Spanish Civil War – Battle of Jarama (1)

February 5, 1937 – Near Madrid, Spain

"Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler."

I raised my right hand and shouted to the sky. A German man in his 30s returned the gesture casually.

In modern Europe, this salute would land you in jail. But here? It was routine.

“How are you feeling today, Leutnant?”

“Thank you for asking, sir! I’m okay, Captain!”

Yesterday, I couldn’t handle the shock and faked illness to stay in bed.

I prayed it was all a dream. I prayed I’d wake up back in Korea. I nearly put a pistol to my head—but what if I just died here?

Captain Volkhard Kaufmann, my direct superior, wasn’t too strict, and since our unit was on standby, he let me rest.

Maybe having a father in the Nazi elite helped too.

Looking back, faking sickness in the Wehrmacht—especially in wartime—was insane. But I had no choice.

Thankfully, I had Dietrich’s memories to guide me.

We weren’t in Germany. We were in Spain—smack in the middle of the Spanish Civil War.

The Republicans—communists, democrats, anarchists—fought the Nationalists. At first, the world saw the Republicans as freedom fighters, but they also had a dark side: massacres, executions, atrocities.

The Nationalists? Fascists, royalists, hardliners. And they weren’t happy about losing the election. Civil war broke out.

Germany backed Francisco Franco, the Nationalist leader.

And we—me included—were here to help. As part of the Condor Legion: a German “volunteer” unit. On paper, civilians. In reality, soldiers.

A small force. One armored division. Five battalions total—more like a regiment than a division.

And me? A Leutnant—a junior officer.

“Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler.”

Other leutnants entered the tent. Captain Kaufmann accepted our salutes—the stiff Nazi salute that would’ve gotten us cancelled in modern Europe.

Would I ever get used to this?

“Good morning, gentlemen. Our objective is to secure the two hills east of Madrid between the Jarama River. High command wants to cut the road between central Madrid and the Reds' capital, Valencia.”

I clenched my fists, trying to stay calm.

Me? A Nazi?

I was just a regular Korean guy a few days ago. And now I’m in the heart of a fascist war?

I didn’t expect to be some isekai hero with a sword and a princess, but this?

World War II? Of all possible destinations, I land here?

Send me back to Korea, you cruel bastard of a god!

“We’re under the command of Colonel Ricardo Rada. First, secure Vaciamadrid, southeast of Madrid. Then cross the river and advance to the Pingarrón Highlands. That location will serve as an artillery base. As always, you’ll support the artillery units from the rear. Any questions?”

“None, sir!”

“Good. Operation starts at 11:00. Free maintenance until 10:00. Dismissed. Heil Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler!”

Just like that. Instinctively. I raised my arm and shouted Heil Hitler again, dazed and bitter.

As I turned to leave, one of the leutnants patted me on the shoulder.

1st Platoon Commander Clemens Fleck. According to Dietrich’s memories, he was a close friend—enlistment buddy, fellow officer.

“Hey, Dietrich. You alright?”

“Clemens… yeah.”

It was strange. A complete stranger in another man’s body, yet he looked at me like a worried friend.

He didn’t look like a Nazi demon. No signs of genocide in those eyes.

Just concern.

“Your face is still pale. Don’t overdo it. Let’s have a drink after this is over.”

“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”

It was a hell of a situation. But in that brief moment, talking to Clemens—it felt like chatting with a buddy from back home.

Right now, there was only one thing to do. Get to work.

In Korea, I was just a discharged sergeant.

But here? I was the man responsible for men’s lives.

From the start, the operation proceeded smoothly. The Republican Army seemed completely unprepared for our offensive and was being routed without much resistance. The Nationalist forces continued their advance without a hitch.

Hitler, however, was deeply concerned that intervening in the Spanish Civil War might provoke Britain and France. So, while the Condor Legion was presented as a group of "volunteers," most of them were relegated to air force support or training rear-line units. The ground forces—like ours—only provided limited tank and artillery support.

But really, it was all smoke and mirrors. Eventually, the world would find out. Honestly, I didn’t even know much about the Spanish Civil War to begin with.

In all those other reincarnation stories, the protagonist who ends up in the past or in another world always seems to have a photographic memory—rattling off history, tactics, and inventions like a walking encyclopaedia.

Me? My head was practically empty.

Sure, I had always been interested in World War II and Germany. But knowing that, had I known this would happen, maybe I would’ve paid more attention to the Spanish Civil War. Too late for regrets.

