The Popular Front- France and the Second World War

M506- not yet! Patience!

August 4, 1936

Shaughnessy stared down at the ruined body with dismay. He'd worked with Denel handing out newsbills, he'd fought alongside him in the street battles. Just a few months before, an Action Francaise thug had come within a hair of knifing Shaughnessy, but Denel had saved his life. Now, Denel was dead. Pierre Shaughnessy snarled. He'd come back for the body. For now, he would get vengeance.

On the other side of the valley, smoke plumes went up from exploding mortar shells. The Nationalists had pulled back from Siguenza. Two months before, Franco had been summoned to Madrid. The night before his trial, he'd launched his coup. Madrid had fallen almost instantly, and most of the countryside. In the south, Seville was under the control of a Nationalist junta, but the Republic controlled the rest of the coast in a long arc east to Valencia. Barcelona and the Basques had stayed loyal as well, but then Mussolini and Hitler sent in troops. It looked like a cakewalk, until France came into the war. Now, the Allies and the fascists were glaring at each other over their borders while they pretended their men weren't killing each other in Spain.

Shaughnessy and Denel had come in through Barcelona, and been sent as reinforcements to the Central Front. The Basques had swept down to cut off Zaragoza, and now Siguenza was about to fall. If the assault succeeded. If the Republic could summon the unity to push forward. Siguenza was the key to Madrid, to Burgos, to the war.

Shaughnessy reloaded grimly. His lieutenant was off arguing with a polished idiot from the Regular Army. His captain and his major and everyone else who could have outranked that junior grade idiot had been blown up that morning. Until they got their heads together on a plan, Shaughnessy and the rest of his militia battalion were sitting ducks for the Italian artillery across the valley. And they'd all end up like Denel.

Shaughnessy gestured over to Ballard. "Comrade!" Ballard crawled over. "We're dead men. They're getting the range."

Ballard nodded. "We move forward, we're just as dead."

Shaughnessy rubbed his scalp. "Do we keep waiting? Or should we have a vote?"

Ballard sighed. "Fine. Fine." Ballard shouted and a few dozen men crawled within earshot. Shaughnessy laid out his plan: move to the east, force the artillery to shift range. That would give the Regulars enough breathing room to assault from the west.

Ostrowski slapped the ground in disgust. "Over the ridge, through that stream, and up again while they're raking us with machine guns? We'll be dead halfway over!"

Shaughnessy frowned. "We're dead here!" A shell exploded too close, and five men died. He pointed. "We have to choose! Now! If this works, damn the cost, the war is won!"

He looked around. The men were silent. Finally, Ballard raised his hand. A few others joined, and then more, and then more. Shaughnessy nodded grimly.

"All right." He took a last sip of water from his canteen. "Frehling, run back and tell the lieutenant. We came here to fight, comrades. Let's fight, then." Shaughnessy crawled along the top of the ridge and pointed. "That grove of trees down there- hook right around it and we'll take cover in those boulders. We wait ONLY long enough for stragglers, and we go back up the other bank. Stay spread out. Make your shots count." Shaughnessy tensed and leapt up.

"FOR THE REVOLUTION!"

August 4, 1936

Shaughnessy tumbled down the slope. A few bullets kicked up dirt in front of him- he and his battalion, nearly two hundred men, were still out of range of the carbines, but there were a few German rifles across the valley in the hands of marksmen, professional killers who had fought in Abyssinia and the Sahara. Mortar shells blatted up into the sky, and Shaughnessy tumbled and skidded down the slope, too intent on his own feet to listen for the whistling second half of their deadly arc. He could hear shouting and grinding as the Italians started wheeling their field guns around.

Behind him, the Spanish lines erupted in dismay. The lieutenant popped his head over the ridge.

"YOU GODDAMN FOOLS! YOU GODDAMN FOOLS!" Shaughnessy hoped the Regulars would recognize the opportunity and move, instead of wasting their breath as well.

A sudden slap of air, and Shaughnessy was knocked off his feet. His ears rang painfully, and instead of screams he heard a painful unceasing shriek. With any luck, he wouldn't be deaf forever. He turned around. A few dozen men down, four or five mortar shells. A man's arm spun madly in the air, and Shaughnessy watched it twitch obscenely.

