Chapter 184: The Salamanca Bombing
Within two days, Salamanca was encircled from both sides.
Its two most important supply routes had been severed, and defeat had become only a matter of time.
Bock naturally had no intention of throwing large numbers of armored units into a siege. Tanks were not meant to grind themselves to pieces against barricades and streets. They were meant to break through, bypass, encircle, and force the enemy's entire structure to collapse.
After leaving behind only one light tank battalion to maintain pressure on Salamanca, he drove the Second Armored Division directly toward the strategic town of Ávila, pressing toward Madrid.
Paulus, meanwhile, led the Eighth Armored Division around Segovia. His mission was twofold. He had to guard against the Italians, whose ambitions and discipline were equally questionable, while also completing the third arm of the encirclement around Madrid.
Thus, the isolated city of Salamanca became the Air Force's stage.
At the suburban airfield, ground crews removed the dust covers from several He 111 medium bombers.
The bomber crews of the Second Air Group of the Fledgling Legion began boarding their aircraft.
While technicians adjusted equipment and refueling crews worked beneath the wings, the young German airmen chatted and joked through their headsets to ease the pressure before takeoff.
"Hunter?"
Inside the bombardier's compartment beneath the glass nose, a German youth of about twenty put on his headset while studying the map spread across his knees.
"I am looking at the map. Do not disturb me, Herr Pilot."
"Very well, my navigator and gunner, sir."
The pilot changed channels.
"Marco? Oca?"
Two young men chewing gum, curled up in the gunner positions beside the left and right portholes, said nothing.
Instead, they let the pilot listen to the popping sound of their bubblegum for several seconds.
The belly gunner, however, grumbled, "Received, you bastards."
Their idle banter was soon interrupted by the ground crew's takeoff signal.
"Gentlemen, our Spanish friends need us to dismantle two heavy firepower strongholds on the towers of the old and new cathedrals inside the city, three ammunition depots, and two mortar encampments."
The ground commander raised his voice.
"Bomb well, lads. This time, you do not need to worry about dropping shells on our armored units. However, an assessment team will review the results after the bombing. If you do not want to spend the rest of your careers flying commercial airliners, try not to drop bombs on civilians."
Boom.
Rumble.
The engines started.
Two He 111 medium bombers, each crewed entirely by new teams, lined up on the runway. Their propellers spun faster and faster, tearing the air into a harsh metallic hiss.
At the center of the field, the flag bearer waved a bright red flag.
The two He 111 bombers accelerated.
Their tires trembled, lifted, then left the ground completely.
Moments later, they rose into the sky like two dark eagles.
On the other side, in Salamanca, all cultural relics from the old and new cathedrals had already been moved out.
The ancient halls had been transformed into the city's main defensive command post.
Divisional Commander Savinel, the overall commander of Salamanca's defense, lay prone atop one of the towers with binoculars in hand. Through the lenses, he stared at the barricades erected across the streets below.
"Deploy every mine," he ordered. "Do not leave even one in storage. Hold back the rebels as long as possible."
His voice carried forced confidence.
"Aid from our Soviet Russian comrades will arrive soon. In one week, internationalists from various countries will come to our rescue. When that happens, it will be our turn to counterattack."
"Yes, sir."
The adjutant nodded and turned toward the spiral staircase.
He had only taken a few steps when a sharp wail pierced the air.
Buzz.
The air raid siren screamed over Salamanca, cutting into everyone's eardrums.
Savinel's expression changed at once.
He raised his binoculars again and looked upward.
In the blue sky, a large black bird was rapidly approaching the cathedral.
"Take cover."
Savinel turned and ran down from the tower.
"Everyone take cover."
At that moment, two high explosive bombs tore through the clouds.
The instant they struck the spire, the world erupted.
Bang!
Stone shattered.
Spiderweb cracks spread across the supporting pillars.
The next second, the upper firing point collapsed beneath a wave of rubble. Dust spun wildly through the tower, choking the men who had been stationed there only moments earlier.
"Nice work, Hunter. You are damn talented."
The pilot did not hold back his praise.
But no reply came.