Here’s all I knew: Franco’s Nationalist faction wins. A staggering number of people die. And afterward, Spain becomes a sort of international pariah, refusing to join the Axis powers during the war.

As these thoughts swirled in my head, a slow, rattling biplane flew overhead. Not the kind of sleek aircraft you'd expect from the Luftwaffe. Just a creaky old relic of the past.

Meanwhile, in front of the excitedly advancing Spanish troops, our Panzer I tanks crawled along—so tiny, I wondered if they even qualified as tanks. Instead of a proper main gun, each one had a pair of machine guns strapped on. Honestly, they looked like toy tanks.

And as for the uniform I was wearing—it wasn’t even the iconic field-grey of the Wehrmacht. It was some ragged Spanish uniform issued to the Condor Legion.

No grandeur, no prestige. No dreams, no glory.

Even if I had been wearing a full Wehrmacht officer’s uniform, it’s hard to imagine feeling any sense of pride or romanticism right now.

As part of the artillery escort unit, we rarely encountered the enemy directly. For most of the operation, we were just following the Nationalist troops from behind, like a shadow.

Being a leutnant under Captain Kaufmann also meant I wasn’t in direct command of a platoon, so my responsibilities were slightly lighter.

The sight of 20,000 soldiers advancing in waves was undoubtedly impressive. But what truly captured my attention were the corpses—scattered everywhere, left untouched.

They didn’t even shock me. Not really.

Not because I was brave or numb, but because Dietrich, the real owner of this body, had already grown used to it. He’d been in Spain for months now.

But me—Yoon Seong-il, a man from modern Korea—each time I saw a corpse, it was like something inside me withered a little more.

How many more would die?

Neither the Nationalist forces nor the German units bothered to recover the bodies. Maybe it was because we were advancing too quickly. Or maybe—more likely—no one saw the point.

A soldier’s job, in the end, is to kill. I understood that. I had served in Korea too.

But tell me—who actually joins the Korean military believing they’ll kill someone? Most of us are just young guys, forced into service, waiting to be free again.

And now here I was—watching a Luftwaffe Heinkel He 51 fly overhead, its engine buzzing like a giant mosquito.

It was a strange, surreal moment. Dietrich’s knowledge told me this was the Luftwaffe’s current main fighter plane. But my memories—the ones from Seong-il—recalled sleek images of the Messerschmitt Bf 109.

Two worlds were clashing inside me.

So what am I now?

Am I Leutnant Dietrich Schacht, second leutnant in the Nazi Wehrmacht?

Or am I Yoon Seong-il, a freshly discharged Korean college student?

Part of me still clung to the hope that this was all just a dream. That I’d wake up, drenched in sweat, staring at the ceiling of my tiny room in Seoul.

I hoped—prayed—that when I opened my eyes again, this nightmare would end.

But it didn’t.

There was no Korea. At least not the one I knew. Just the Japanese-occupied Korea under the Government-General.

And here I was, in Europe, on the brink of World War II.

A war where tens of millions would die. Tens of millions.

Even now, in Spain, the bodies littering the roadside made my stomach turn. How was I supposed to survive the apocalypse that was coming?

Sure, Dietrich Schacht was the son of a Nazi elite. But if I remembered right, Hjalmar Schacht—his father—would soon fall out with Göring, be expelled from power, and lose his protection.

Even if I managed to survive this hellish war, what then?

Nuremberg? Execution? Lifetime imprisonment as a war criminal for serving under a madman?

The more I thought about it, the worse it got.

How did I end up here? What cosmic sin had I committed?

“Hmm, Leutnant Schacht… are you alright? You look pale.”

Captain Kaufmann’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts.

He looked genuinely concerned.

To be honest, he was a far better officer than most of the seniors I met back in the Korean army. Both my own judgment and Dietrich’s memories told me that.

But then I wondered—were all German soldiers in World War II truly monsters? Racists? Mass murderers?

Or were some of them just like this—decent men caught in a machine bigger than themselves?

Maybe they were just worn down. Dulled by orders. Dragged into a war they couldn’t control.

Or maybe they would die before ever having to make that moral choice.

“I’m alright, Captain. I’ll make sure the mission goes smoothly.”

“Good. We’re in the rear anyway—no direct combat expected. But stay alert.”

With that, he nodded and continued walking ahead.

Toward the battlefield—where fighters soared overhead, and distant gunfire echoed like a heartbeat.

This isn’t a dream.

This is real.

And there’s no waking up.

Death won’t bring me back to Korea.

So I have to live. Survive first.

Even if it kills me inside…

I. Must. Live.