He ran forward. He was at the stream now. The rest of the men weren't too far behind- he was pushing forty, not as lean or nimble as his comrades. A tree exploded, sending a deadly hail of splinters through men to his right. Shaughnessy knelt down and gulped water from the stream.

"FORWARD!" he shouted. "UP THE SLOPE FAST!" He couldn't be sure the men heard him, or even if his mouth had produced the words he was looking for. He ran anyway.

Out of the trees, and slogging through the stream. The water was slow and lazy after a dry summer, but it was up to his hips in a few places. Halfway across, a machine gun walked deadly fire through their left flank. Maybe half the men were left. He could see the Italians now, heads starting to pop out of the woods on the opposite ridge. They were running forward, trying to intercept the battalion before they made the thirty-meter charge up the slope.

Shaughnessy looked back. The Regulars were firing heavily now, mortars and rifles, and branches and leaves started spinning away from the trees in front of them. The Italians disappeared, and half the Regulars started pouring over the ridge. It was working so far.

Shaughnessy was out of the stream now, kicking his way through a patch of mud. His men were starting to surge past him, maybe eighty or ninety now. Still the hardest part to go.

Boehm- Welcome aboard!

TC- We shall see. I've already killed off one old character and shunted another into academia.

Sir Humphrey- Thank you, sir!

DK- Thanks! Hemingway is a must read for anyone who wants to write a battle scene.

August 4, 1936

Shaughnessy hit the first rock and it slid out from under his boot. He landed hard, skinning the knuckles on his right hand. He kept running, shouldering his rifle to flex the fingers. If he got a cramp now, he was dead, like the hundred men he'd already killed by his example.

A few bullets pinging off the rocks. The slope was dry enough that he could move quickly once the river mud was off his boots, but there were rocks everywhere. He had to pick his way up. More mortar shells coming in. The rocks would just add to the shrapnel. His uncle had come home in pieces from the Alps in 18, without a single scrap of metal in him. It was flying granite that had cut him to shreds.

Ostrowski clutching at his elbow, helping him through a tangle of roots. The boom of the artillery- the Italians had got it moved around and figured the range. Shaughnessy felt it instead of hearing it. He got his rifle off his shoulder and fired a defiant shot. The shell went off behind him, clearing a red aisle through his battalion.

About halfway up. The Italians were up there and the bullets were coming faster now. Shaughnessy tumbled down, crawling on his hands and knees. Slow going. He took a couple of shots.

"KEEP MOVING!" he roared. "SUPPRESSING FIRE, BUT DON'T STOP NOW OR YOU WON'T GET MOVING AGAIN!"

He fired another shot, and an Italian fell out of sight, a little puff of dust and red mist. He parked himself behind a large rock and fired three more times. He glanced backwards. The men were still moving. A few hundred meters over, the Regulars were crossing the stream, and their mortars were firing fast now, keeping the pressure on.

Shaughnessy only had another ten or fifteen meters to go. His men were clumping up. He gestured a group to move right- no sense making a big target for the machine guns when they appeared. He climbed over the rock and kept moving.

He could hear the Italians now. Thank God, he wasn't deaf. With a final scream, he attached his bayonet and ran the final distance.

He crested the ridge, and he could see the Italians stare at him in horror. He fired, and one dropped. Suddenly, he was on his side, blinking stupidly.

I was knocked over on my face. Some goddamn idiot shot me from behind. Shaughnessy snarled and kept firing wide. The Italians ducked and scrambled backwards from the ridge.

"COME ON! COME ON, DAMMIT!" Shaughnessy got to his knees. He fired again, and then fell back over. His clip was empty. He fumbled for another. More men coming over the top now. The artillery, booming in the other direction, at the Regulars. He saw Italian uniforms moving north, and now screaming horses. He crawled to a tree and half-stood, half-climbed to his feet.

The Regulars were moving up the slope. His battalion was running past him, maybe fifty men left. The Italians were running. He'd won. They'd won.

Shaughnessy slumped over. He was tired of fighting to keep his feet. Something horrible was happening in his gut. Pierre Shaughnessy let his head fall into a patch of cool moss and wildflowers. He closed his eyes, and the smell of powder and blood gave way to sweet fragrance, and he slept, a just and triumphant man.

