern Germany’s reckoning with its Nazi past.

He was the one who started Germany’s postwar moral and political transformation—when much of the population still clung to pre-war nationalism, like Japan in the 21st century.

"No, it's fine. I’m Dietrich Schacht, here as a volunteer."

"Schacht… You’re Mr.—"

His expression changed. He may have recognized my last name. My father, Hjalmar Schacht, was a leading advocate of the free market and closely associated with Germany’s financial elite. Hearing the name alone would’ve raised a red flag.

Brandt may not have known my full background, but he clearly understood I wasn’t just another volunteer.

And I knew he wasn’t just some Norwegian journalist. He was German. And central to the anti-Nazi Social Democrat resistance.

How was he walking freely in Nationalist territory? Hadn’t he even infiltrated Berlin under the guise of a Norwegian student?

"You seem to be a German volunteer. May I conduct a brief interview?"

"Haha, I’m just a regular soldier. Not exactly someone worth interviewing."

Despite my sympathy for Brandt and admiration for what he would go on to achieve, I couldn’t trust a journalist. Especially not now. Even in the 21st century, some things never change.

"It’s nothing formal—just a few questions. I’d like to know what you, as a German, think of the Guernica bombing."

So much for being "nothing formal." He was throwing rocks now.

There was no telling where my words might end up—or how they might be traced back to me. I could already imagine headlines labelling me the son of a top Nazi official defending the Luftwaffe’s actions.

"Hmm. Before I answer, may I ask you something, Mr. Brandt?"

"Of course. What is it?"

People are funny. Even great men like him can have complicated personal lives. A difficult private life doesn’t guarantee a good character, does it?

"As a Social Democrat, do you believe the Republican government truly represents the Spanish people? Or is it a puppet of the Soviet Union… Herr Frahm?"

He froze. Then jumped up, startled. I grabbed his arm and gently sat him back down.

"How do you know that?"

"Shh. You’re not naïve enough to think there’s no Gestapo here, are you?"

‘Frahm’ was his real last name. I couldn’t recall the full name now, but the political smear campaign that used the slogan "No to Frahm" in the German elections was burned into my memory.

Brandt—whether it was youth or fear—was shaken. My position as the son of a high-ranking Nazi officer only made it worse.

"I—I’m not… What the hell is going on?"

"Haha, relax. You’re Willy Brandt, a Norwegian journalist. That’s all. I haven’t said anything yet, so don’t worry too much."

I gave him the same polite smile he’d offered me earlier. It had the opposite effect. He looked even more alarmed.

That was counterproductive.

I honestly had a lot of respect for Brandt and his cause. But I couldn’t let that show.

I sighed.

"It’s bullshit. It’s a nightmare. If things continue like this, Germany and the rest of the world will burn, Mr. Brandt. Spain is already lost. The so-called 'free world' has no interest in giving the Republicans the diplomatic victory they hope for."

Brandt stared, saying nothing—convinced I was Gestapo.

So I drove the point home.

"The politicians of democratic nations are more interested in the lobby of Spanish tycoons than how many people die. Especially when the Republican Party is drifting closer to the Soviets. And next year, your German citizenship will be revoked. Are you planning to apply for Norwegian citizenship in advance?"

His expression turned ghostly.

But I wasn’t finished.

"Austria will soon be annexed. Next, there’ll be trouble in the Sudetenland, the German-speaking region of Czechoslovakia. Don’t waste your time in Spain, which the world has already abandoned. Go. Rally the Social Democrats."

He stared at me like I was mad—and maybe I was.

I returned to my food. In the awkward silence, only the sound of my breathing remained.

Willy Brandt stood up and left, as if possessed by a ghost.

Will he do what I told him? I don’t know. But I knew he wouldn’t stay in Spain after this.

He’d realize that someone had identified him—a future target of Nazi purges. He had to leave.

Even if he thought I was insane, I had planted a seed. He would eventually lead the Social Democrats in exile. He would remember.

I hadn’t planned it. But it cleared my head.

I may be just a leutnant, but under Nazi Germany, war is inevitable. And it will be the bloodiest, most tragic war in history. It will end with unimaginable consequences for those responsible.

Even senior Wehrmacht generals will be purged for merely disagreeing with Hitler. Rank won’t protect anyone.

So if I want to survive as a human being in this age of madness—if I want to change the future—I have to act. Now.