Chapter One Hundred Nineteen
15th November, 1937
In transit, rural France
Article One; You are not being sent to conquer Spain but to bring peace, always be aware of that. The mission is to end the civil war, return the country to local control in a timely manner and to deliver humanitarian aid.
Article Two; Understand history. This is the country that handed the first defeat to the Armies of Napoleon Bonaparte. This is the place where the term Guerrilla Warfare was first coined, be prepared for that.
Article Three; In view of the second part of the second article every soldier, sailor and airman is to understand that they are representing the Empire. Infractions will be dealt with to the fullest extent possible under Military Law. All punishments will be carried out in full view of the Spanish public and the offenders Regiment.
Article Four; All items acquired from stores, farms, warehouses or other places of storage will be duly paid for…
It went on for another twenty articles. Hans was reading it for what must have been the twentieth time mostly out of boredom. Yesterday evening had been interesting, crossing into France and the old battlefields of the Great War. Now they were just sitting on the train bound for the marshalling point somewhere in the south of France. The deal that had allowed them to make this crossing required that they stay on the train at all times and take the most direct route to their destination, once there they were not to leave camp. The problem was that moving several Army Corps was a slow process. Hans could visualize hundreds of trains one after another stretching all the way back to the various garrisons and depots in Germany to here, wherever here was.
The train pulled to a stop in the middle of nowhere and it was starting to rain. “Everybody out!” someone yelled. Hans followed the others out of the train car and climbed down to track bed. As he walked across the field towards the road he noticed that his boots were sinking into the mud. He looked over and saw that Feldwebel Raskoph, the new squad leader that they were still getting to know was also trudging through the mud.
There was a Feldwebel from the Paras leaning on a car parked on the side of the road, another of the Kubelwagens that had become so ubiquitous over the last few years. “Any idea where our vehicles are?” Raskoph asked.
“No” The Para said “You get to wait here until you get further orders.”
“Here?” Hans asked “Where is here?”
“That’s none of your business” The Para said. Then he got into his car and drove off. Better you than me, asshole was clearly the subtext to that.
Hans looked around. The Company was milling around the muddy field that was bordered by a fence on one side, railroad tracks on the other and oppressive grey clouds overhead. Nothing more.
“They didn’t send us to the Riviera did they” He muttered.
“You say something” Raskoph growled at him, clearly daring Hans to repeat it.
“Nothing, Feld” Hans replied.
“That’s what I thought” Raskoph said, he had the mistaken belief that anyone in the Squad was the least bit intimidated by him “Get the men to start putting up tents unless you want to sleep in the rain tonight.”
Hans walked off. It was not as if he had the intention of doing anything else. There was absolutely nothing else to do here.
A few hours later they noticed that French soldiers were skulking in a farmhouse a few hundred meters away. That was hardly a surprise, there was some grumbling about how they were stuck out in the rain while the Frogs were under a roof. Again, that was hardly a surprise. The next morning fuel for the cook stove and water arrived along with Horst who looked less than thrilled about their accommodation when he stepped off the lorry. The train carrying their vehicles had been directed hundreds of kilometers out of their way. Horst said that the Oberst Rommel was on the phone chewing people’s asses until things got straightened out.
“I don’t get it, Sir” Hans said “What’s the point of having us sitting out here?”
“Because we’re close to where we need to be” Horst said and he pointed south. The clouds had parted and Hans could see snowcapped mountains in the distance.
Madrid, Spain
Recently Madrid had been threatened by the Nationalist advance, so the capital had been moved to Valencia. The Government was still trying to sort things out and with everything else they did it seemed as if it involved a lot of bickering between the various factions. That seemed very distant here in Madrid, where the battle against the Falangists was ongoing. Neither side had airplanes in serious numbers and the Government had provided a number of Russian built tanks that had proven a Godsend. Leary Quinlan was walking through the city, the pockmarks from bullets hitting the walls had become so common that he hardly noticed them anymore. It was not as if this was his first war, more like his third. Flanders, home and now here.
There were a lot of things that Leary was getting used to. This being so very different from the troubles in Ireland. The Brits had known about most of the Unionists who had kicked up a fuss for years but had turned a blind eye. When the Orangemen had gone on their campaign of terror the Brits had sat on their hands. Then the bastards had offered to return to Ireland in order to restore peace and stability. They had fixed them right quick by setting off truck bombs in London, the Brits had not liked a taste of their own medicine one bit.
Now there was a new wrinkle, word was spreading that the Huns were massing on the French side of the Pyrenees. With any luck this would be over before that bunch of savages crossed the mountains in the Spring. Rumors were also suggesting that the Huns were on no one’s side but their own.