In June and July, the Nationalists had seemed poised on the edge of victory. The Spanish Republic was divided. The Basque Country and Catalonia, severed from the main government (which was itself recovering from a relocation to Valencia), were on the verge of declaring independence. The Germans and Italians had provided invaluable assistance to the Nationalist movement. One after another, the Great Powers declined to lend a hand to the tottering Republic.

In France, however, Prime Minister Blum overcame opposition from the Right and the Radical Party members of his own government. A full division of volunteers were equipped and outfitted. Massive convoys of supplies were sent to Valencia. This intervention dangerously escalated the war, as Italian and French troops came into direct combat. At home, the French populace was divided and dissent rose sharply, hurting the economy and provoking vicious political infighting. The Socialists launched a major spending campaign, which had few concrete results except to mollify the voters...

The victory at Siguenza marked a turning point in the war. Across Spain, the French intervention had helped to rally Republican forces, and the Germans and Italians quietly reduced their troop levels. However, the victories led to dangerous choices. Nearly everywhere except Seville, the Nationalist forces withdrew in fighting order. The concentration of these forces in the northwest allowed the Nationalists to respond quickly to any attack. While Madrid and the Nationalist capital of Burgos were directly threatened, the Republican lines were stretched, held in many places by demoralized and poorly equipped militias. The Battle of Arlanzon, which began on September 1, 1936, was seen as a minor skirmish at first- but it soon became obvious that Arlanzon had foreshadowed the fate of the Spanish factions...

The Volunteers of 36

El Pip- Sorry I missed your earlier comment. We shall see more from Pivert later on. Whether he grows a backbone (or what effect his lack of backbone has) shall be discussed in future days.

Tsk- Thanks!

DK- Even I don't know. If the story seems to demand it then he might live. If it doesn't, well.

September 3, 1936

Dieter Bayer glared as Leutnant Adler climbed off the plane. He pointed at the tail of his Messerschmidt Bf-109.

"Caught a couple of bullets. Fix it up."

Adler swaggered off, without so much as a glance at his ground crew. Bayer glanced down the airstrip at Balthazar's plane. Adler was a fool, but Balthazar was a genuine ace, a fearless damn hero, and he was relaxing at a card table with his crew, laughing over a bottle of wine. Adler. That Hitlerjugend prick.

Bayer yanked his gloves on and walked the plane. Those weren't bullet holes in the tail- they were shrapnel hits. Adler was still admiring his handiwork instead of pulling up, lazing around for those crap Spanish AA guns to wheel on. Amazing Adler had landed his plane with those holes in it- he still had problems with the swing on his 109.

Bayer sighed and flipped through his manifest. They were starting to run low on supplies. Soon, he'd have to start cannibalizing some of the junked planes on the west side of the base. He had voted NSDAP back in 32, but now he was rapidly getting the politics bled out of him. Hitler had sent the Condors out to Spain to fight. The second the French started fighting back, Hitler backed down. Goebbels changed his tune overnight. The supply convoys dried up, the stocks dwindling. Meanwhile, the Republicans and the Communists were getting fat at the French trough. The planes had to go back up, fast.

The Communist militias were gathering at Arlanzon. Franco and his erstwhile government still hadn't left Burgos for Madrid, which meant they could hear the rumbling artillery there. If the militias pushed forward, they'd cut Nationalist Spain in half. But if Franco could push back, then half the Republican lines would be wide open. And with some luck, the tanks could roll back to the Mediterranean.

But did that mean the Italians and Germans would recommit? Or did it mean the French would step up their intervention? Bayer got the feeling a lot of people had already given up on the war. They just hadn't bothered to tell the people who were going to be doing all the dying.

Bayer started thinking. He spent all day with his face behind goggles and a welding mask and the grime and sweat of a Spanish afternoon. He hadn't quite gotten to an answer. It was just a matter of time.

September 5, 1936

Capitán Mateo Valles smiled to himself. The Comunistas were charging forward again, like they always did. He had no love for the militias, after Catalonia. His uncle was a priest and they had just found his body in a pile of brush, outside some godforsaken olive grove. All you had to do was tell them they were dying for The Revolution and they would pile into the trenches, panting for their chance at glory. Traitors against traitors. Valles had repeated this so many times the Nationalists were holding their fire now, waiting until the last minute, expecting regulars to pop up from some other direction.

