Chapter 185: Madrid, Madrid...
Stalin tapped the bowl of his pipe lightly against the ashtray.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the pale green gauze curtains, casting shifting shadows across his face. For a long moment, he did not speak. His gaze remained lowered, as if he were not looking at Molotov at all, but at the map of Europe that existed only inside his mind.
Spain.
Germany.
France.
Ukraine.
Industry.
Grain.
Every problem was connected to the next.
Finally, Stalin said, "We will do this."
Molotov straightened at once.
"Transfer one armored division each to Zhukov of the Kiev Special Military District and Pavlov of the Western Special Military District. Let them help our Spanish comrades overcome this difficulty."
He paused and drew on his pipe.
"Draw fighter aircraft from the Moscow Air Force and send them to assist in the defense of Spanish airspace. This will also be a good opportunity to test new weapons and tactics."
Molotov recorded every word.
"As for arms aid," Stalin continued, "first transport it to France. From there, hand it over to our comrades in the French Communist Party, who will transfer it onward."
His voice slowed.
"However, we have one condition. Soviet Russia must have complete authority over the International Brigade."
Molotov's pen moved quickly.
Stalin looked toward the window, then added in a colder tone, "Considering Spain's vast gold reserves, and in order to prevent that gold from being lost, propose to the Spanish Communist Party that their gold reserves be temporarily transferred to Soviet Russia for safekeeping."
A series of orders was recorded by Molotov word for word.
One month later.
By the time Bock and Paulus had firmly established themselves in Ávila and Segovia, Rommel's Fourth Panzer Division had already recaptured Toledo in the south.
Madrid was now encircled from three sides.
Only then did the first batch of I 15 fighters begin assembly in Madrid. The newly manufactured I 16 fighters were still on the way.
At this time, more than twenty Italian CR.20 fighters had already been deployed. The urgently produced CR.30s were being loaded at Genoa, ready for transport to Spain.
Over thirty thousand Italian volunteers were advancing menacingly toward Madrid.
Yet the greatest threat blocking their path was not the Spanish Communist Party.
It was the German Eighth Panzer Division stationed at Segovia.
On the Spanish Forward Party's side, after witnessing the power of German armor, the party began purchasing large quantities of Panzer I tanks and related improved models. Several mining rights were mortgaged as collateral.
In Salamanca, they established two armored divisions to serve as anchors for the upcoming battle of Madrid.
Before that, they had already borrowed hundreds of millions of Marks from the German National Bank to pay for German arms aid, military aid, and air force support.
What they mortgaged in return were tariffs, high quality national assets, commodity pricing rights, port usage rights, and other future privileges.
Of course, all these things could only be realized if they won.
At Valencia Port, the continuously assembling Soviet Russian Third Armored Division, together with the newly formed Spanish Second and Third Armored Divisions, began moving by train toward Madrid.
On the officers' train, Zhukov sat by the window and read a German newspaper.
The paper smelled faintly of ink. The carriage swayed gently beneath him. Outside, Spanish fields rolled past in muted winter colors, but his thoughts were not on the scenery.
He might soon meet classmates from the same military academy on the battlefield.
A wave of helplessness rose in his heart.
He touched the wristwatch he had once been given and sighed softly.
"How wonderful it would be if there were no war."
Beside him, Latochia, commander in chief of the Spanish Communist Party Army, raised his hand in salute to Zhukov and Pavlov.
"Thank you for coming, Soviet comrades."
His voice was solemn.
"Spain will not forget that you were here. Spain will not forget that we once fought side by side to save this country."
On the other side, the same declaration was being repeated in Madrid.
At Puerta del Sol, members of the International Brigade stood beneath banners and temporary loudspeakers. Their uniforms were different. Their accents were different. Their hair colors, skin colors, and languages were different. Yet all of them carried Mosin Nagant rifles and shared cigarettes as if they had known one another for years.
George Orwell was among them.
After finally managing to publish his manuscript, he had received an assignment from his publisher to gather material in Spain. At first, he had come as an observer.
But Madrid's lower districts shocked him.
The poverty here was worse than he had imagined.
The treatment of the working class was even harsher than that of British coal miners. Damp rooms, hungry children, exhausted women, laborers with hollow eyes, men who spoke of wages as if speaking of weather, something beyond their control.
