Eastern Part of the Greater Madrid Area, 3rd November 1936
"NO! You don't understand, they're coming from both sides! They've got us encircled!"A Spanish officer shouted into a radio inside a half-destroyed house. Dust fell from the ceiling with every explosion that thundered around them.
"Fuck! They're useless!" He screamed, kicking the radio off the table.
The soldiers around him exchanged uncertain glances, watching their commander unravel.
Outside, explosions went off continuously, tank shells and anti-tank fire tearing through buildings and streets.
It was brutal city combat. Both sides fought for every street, every corner, but the Germans were advancing, their fast armored spearheads overwhelming the defenders.
The officer knew their situation was hopeless, yet he was powerless to change it. The Germans had outsmarted them and encircled a large part of the Spanish defense.
"Sir! German tanks spotted, seven hundred meters away!" A young soldier burst into the room, panting.
"They're already this far?" The officer muttered aloud.
"Prepare the defenses!" He ordered, stepping outside.
He grabbed a pair of binoculars and scanned the horizon. At first, he saw only rubble, dirt, and small fires burning here and there, then he spotted it. Slowly, a gray German tank emerged from the ruins of a collapsed house.
"It's at eleven o'clock!" He shouted, turning to the men at the anti-tank guns.
They got to work quickly, adjusting the aim. The tank began firing in their direction.
The officer ducked behind the sandbag position as bullets and shrapnel ripped through the walls.
"Fire on my command!" He yelled over the chaos.
He watched as the tank crept forward, it's silhouette becoming clearer with every meter.
"Wait… wait… NOW!" He screamed at the top of his lungs.
Three anti-tank guns roared. Two shells missed by mere meters, exploding in the rubble nearby, but the third hit the tank square in the front.
A massive explosion engulfed it.
The officer spotted a man climbing out of the wreck, his clothes on fire. Gunfire erupted as soldiers tried to finish him off, but the burning man managed to run behind a corner, screaming something in German.
The officer allowed himself a brief smile. Relief washed over his face—and over the faces of his men.
But then, their expressions changed. Fear. Shock.
The officer followed their gaze. He reached for his binoculars, but before he could even raise them, he saw what they saw.
Behind the burning wreck, another tank emerged from the smoke. Then another. And another. Dozens broke through the dust, their gray armor glinting faintly in the orange firelight.
"This…" the officer stammered.
Before he could say another word, a storm of gunfire erupted from the approaching tanks.
Bullets tore through the position. The officer's body convulsed as he was riddled with rounds. He fell, coughing blood, watching his men collapse one after another.
Turning his head weakly, he saw a shadow forming behind him, a man standing over him.
The gunfire had stopped. The silence was deafening.
He coughed up more blood, the silhouette becoming clearer, a German officer.
"You… bastard…" he muttered.
A gunshot shattered the stillness.
Paul lowered his Luger and slid it back into his black leather coat, still staring at the dead officer.
Only when the tanks halted in the corner of his vision did he lift his gaze.
He walked slowly through the rubble, his coat flutttering together with the wind. Behind him, more and more German soldiers emerged, climbing over debris and rubble, slowly gathering behind him.
He stopped before one of the tanks as its hatch opened and a man climbed out.
"Oberst von Thoma," Paul said, nodding, not bothering to salute.
Von Thoma, the old and stoic commander, didn't seem to mind. He climbed down to meet Paul.
"Major Jaeger," he greeted warmly, extending his hand.
Paul shook it firmly.
"I must say, your plan worked perfectly," von Thoma said with a thin smile.
Suddenly, a distinct click came from beside them. Both men turned.
A short, stocky man held up a camera, the familiar face of Thomas Scholz, the journalist who had first made Paul famous.
"Thomas?" Paul asked, surprised.
"Yes, Herr Jaeger. It's me," Thomas replied, smiling as he took another picture.
Von Thoma chuckled. "You two know each other?"
"Yes," Paul answered curtly. "What's he doing here?"