But this time, this was no feint. Valles was just burning off some excess fat.

The Comunistas went down. Valles popped up, making a great show of paternal concern. He shouted frantically and blew the retreat. The survivors tumbled back toward the line and Republican Spain. He rushed down to comfort them and slap them on the back, to congratulate them on a brave and noble attempt.

He had to do something to keep busy. He had another week before the tanks arrived.

He spent most of that night in the Coronel's tent, poring over map after map. Arlanzon, what was left of that town, was the last obstacle before Burgos. The battle had been grinding back and forth over it for the last week.

The Coronel pointed. "Miaja's forces are still four days out. Everything's static here now, but the lines are rolling back in the north. We may end up a salient unless we withdraw too."

Valles furrowed his brow, concentrating on what that meant. If the center pulled back, it could spread panic through the front. What if the Nationalists pushed at just the right time?

The Coronel was still talking. "...Without Miaja, a big push would tumble us out of the province entirely. Even if we win, we'll be exhausted and surrounded." He rubbed his eyes. "Make the best of a bad situation. All of you, hold your positions. Probing attacks, keep your men on the guard against any breakout attempt. Once Miaja arrives, we'll assess the situation and decide where to launch the attack."

Valles drew himself to attention. "Sir! The Nationalists have riddled us with spies. Surely they know Miaja's divisions are coming soon- will they not be ready for an immediate attack?"

The Coronel stared at Valles blankly. "Yes they will, Capitán. Does that frighten you? Are you cowed?"

A blaze danced across Valles' eyes. "No, sir."

The Coronel nodded slowly. "Exactly right." He saluted, dismissing the men. "Be ready. Four days."

September 11, 1936

Leutnant Franz Adler came in low, Holstetter on his right. He opened up with his machine guns and the scrubland exploded in arcs of dust. The men below spilled in every direction, a few pops of light here and there as intrepid Communists tried to take him down. As ever, they failed. Adler banked hard, sneering against gravity as it tried to slow him down. Holstetter tried to keep up.

He sketched a long lazy arc past the Nationalist frontlines, watching the artillery roll out a long salvo. The Republicans were marching forward on the doublestep, tanks spread evenly through the infantry ranks, but he still had time for another pass before he had to pull back and really consider his next target.

Holstetter caught up, gesturing urgently. Adler glanced over and laughed. Two planes coming in from the east. Probably more French surplus biplanes. He closed in fast, but he snarled as he approached. PZLs, Polish planes that could put up some meager fight. Damned French and their Communist money.

Adler slowed and got ready. He focused on the PZLs, waiting for them to make a move. He could bank faster, climb faster, and close faster. All he had to do was wait.

Suddenly, dark blooms cracked through the sky around him. He flushed, his guts twisting in fear and self-disgust. He'd hit the Republican lines without looking down and he'd walked right into ack-ack fire. Stupid idiot. Stupid, stupid. He pulled up and right, just in time to see Holstetter spiral in missing a wing.

He poured on speed, banking around again. The PZLs were closing at an acceptable pace. He sped around, gathering distance. He closed from the PZLs' right, this time weaving a bit and keeping an eye on the Republicans. The PZLs were turning to meet him, but his 109 was a lot faster. He pulled the trigger.

His machine guns spat out a few rounds and locked up. Adler's guts locked up even tighter, and a quick spasm of wetness appeared in his crotch. Great God. Stupid goddamn test plane.

He pulled up, hard. The PZLs were separating, but one was trying to follow him up. A few bullets whizzed past, but he got out of range. Maybe the cannons? No. Adler pulled down, swooping over the lines. His heart was pounding, barely able to keep its hysterical rhythm. He started thinking about the action report. How he'd explain stupidly losing his wingman and delivering a 109 into the middle of the Republican Army. Then he looked down.

The Republican tanks were in a cluster now, ahead of the infantry. They were putting a huge dent in the Nationalist lines. He could see men running backwards, armored cars kicking up dust as they fled the lines. The Nationalists were broken. There were no reserves between the Republicans and Burgos itself. Arlanzon and the road to the Nationalist capital were about to fall.

Adler kept flying, not thinking about the PZLs and how they were probably taking their time with potshots at the fleeing Nationalists. He was thinking about how Holstetter stupidly led him over those AA guns. He was thinking about how Holstetter initiated the chase on those PZLs anyway.