Just as the Spanish Communist Party had begun raising workers' welfare benefits, rebellion erupted.
Orwell did not hesitate.
He became a member of the International Brigade.
Click.
A crisp shutter sound came from not far away.
Orwell turned his head and saw a bearded middle aged man wearing an African tribal hat. The man was holding a camera and looking at him with a friendly expression.
"Hello, sir," the man called out. "Could you move a little closer to that lady?"
Orwell cooperated and shifted his position.
After the photograph was taken, he took a drag from his cigarette and asked, "Orwell, from London. Judging from your accent, are you American?"
He extended a hand.
"I heard your country has a new leftist president."
The middle aged man quickly lowered his Zeiss camera and shook his hand.
"Miller Hemingway. I am a journalist."
Before the two could continue their conversation, artillery thunder sounded from far beyond the city.
The first round of the battle for Madrid had officially begun.
On the outskirts of the capital, the Third Armored Division of the Spanish Forward Army, serving as the main attacking force, opened fire with British BL 152 mm howitzers.
The stalemate that had lasted nearly two months was shattered.
Shells exploded in the distance.
Black smoke and fleeting flames rose together. A massive hole was torn into a wall. Stones and fragments were thrown outward by the shock wave.
Houses trembled.
Then they collapsed.
Splintered wood, broken tiles, crushed furniture, and shattered masonry piled together into chaotic ruins.
Inside an apartment building along the street, several Spanish Communist Party soldiers lay prone on the floor.
Only after the shelling passed did they reluctantly raise their heads. One straightened his helmet, wiped dust from his eyes, and crawled toward the window.
Below, the street was desolate.
He raised his Mosin Nagant rifle and cautiously aimed toward the corner.
Crunch.
Crunch.
The tracks of a Panzer I rolled over the rubble.
Two MG13 machine guns mounted in the turret swung left and right beneath the sunlight, searching for targets.
Behind the tank came several Spanish Forward Party soldiers, advancing with the vehicle as cover.
One Spanish Communist Party soldier was about to fire when another quickly grabbed his shoulder and whispered, "Bad angle. Use a grenade."
He pointed toward the street.
"Stop that tank and buy time for the anti tank gun on the back street."
The soldier nodded and withdrew his rifle.
He watched the enemy vehicle move toward the right angle.
Then, at the perfect moment, he pulled the pin and threw the grenade.
Boom!
The explosion burst beside the tank.
Shrapnel and blast force tore into the advancing infantry, immediately incapacitating three Spanish Forward Party soldiers.
At the same time, the Panzer I detected their position.
The gun muzzle lifted.
Tat tat tat!
Bullets poured toward the apartment building.
A long row of bullet holes tore across the wall beside the window. The intense firepower suppressed the Spanish Communist Party soldiers so completely that none of them could raise their heads for a moment.
Several ricocheting rounds punched through the wall and struck one soldier in the leg bone.
He screamed.
"Damn it. Rotten luck."
His face twisted in pain, but he still shouted through clenched teeth, "Retreat to the second floor. It is an old German model, clearly being used by those idiots in the Forward Army. Their reload speed is much slower than the Germans."
Two Spanish Communist Party soldiers grabbed him under the arms and dragged him backward inch by inch.
Sure enough, after a round of suppressive fire, the tank's machine guns fell silent.
The Panzer I began reversing, intending to hide behind the ruins and wait for a second infantry team to arrive before organizing a coordinated assault.
But it was destined not to get its wish.
A Soviet made M1930 37 mm anti tank gun appeared at the end of the back street.
Boom!
The shell struck the Panzer I.
Its armor was pierced.
The explosion that followed transformed the tank into a burning hunk of iron.
The Spanish Forward Party soldiers who had come to reinforce froze in shock, then tried to retreat.
At that moment, a Soviet T 27 ultra light tank rushed into the street from the right rear.
Its machine gun spat fire.
The retreating squad was swept down almost instantly.
But before the T 27 could advance any farther, another sound cut through the battlefield.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
A fresh round of artillery fire descended.
Shells struck near the light tank.
One landed close enough to tear the vehicle apart. Flames climbed over the blackened steel, and the smell of burning oil spread through the street.
The Spanish Communist Party soldiers stared at the wreckage in silence.
Everything before them made one thing clear.
The battle for Madrid had only just begun.
.....
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