Spanish Civil War – Battle of Brunete (4)

July 11, 1937 – Central Spain, across Brunete, west of Madrid

The relentless shelling from both sides sparked a forest fire in the already hot and dry terrain. The result was... spectacular, in the most tragic sense.

The hills and trees around the battlefield were ablaze, casting the surrounding mountains in a blazing glow.

If it weren’t a warzone, efforts would’ve gone into extinguishing the wildfire. But neither side could afford that, nor did they have the manpower or equipment to control it.

There were no helicopters in this era to drop fire retardant.

Fortunately, the main battlefield was an open field, so we didn’t have to worry about the wildfire reaching us. Still, the situation was far from ideal.

“Sh...feet... hot... so hot…”

“Uhhh, I’m hot too…”

As if the muggy weather wasn’t enough, the wildfire’s heat turned the battlefield into a furnace.

It was so stifling that both Republicans and Nationalists stopped all offensives.

Not just the fighting—supply chains, which had previously functioned well, began to falter.

“Dietrich, can I get some water?”

Even at Clemens’s plea, I shook my head.

With the disrupted supply, water was becoming scarce. Drinking now might offer temporary relief, but no one knew when we’d be resupplied next. I had a bit of extra water stashed away, but I didn’t want to risk losing men to heatstroke—non-combat losses due to carelessness.

Colonel Juan Yagüe, now promoted, had been diligent about supply management, especially since he was highly regarded by the Condor Legion. Under the direction of their capable Chief of Staff, Colonel Model, water and rations were being handled with the utmost care.

Even so, no logistics plan could account for wildfires like these.

At least we could assume the Republicans were struggling just as much—if not worse.

While we endured the furnace on the ground, a fierce air battle raged above, unaffected by the fire below.

“It’s... spectacular,” I mumbled unconsciously.

The earth was burning, smoke curled upward, and above it, steel hawks twisted and dived, chasing one another’s tails.

Had someone taken a photograph, it would’ve perfectly captured the phrase ‘hell on earth’. But we had no camera.

It seemed the Republicans, desperate to break the stalemate, had committed a large air force contingent—more than we’d seen since the opening of the battle.

But the wildfire delayed their offensive. Meanwhile, the Nationalist army quietly reinforced its position.

Their advantage of surprise lost, the Republicans were stalled—almost like a role reversal from what we’d seen earlier in the war.

Their commanders tried to break the impasse with airpower, but the skies no longer belonged to them.

The Soviet-supplied I-16 monoplane had once dominated our outdated biplanes. But now, it was outclassed by the Luftwaffe’s Bf 109—the fighter that would soon become legendary in WWII.

From the war’s outset, the Republicans had held air superiority, suppressing older aircraft with newer Soviet models. But this time, despite committing their main air force, they began losing control of the skies.

“Ohhh...!”

An enemy bomber lost a wing and spiraled downward in flames.

Even in this unbearable heat, without enough water to drink, the crew found relief in the spectacle.

Our side had been cautious. We didn’t deploy bombers unless air superiority was certain. But the Republicans, growing desperate, began launching bombers in small numbers—even while their fighters were being outgunned.

It only increased our kill count.

We watched the aerial duels with eerie calm, no longer scrambling to fire our 88s frantically like before.

In this era, anti-aircraft gunners couldn’t reliably differentiate between friend and foe. A single misfire could end in disaster, so restraint was the better option.

With some downtime, I examined the operational draft Colonel Model had handed me.

Even calling it a “plan” was generous—it was clearly a rough draft. Unit placements, objective targets, and operation times were noted, but the details were barebones.

Was this even serious?

Maybe it was just homework. Maybe the real plan was classified, and this was a test to see how I’d think it through.

"Damn it…"

As a former Korean Army sergeant, now stuck in the body of a Wehrmacht officer, I wasn’t exactly bursting with brilliant strategies.

Still, it was obvious Model was openly testing each commander’s capabilities.

Colonel Walter Model was known for being kind to foot soldiers, but ruthless to officers and staff. If I returned a half-baked plan, I’d be chewed out—if not dismissed outright.

“Hwi-yu~ Working hard, Company Commander?”

Clemens’ teasing broke my concentration. Even in the face of disaster, he was as cheeky as ever.

“Stop that and help. Do your job, Leutnant.”

“No way. What would a newly minted leutnant like me know?”

“Ugh…”

It was infuriating. Not exactly wartime emergency, but still... irritating.

I wanted to go to the War College someday, and I wanted Clemens with me.