By the time he landed and got orders to relocate to Madrid, Adler believed it all himself.

Vann- Okay!

September 15, 1936

Celebratory gunfire crackled all over the city. A lot of it, Valles knew, was much more sinister. The Nationalist junta had fled to Madrid, Franco and his cronies, but there were collaborators all through Burgos- and if no collaborators could be found, someone would fill the role. Valles lit a cigarette to cover the stench from a burning machine gun nest. Next to it, a pool of blood surrounded a pile of crumpled black fabric. Valles knelt down to pick up a crucifix. He wearily noted the long red hair spilling out of the fabric.

He looked up. Ten more nuns dead, in a trail leading to a nearby church. A fire roaring through it, dancing through what was left of the stained glass. The roof was about to catch fire.

A car swung madly down the road, two drunken soldiers in it clutching bottles of wine and a painting they would probably rip to pieces to melt down its gilded frame. Valles flagged them down.

"Men! Let's have a drink then!" The men stopped the car, killing its engine. They embraced him.

"Capitán! To victory!" Valles grinned and took a swig of the wine. He handed it back. He whipped out his revolver and shot both men in the head.

Valles looked around. No one had seen it. He took the painting out and walked to a nearby door. It was dark inside, and he could see nothing, but he heard stifled whimpering in a far corner.

"Keep this safe," he whispered. He set the painting down lovingly, the Virgin Mary cradling her Child. He walked back to the car and put it in gear. He drove, through the madness of fallen Burgos. He stopped a couple of times to give a rousing speech and accept a toast. He kept going, south.

Thirty kilometers south of Burgos, the car ran out of gas. Valles got out. He walked to the side of the road, cracked his neck, took a piss. He tightened his laces and started walking to the Nationalist lines.

September 16, 1936

Dieter Bayer peered down at the road, rubbing crumbs of sleep and dust out of his eyes. He stifled a cough, watching the horizon for any signs of life. Off in the distance, a rooster was stirring. He had to move.

Bayer stumbled through the weeds and bushes, yesterday's thousand itches starting up again. He stooped to take a sip from a puddle, letting some of the mud settle out first. He almost sobbed. He was going to get shot. This was crazy.

After Burgos fell, his crew was relocated to Madrid. Except a fighter had strafed the road, and he'd run into a ditch in the chaos. And kept running. Bayer had taken enough of this damn war. He was getting out.

Fifteen minutes in, Bayer had cleared about a hundred meters. He couldn't move quietly or quickly. He had to get out of the brush. He had to make it to the Republican lines. If he didn't... if the Nationalists started a counterattack...

Bayer crept towards the road. Finally, he could take no more. Screaming and stomping, he flailed through a ditch and onto the gravel. He stopped cold.

There was a Republican officer standing in the road, his hand on his holster. Bayer threw his hands in the air. He summoned up the Spanish he'd learned.

"I am surrender! I am surrender!"

The Republican, a captain, looked around slowly and took his hand off the holster. He looked dirty and weary. Bayer realized with a start the man had been on the road as long as he had- but he hadn't been walking in the underbrush.

"I'm with the Garda Nacional. I've been sent ahead to pick up any defectors and direct refugees." The captain smiled winningly. "Welcome to the Spanish Republic. What's your name?"

"Dieter Bayer."

The captain offered a canteen. Dieter drank greedily.

"Bayer, what's your rank?"

"Specialist. I work the planes, Messerschmidt. No more war for me."

"No, Bayer. It's over for you. Are the Nationalists coming after you?"

"No. Planes, confused, I came north. For the Republic."

"But is there a counterattack planned?"

"I ran before we got Madrid. Don't know."

The captain nodded. He clapped Bayer on the shoulder. "Good work." He got behind Bayer and pointed. "There's a village about two kilometers up, where General Miaja is setting up a field HQ. Give them the password- 'libertad'."

A gun went off. Bayer found himself stumbling forward. An awful cold pain. Bayer tried to run, but nothing was happening. He felt his heart stop and the pain exploded through his body. He gasped, the world going red and slow and hazy.

"Good riddance, Comunista." Mateo Valles spat and turned on his heel. He kept walking south.