Spanish Civil War – Battle of Brunete (5)

July 18, 1937 – Central Spain, near Brunete, west of Madrid

Colonel Model personally visited each unit to collect the operational plans prepared by the field commanders. The counterattack began three days later.

“Go, go, go!”

The sharp cracks of bolt-action rifle fire and the unrelenting bursts of machine gun fire filled my ears.

“Get down!”

“Ahhhh!”

A slender, pencil-shaped aircraft, burning in the sky, spiraled downward. The terrified crew bailed out hastily just before it exploded upon impact.

That must be one of our Do 17 bombers. Hopefully not Richthofen’s. He’s too skilled a pilot—and too historically important—to die here. But really, why is a senior commander flying on the frontlines?

Over a hundred aircraft circled above us while we launched our assault from the ground.

Dogfights raged in the sky. Smoke-trailed aircraft crashed all around us in blazing wreckage.

I had heard that we had around 80 aircraft deployed in this battle, but the Republicans had dozens of their own. It was evident: both sides had thrown everything they had into this fight.

“Look out!”

Sergeant Koher threw himself at a recruit, knocking him to the ground just as a fighter's gunfire raked the area. It was a near miss.

Then, our Bf 109—having gotten behind the enemy fighter—opened fire. The Republican aircraft, now trailing flames, failed to gain altitude and slammed into the earth, exploding into debris.

“Company commander! How many lives do we need to survive this?!”

“Just keep moving and try not to get hit! If you’re lucky, you live!”

This was the first time the Condor Legion had taken the lead in an offensive. The blistering heat and sheer intensity of combat scorched both body and mind.

Stay calm—or you die.

As commander, I stayed behind the assault teams, directing the battle and issuing orders. Still, I had several close calls—bullets pinged off rocks and trenches dangerously near.

Enemy tanks often waited in ambush, blasting our forward Panzer I units as soon as they pushed through defenses.

“Ahhhh! Aaaaaah!”

One tank had taken a direct hit from a high-explosive shell. A soldier, trying to escape, screamed in agony as his burnt hand gripped the hatch—before his body fell limp. Smoke poured from the tank, carrying the stench of charred flesh.

Tanks may look safe—but they're really just mobile coffins. I never wanted to end up like that.

“Clemens, stop the 3rd Platoon! They’re pushing too far ahead!”

“Right!”

As Clemens sent a runner, I opened my map and checked our position.

After Colonel Model arrived, the operational plan was devised with stunning precision.

The Condor Legion had previously followed Germany’s Auftragstaktik—mission-type tactics that emphasized objectives and left the method to individual units. But Colonel Model did the opposite. His plan detailed every phase of the attack, accounting for nearly every variable. He even prepared backup plans for each contingency.

What surprised me most was that our company’s assigned route reflected what I had proposed. If I wasn't the only one, then he must have collected and integrated input from every frontline commander within three days.

Despite the mounting casualties, the offensive seemed to be progressing as intended. Enemy losses were heavy, and their lines were fractured.

Artillery roared constantly in the distance and overhead, but luckily, most of it missed us. The battlefield gods seemed preoccupied elsewhere.

“If we had an 88, I could’ve stayed back and relaxed…” Clemens muttered.

I laughed. That’s probably why Model reassigned them.

Just before the attack, he created a “Multipurpose Support Artillery” unit—pulling all the 88mm flak guns from the companies and replacing them with more infantry.

His famous ability to create strategic reserves from frontline forces was already showing.

The massive, slow-to-move 88s were unsuited for the kind of fast infantry advance we were undertaking. Their use had always been a quirk of the Condor Legion—primarily defending bases or testing high-altitude effectiveness.

Leutnant General Thoma, who typically delegated to his staff, had been hesitant about the reorganization. But Colonel Model, abandoning his eccentric politeness, barked the staff into submission with his typical harshness.

And now, here I was, charging into the fray with the troops—leading and risking my life just the same.

It was efficient and rational… but hard not to resent. No wonder so many officers disliked him.

Still, you had to admit—Colonel Model was a master tactician.

July 20, 1937 – Madrid, Republican Headquarters

“This is madness! How—how did everything fall apart?!”