"The Party wanted to document our victories for propaganda," von Thoma explained. "They sent someone experienced. He's acting as a war journalist."
"Everywhere you go, history follows, Herr Jaeger. Just like now, this photo is brilliant!"
A small, rare chuckle escaped Paul's mouth. This guy… Is that what you call fate? He thought.
Another man soon approached them from the side.Hasso, Paul thought, forming a slight smile.Von Thoma greeted him warmly as well. "Oberleutnant von Mannteufel, good to see you."
Hasso saluted them before they shook hands.
"It's good to see you, my friend," Paul said.
"It truly is," Hasso answered.
Paul, von Thoma, and Hasso stood side by side, watching columns of tanks, trucks, and soldiers rolling down the street. The tanks crushed any obstacles in their path without hesitation.
Sunlight glinted off the grey metallic beasts, illuminating the painted iron crosses on their sides.
"Most of our infantry has already been transported to the airport, awaiting you," Paul said.
"We'll clear out any resistance left in these buildings and then rejoin you. Together, we'll break through their last line," von Thoma replied proudly, patting Paul on the shoulder before turning toward the endless columns of armor.
Paul looked at the sight, his work. His head then turned toward the rubble, the corpses, the dead officer.
The days passed quickly, and so did the German advance. Well supplied through the air bridge, the Wehrmacht, reinforced by the Nationalists, pushed deep into urban Madrid, suffering only some casualties from the Russian anti-tank guns. Yet constant air support and supply made it easier for the German–Nationalist side, advancing kilometer after kilometer.
Palace of the Spanish Royal Family, 15th November 1936
German and Nationalist tanks rolled over the plaza.
"Fire!" Paul shouted before the tank vibrated, firing at an enemy artillery position.
A shell was fired back, grazing the tank and giving off a loud thud before exploding in a nearby building.
The German tank kept advancing steadily, only meters away from the Spanish position. The fire intensified, yet their armor managed to deflect the minor bullets with ease.
"Overrun them," Paul said coldly.
The tank rose for a moment before settling down again, crossing the sand barricades of the Spanish. Shouts erupted from outside and groups of Spaniards fled, many of them falling under the tank's machine-gun fire.
Paul looked through the small viewing slit before exiting the tank.
The hatch opened with a loud metallic click before the mild morning sunlight illuminated the tank and Paul's face. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled, only smoke, formed by the cold weather.
With one jump, his feet reached the cobblestone pavement. He looked around, glancing at the large formation of tanks on the plaza and watching Hasso approaching from behind his own vehicle.
"Quite grand," Hasso said, nearing Paul.
"It is," Paul replied, looking at his watch.
"Send in the infantry. I want it cleared out and safe when the General arrives," Paul said, eyeing Hasso, who had grown a small beard since the beginning of the campaign.
"Yes, sir." Hasso saluted before turning around.
Soon, dozens of German and Spanish military trucks arrived at the large plaza. Soldiers were unloaded continuously, assembling in neat formations across the square.
When a loud whistle echoed through the spacious plaza, hundreds of soldiers stormed the doors of the grand palace, their rifles raised.
Paul lit a cigarette, watching the event with keen eyes.
When the sun reached its zenith, the building was finally cleared of any hardliners or partisans still inside.
A middle-aged sergeant approached Paul, saluting before saying, "Sir, we've cleared out the building. It's ready for inspection."
Paul nodded. "Good job, Sergeant."
He dropped his cigarette on the ground before walking through the grand hallways of the Spanish palace. The gold, the carpets, the paintings, or what was left of them. Most valuables had already been transported away, together with the royal family, who, although officially neutral, were ultimately not on their side.
Paul finished his tour just as a retinue of trucks and tanks arrived in front of the palace, General Sperrle stepping out of one.
Paul greeted him at the entrance. The two men shook hands before walking inside the palace, discussing their next steps.
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The Spanish Civil War arc is ending soon...
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