Hunter was staring through the glass, his eyes fixed on an antiaircraft position on the flat ground to the right.
Then he cursed.
"Pull up and get into the clouds. Quick."
The pilot yanked the control stick.
A powerful force dragged the steel bird beneath them upward, sending the bomber climbing into the white clouds.
Almost at the very next moment, gunfire burst across the sky.
Bang, bang, bang.
Antiaircraft shells formed black puffs in the air. Soviet supplied DShK heavy machine guns swept toward the clouds, their tracers cutting past the bomber's previous flight path.
"Fly higher."
The plane continued climbing until it fully escaped the low altitude range.
The pilot exhaled sharply, then shouted, "Damn it. Take it out. Hunter, prepare to drop bombs."
At the antiaircraft position, Spanish Communist Party soldiers carried boxes of shells one after another.
The black shadow circling in the sky was like a death knell. Sweat broke out continuously across their darkened palms.
"Hurry. Load, load."
The gun commander was an officer from Soviet Russia.
Seeing the bomber disappear into the clouds, he cursed through clenched teeth.
"Suka blyat. Watch me shoot you down."
He turned the aiming mechanism and began adjusting along the bomber's projected flight path.
Just as he was about to complete the calibration, a bomb appeared directly above his head.
Bang!
The bomb struck the position and destroyed the antiaircraft gun in an instant.
The small camp vanished in the sympathetic explosion that followed. Ammunition detonated, bodies were thrown apart, and a cloud of fire and black soil rose from the ground.
Seeing the only real threat eliminated, Hunter finally released a long breath.
Only then did he realize that the map in his hand had been crushed into a ball of wrinkled paper.
He smoothed it out again with trembling fingers.
"Fly toward seven o'clock," he ordered. "Blow up their ammunition depot."
The bombing continued for the entire afternoon.
Both bomber crews delivered near perfect results.
Key military deployment areas were smashed apart by bombs. The heavy firepower positions were silenced one after another. Mortar sites were reduced to smoking craters.
The iconic Plaza Mayor was turned into ruins because the Spanish Communist Party had heavily fortified it. Before the logic of war, its historical value meant almost nothing.
Both logistics warehouses were set ablaze by incendiary bombs.
The already scarce military rations and ammunition were destroyed, and the fires spread quickly, igniting nearby wooden buildings.
Homeless residents wandered through the city in shock.
The Spanish Forward Army pushed through the crowds, crossed the ruined streets, and finally planted its flag on the municipal building.
The widespread fires, the destroyed homes, and the displaced civilians were all recorded by British journalists inside the city.
The next day, a report titled The Great Bombing of Salamanca appeared in the newspapers.
Many international leftists were furious.
They drew red horns over Jörg's photograph and equated him with the devil.
Picasso's surrealist painting was completed within only a few days.
Under the organization of the French Communist Party, an operation called Save Spain began.
Internationalists started sending money to Spain. Large numbers of volunteers also began preparing to offer what they considered the most practical form of assistance.
Two days later, Madrid welcomed its first batch of American, British, and French international joint forces.
These people, driven by firm belief, began receiving weapons and training. They had come to an unfamiliar city, in an unfamiliar country, to fight for their ideals.
And their numbers were still increasing.
In Soviet Russia, however, Stalin remained hesitant about providing aid.
His concerns were not without reason.
Grain collection in Ukraine had failed repeatedly, and several grain producing regions had entered a state of halted harvests. Organizing large scale aid now was clearly not a wise choice.
In Moscow, Stalin paced back and forth inside his office.
Telegrams from the French Communist Party and the Spanish Communist Party had accumulated in stack after stack on his desk.
Every stack deepened the wrinkles around his eyes.
Then a knock sounded at the door.
Molotov, the current head of government, entered after receiving permission.
"Comrade Stalin," he said carefully, "it is time to make a decision on Spain."
Stalin stopped pacing but did not immediately speak.
Molotov continued, "If we continue delaying, many comrades within the Party will grow restless. Trotsky's ideas are already showing signs of resurgence."
His tone became heavier.
"This is not good. Whether we provide aid or not, we need an answer."
.....
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