Chapter 183: The Fledglings
"There is no need to repeat the rest."
Kesselring's expression remained calm, but his tone carried a heaviness that neither of them could ignore.
"One thing is certain. The Air Force has truly fallen behind the Army's expansion. Before this, we were far too focused on comparing aircraft performance."
He looked out the window at the port, where German sailors and Spanish workers were already beginning to unload supplies.
"We had an almost blind confidence in technological superiority. During air combat drills, many pilots flew a few circles, fired a few symbolic bursts, and considered the task finished."
Richthofen said nothing.
Kesselring continued, "The Führer said something extremely true. Military operations are a contest of weapons, but they are also a contest between men."
He extinguished his cigarette.
"We came to Spain to remove the designation of Fledgling Legion."
His gaze sharpened.
"We will rotate pilots every one to two months, ensuring that enough of them accumulate real combat experience. Even if the Spanish Communist Party's fighters are outdated, the machine gun bullets fired in the air are real."
Britain and France, both deeply hostile toward the Spanish Communist Party, turned a blind eye to German and Italian arms shipments. Officially, there was an arms embargo. In practice, weapons continued crossing the sea under different flags, with different paperwork, and with everyone pretending not to see.
On the matter of personnel, Britain and France watched Soviet Russia very closely.
Yet their attitude toward Germany and Italy was completely different.
They were somewhat stricter with German soldiers, but even that strictness was little more than a symbolic gesture. Toward Italy, they closed both eyes. Some Italian units even wore Italian Army insignia openly, yet no one seemed interested in pointing it out.
This meant that German Air Force pilots had to enter Spain first as civilians, technicians, advisers, and tourists. Their flight jackets could not carry German military markings. At most, they could cover their shoulders with Spanish flags.
The Spanish Forward Army gave them a formal designation.
The Foreign Black Hawk Legion.
Of course, that was merely the respectful name used by the Spanish Forward Party.
In reality, among German officers, they were still known by a far more humiliating name.
The Fledgling Legion.
That name made every German Air Force pilot grind his teeth. It also made them rush toward the Spanish battlefield with a hunger that bordered on desperation.
One month later, the aircraft, technicians, and pilots had all arrived.
The Fledgling Legion prepared for its debut.
Spain, Northern Army General Headquarters.
Mola received a telegram from Salamanca.
Although he was the General Commander of the Northern Army, the tactical planning for both the Northern and Southern Armies was, in truth, being handled by German officers sent from Berlin.
The two men before him were both Germans.
One was named Bock.
The other was Paulus.
What Mola envied most was not their nationality, nor their confidence, but what they commanded.
Armored divisions.
He had never seen an army with so much mechanized equipment, nor soldiers so skilled at operating it. Trucks, armored cars, tanks, radio vehicles, repair teams, fuel columns, engineering detachments, artillery tractors. To the Spanish officers, it looked less like an army and more like a moving industrial system.
Of course, Bock of the Second Armored Division and Paulus of the Eighth New Armored Division were not particularly relaxed.
On one hand, they were concerned about tactical execution.
On the other, they wanted to help the Air Force regain its reputation before the Führer. During the previous military exercise, Jörg's sternness had made several officers privately suspect that the Air Force might undergo a purge the very next day.
Bock leaned over the map.
His finger stopped at the salient where the Spanish Communist Party's troops were deployed in the suburbs outside Salamanca.
Paulus studied the same position for a moment.
The two men nodded almost simultaneously.
"Mr. Mola," Bock said, "we will launch rapid attacks against the left and right salients outside Salamanca, cutting off their rear as quickly as possible."
Paulus continued, "Once that happens, your Third and Fourth Infantry Divisions must immediately launch a strong assault against the salient. Encircle them. Strive to control Highways 19 and 21 leading into the city."
His voice became firmer.
"Do not allow a single Spanish Communist Party soldier to enter Salamanca."
Mola nodded without hesitation.
During roughly one month of German assistance, he had not lost a single major engagement. Originally, the front line had been pushed to Monte Morlin outside Salamanca. With German help, the situation had quickly undergone a drastic transformation.