General Miaja slammed his fists on the desk, foam at the corners of his mouth. The colonels said nothing, frozen in shame and silence.

“Our best division lost forty percent?! Some suffered sixty percent casualties! What kind of attack was this?! Have we ever had losses like this?!”

Colonel Casado, standing in for Colonel Jurado—down with heatstroke—knew exactly how this happened. He had argued against the attack on Carabanchel, but was overruled.

It had been Casado who was called defeatist for warning against the offensive.

And those who cheered him on—flattering him that the opportunity might never come again—had been half right.

There would be no second chance. The Republicans' ability to launch a major offensive was shattered in this battle.

Over 20% of the army succumbed to heatstroke, dehydration, or exhaustion. The offensive faltered—and the Nationalists counterattacked with devastating force, pulling units from the Basque front and hitting from three directions.

Even the elite international brigades, disillusioned by the pointless slaughter, abandoned their posts, vowing to return home.

Veteran anti-fascists—those who once shed blood for freedom and justice at Suicide Hill in Jarama—turned their backs on the Republican leadership.

“What is this?! What is this?!”

Miaja hurled a telegram at Colonel Modesto’s face. It had come directly from 11th Division Commander Enrique Líster, bypassing the chain of command entirely.

Líster’s superior, Colonel Modesto, had repeatedly denied his pleas to halt or retreat. Now, Líster was defying orders.

“How can you confirm that defending Brunete is still a valid order, when 40% of the division is lost and half the tanks are gone? What kind of intel were we working from?!”

Modesto scowled. Líster had gone over his head—and it had worked.

“You asked for reinforcements, I stripped everything from Carabanchel, even the air force, and gave it to you! Sixty aircraft! Sixty! And this is the outcome? And you’re lying about the losses?”

But the truth was plain. The Republicans had thrown everything into this. And the Nationalists had countered with more—more troops, more aircraft, even new German fighters clearly superior to Soviet models.

Whether at Carabanchel or Brunete, the Republican Air Force had been outmatched.

The leadership never imagined they’d lose air and armored superiority. But here they were.

Could Líster have stopped it? Maybe. But he’d have been ignored, just like Casado. Now, both men were blamed for a catastrophe they had warned about.

Had Modesto supported the withdrawal when Líster requested it after the wildfire delay, Brunete might still have held, even if Carabanchel fell.

But he didn’t. And now, his own future—his promotion to general—was finished.

“The heat, the surprise use of anti-aircraft guns as tank destroyers, the German aggression—”

“Silence!”

The infamous 88mm Flak gun—the German anti-aircraft gun—had been the mysterious “anti-tank weapon” reported by Republican spies. It devastated their armor.

Reports now confirmed that Walter Model, recently appointed chief of staff of the Condor Legion, had orchestrated much of the Nationalist counterattack.

Too late for it to matter.

“Fascists crawling to their German masters!” Miaja roared. “Why do they have a German chief of staff?! What kind of volunteers need a staff officer?!”

The Italian and German "volunteers" had long since outnumbered any plausible definition of mercenaries. But no one dared speak that truth aloud.

“Swallow suggested this?! You mean to tell me our cavalry was wiped out by a passing recommendation from some leutnant?!”

Miaja slammed the desk again. The colonels looked away.

“Nonsense! Lies to hide your incompetence!”

His furious outbursts only underscored his failure. In this reckless offensive, driven more by heat and desperation than strategy, he had ground his army into dust.

But in a Republican leadership dominated by political officers, no one dared to speak the truth. They were too busy covering their own tracks.

With bloodshot eyes and frothing rage, Miaja barked his final order:

“Líster’s 11th may be 40% shattered, but it’s still our best. Send every remaining unit into Brunete. Every last one!”

Everyone present knew the bitter truth: even if they scraped together the remnants of all offensive forces, they’d barely match a fraction of the Nationalist troops counterattacking from the north.

“You must hold Brunete! At any cost!”

But no one said a word.

So long as Brunete could be held—even symbolically—they could spin the story. The responsibility could be diluted.

And for that, every officer in that room was willing to gamble what was left of their army.