“Clemens, stop joking around. Model's a staff officer from Berlin. If you impress him, maybe he’ll write you a recommendation for the War College. You could become a general’s advisor. You want that, right?”

“Eh, not really. Honestly, watching you and the chief of staff run around makes me think... I don’t want to be part of that madness.”

"Is that so..."

I guess I couldn’t picture Clemens as General Fleck or Chief of Staff Fleck either. He was more of a field officer than a strategist.

“If I had to go to the War College, I’d be in Berlin. Didn’t want to leave you behind, that’s all.”

“Weren’t you the one who said being a general’s staff wasn’t easy?”

His groan made me laugh.

“Well, thanks. ...But you’ll help me after I finish this draft, right?”

“…That’s unfair.”

It wasn’t just Clemens I was worried about. I was still haunted by my goal of ousting the Nazis.

Honestly, I was grateful.

If not for Clemens, who reminded me of my comrades in the Korean military, and Captain Kaufman, who treated me well, I might’ve lost my mind in this twisted situation.

What kind of man would I have become otherwise?

“Oh? Sergeant Major, why the serious face all of a sudden?”

Clemens flinched under my gaze. I gave him a small smile.

What would he say if he knew my ultimate goal was to take down the Nazis?

Call me crazy? Traitor? Or would he… believe me?

I didn’t know.

Either way, I had to protect Clemens and others like him from being consumed by Hitler’s madness. At any cost.

July 18, 1937 – Headquarters of the 11th Republican Division, Brunete, Central Spain

Colonel Enrique Líster, a celebrated hero of the Republic, sat slouched in his chair, dark circles under his eyes from days without sleep.

“This is shameful…”

He exhaled heavily.

The bold offensive to drive out the Nationalists around Madrid had utterly failed, despite a complete restructuring of the Republican forces.

In the initial phase, a leutnant colonel’s recklessness led to the loss of 10 tanks. Even after infantry support was deployed correctly, morale in the armored corps crumbled, and heavy losses followed.

Líster had correctly judged that the Condor Legion's fortified lines were nearly impossible to breach, and requested a halt in the attack, submitting a severe loss report.

Even air superiority, which the Republicans had once taken for granted, had shifted.

Their Soviet-supplied fighters, once dominant, were now being swept from the skies by the Luftwaffe’s new aircraft.

The higher-ups believed the Germans’ anti-tank artillery wouldn’t be effective against bombing runs—but that only held true if bombing was possible.

Republican bombers struggled to penetrate the Luftwaffe’s air dominance, and even when they succeeded, they were often picked off by concentrated German anti-aircraft fire.

Artillery, anti-tank guns, flak cannons—how many weapons had the Germans brought?

The wildfire had thrown the entire offensive into disarray. Líster watched as enemy reinforcements arrived, yet his request to abort was once again denied.

This time, he was ordered to proceed with the attack—unconditionally.

The results were devastating. His soldiers, exhausted, parched, and unsupported from the air, were bombarded by enemy planes and massacred in the open field.

The Luftwaffe performed terrifying new dive-bombing maneuvers with surgical accuracy, destroying Republican tanks with brutal efficiency.

And the anti-tank guns—so many Soviet tanks were lost.

The 11th Division had been elite. But after days of suffering, dehydration, and heatstroke, morale was collapsing.

They'd sent multiple requests to command for water—but the replies were always inadequate.

Now, Líster looked over the casualty report with bloodshot eyes. Forty percent of his men were dead. Of the 100 tanks, half were destroyed or disabled.

Heatstroke claimed nearly as many as the actual fighting.

It was too much to bear.

And the final blow: news that the enemy was preparing a counterattack, reinforced by the Basque troops from the north.

Líster requested permission to retreat—to save what remained of his division.

The response he received was worse than any tragedy.

“Sorry, but I cannot accept your request. Your unit is currently the most powerful. Build a defensive line in Brunete and hold the base.”

He had reported a 40% loss. They still called it “the most powerful”?

What about the others? What had all those sacrifices been for?

Should he have disobeyed the attack order?

In this political atmosphere, disobedience would have led to dismissal—or worse.

The Republicans had gambled everything on this offensive. The early capture of Brunete, once seen as a triumph, had become a poison pill.

Líster stared at the telegram, then slowly turned to the pistol on his desk.

Could the Republicans still win this war?

They had already lost too much.

Slowly, he lifted the pistol and pressed it against his temple.

“Colonel! The enemy is attacking!”

The adjutant burst in, eyes meeting his.

“Colonel, please!”

Líster smiled bitterly.

“Those damned Germans… they won’t even let a man die on his own terms.”