"Very well, Mr. Bock," Mola said. "When will the city assault begin?"
Bock shook his head.
"No rush."
He looked toward the airfield marked beside the map.
"Let our Air Force friends put on a perfect shell breaking performance first."
In the suburbs, at the frontline command post of the Spanish Communist Party's 13th Infantry Division, Division Commander Hansen was repeatedly reviewing the compiled reports from previous battles.
The more he read, the heavier his expression became.
The German Army's advance capability was terrifying.
First came long range artillery strikes.
Then came tank clusters, flattening everything in their path.
After that, the steel torrent of mechanized equipment would pour through the breach and crush the battlefield before the defender could reorganize.
Often, a gap would be opened almost instantly. Through that gap, German units would complete a rapid and precise breakthrough, then dismantle the defense of the entire front line from the flank.
It was not merely speed.
It was coordination.
It was radio.
It was armor.
It was artillery.
It was the terrible rhythm of an army that did not give its enemy time to breathe.
For that reason, Hansen had specifically constructed defensive belts across several villages. These positions were meant to delay the enemy long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
Unfortunately, his plan did not succeed.
Kenilla Town, five kilometers from the highway.
Bang!
The sound of several guns firing at once shattered the quiet of the town.
Shells fell among the houses. Brick walls collapsed. Roof beams burst apart. Smoke and dust rose from the streets, swallowing the morning light.
Battalion Commander Lohr, who was stationed in the village, immediately realized what was happening.
The German offensive had begun.
But by the time he understood, it was already too late.
After a round of artillery volleys, Panzer IIs, mixed with several experimental Panzer IIIs, began advancing at the same time.
The barricades at the front of the village were crushed beneath their tracks before the defenders could properly react.
Inside a wooden house beside the road, an officer grabbed the field telephone and shouted into the receiver.
"The tank cluster is already outside! Artillery, provide fire support east of the town immediately! Hurry! The mines should still delay them for a while!"
"Received!"
Hearing the reply through the receiver, the officer seemed almost to see those steel devils rampaging through Spain reduced to ash.
In the distance, an artillery unit that had been hidden earlier prepared to begin firing according to the telephone coordinates.
Whirr.
Whirr.
Whirr.
A cold silver gleam flashed in the sky.
A low flying Bf 11 reconnaissance aircraft had spotted the hidden artillery unit near the village.
The pilot immediately reported, "Enemy artillery position spotted at eight o'clock. Any aircraft available to attack?"
"Zero Two received. Diving toward eight o'clock."
The dive bomber pilot's voice entered the channel.
He silently reduced speed and turned toward the artillery position.
From time to time, the reconnaissance pilot's reminders sounded in his headset.
"Be careful. Ground forces sent a telegram saying they are also not far from the eight o'clock direction. The tanks are only a few hundred meters from the bombing range."
His voice became sharper.
"Do not bomb our own people. I do not want to be blamed as a friendly fire killer again. Once during drills was already enough."
The bomber pilot took a deep breath.
Then the unique roar of the Stuka echoed through the sky.
Descent.
Aim.
Release.
Bang!
A bomb fell directly into the artillery barracks.
The explosion triggered a chain reaction. Ammunition detonated one after another, and a charred fire cloud rose violently into the sky.
The pilot raised his hand, preparing for another dive.
Just as he was about to open the bomb bay, two tanks crushed the wooden house below, and streams of machine gun fire converged into a rain of death.
Spanish Communist Party soldiers were cut down in swaths.
The pilot's heart suddenly tightened.
As his altitude continued falling, he pulled up sharply. The aircraft screamed upward into the sky, narrowly avoiding disaster.
He gasped for air, sweat already soaking his back.
Then the reconnaissance pilot's teasing voice sounded in his headset.
"Ground forces asked me to pass along a message, Zero Two."
The other man paused, clearly trying not to laugh.
"They want to know whether you were performing stunts just now, or trying to blow them to pieces."
.....
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