Death of a marshal

Despite being forcibly dragged by the guards, Marshal Mikhail Tukhachevsky was determined to assert his innocence. "I am Marshal Tukhachevsky, a marshal of the Red Army! You cannot simply detain me like this! I demand to go to Moscow! I must speak with Stalin! I have dedicated my life and made countless sacrifices for the Soviet Union and the Red Army. To arrest me in such a disgraceful manner will one day bring you retribution!" he proclaimed vehemently.

The lieutenant colonel leading the way responded with a smirk, his tone dripping with disdain. "A traitor is what you are, and traitors are something we're never short of. Retaliation? You should be more worried about yourself right now."

"I demand paper and pen! I must write to Comrade Stalin! I need to send a message to a friend in Moscow! You cannot strip a marshal of his right to communicate," Tukhachevsky insisted, knowing that his survival depended on reaching out to his old comrades and friends, to let the veterans in Moscow understand what had transpired.

"You still think about writing letters? Your so-called friends are already writing to Comrade Stalin about you, distancing themselves from a traitor like you!" the lieutenant colonel sneered.

With a forceful shove, Tukhachevsky was thrust into his cell, the door slamming shut behind him. "Wait here," the lieutenant colonel called out coldly as he departed, the echo of his footsteps gradually fading.

Alone, Tukhachevsky took a moment to survey his surroundings. The cell walls bore the scars of its previous occupants, none of whom had likely shared his rank. He found a pack of cigarettes on him but lamented the absence of matches. Settling into his grim reality, he scoffed bitterly and found a spot to sit, his mind swirling with the events of recent years.

"Is this my motherland? Is this what I have fought for all my life? To see the innocent framed and the outsiders purged without a thought to justice or truth?" He was appalled at how easily a report and some intelligence from Germany had been used to imprison a seasoned revolutionary like himself, without even the pretense of a fair interrogation.

The large-scale arrests across the country and within the military had not escaped his notice, and he felt the weight of Stalin's suspicious gaze upon him, a foreboding feeling he could not shake. When he had learned of the arrest of Commander B.M. Feldman, a colleague from Leningrad and Chief of Staff of the Military Region, he had defended him, denouncing it as a grand provocation. Now, he wondered if anyone would speak out for him.

However, the accusations continued unabated. Just two days after his arrest, a trial was hastily convened. The judges, showing little patience, tried the so-called "Tukhachevsky criminal group," which included Tukhachevsky and seven other key military figures such as Yeronim Petrovich Ubolevich and Jona Emanuilovich Yakir. All were summarily executed.

Tukhachevsky himself was not even allowed to appear in court to defend himself. Instead, a former comrade testified against him, accusing him of weakening the Red Army's fighting capacity by hastily assembling a tank corps—a move that was twisted into evidence of his supposed collusion with Germany to overthrow Stalin.

This grim scenario brought to mind the poignant verses of Sergey Yesenin, written in 1920, reflecting on the obsolete struggle between the live horse and the iron horse—a metaphor for the ongoing conflict between outdated and modern military strategies. Yet, it was this very accusation of favoring German tank strategies that contributed to Tukhachevsky's downfall.

Indeed, the German intelligence's plot to eliminate the troublesome Soviet commander had succeeded, with Stalin using this manufactured conspiracy to consolidate his control over the Red Army. The broader plans to undermine Soviet industrial capabilities through the Tukhachevsky case, however, were transparent and did not extend to the technical departments. Despite some arrests, the core of Soviet industrial talent remained intact.

The falsified documents, supposedly proving Tukhachevsky's treachery, bore no actionable content yet were stamped with the authentic seals of the Gestapo. This clumsy fabrication was apparently enough for those eager to see Tukhachevsky and his associates silenced.

On the eve of his execution, an unexpected visitor came to Tukhachevsky's cell—a prison guard claiming to be an agent of the German Gestapo, offering him a chance to escape to Berlin. Tukhachevsky, however, recognized the irony in the situation. Despite the dire circumstances, he refused to flee, expressing regret that he would never face his true adversaries on the battlefield.

"I'm tired... you may go," he told the guard, resigning himself to his fate. The following morning, Tukhachevsky was executed, a stark end to a distinguished military career.

Tragically, just three days later, Tukhachevsky's wife and children were also sentenced to death for espionage and treason, erasing a prominent family from Soviet history. As the purge continued, friends and colleagues were arrested, and one, upon being questioned why he hadn't removed Tukhachevsky's portrait, replied defiantly, "One day, people will erect a monument to him." Unfortunately, he and his family were soon sent to a Siberian camp, never to see that day.

"Woo ... woo ..." The air was filled with the harsh cries of sirens mixed with the turbulence of the airflow, magnifying the tension on the streets of Madrid, already echoing with gunfire. "Pay attention to the sky! Enemy planes!" shouted a Republican officer, pointing upwards to alert his comrades. However, he was barely able to finish his warning before a burst from a machine gun swept across him, and he fell into the trench, his body still twitching.

Above, a Stuka dive bomber descended almost vertically, releasing its bomb accurately onto the Republican position. The explosion was deafening; rubble and broken glass flew everywhere, mingling with severed arms and fingers, sending groups of Republican soldiers to their deaths. As the Stuka climbed back to high altitude, ground-based anti-aircraft fire furiously peppered the sky in retaliation, machine guns and rifles discharging their ammunition as if it cost nothing.

Yet, the Spanish Air Force's He-51s, covering the Stuka at low altitude, presented a new threat. "Comrades! Pay attention to the front! The National Army bastards are coming up again!" yelled a machine gunner, glancing at the fallen officer beside him. He adjusted the steel helmet on his head and, facing the advancing enemy soldiers, shouted defiantly, "Let them taste our power!"

Gunshots erupted anew, followed by the continuous roar of machine guns. The position, momentarily silenced by the Stuka's bomb, was alive once more with fierce resistance. The Spanish Republican Army, using their flesh and blood, formed an unbreakable line of defense.

Meanwhile, in a different location, a battalion commander of the 2nd Panzer Division of the German SS was communicating over a walkie-talkie. "Hello? Is this the 2nd company? This is the command post! Yes... Yes... The position has been secured by you? Very good! Hold it until I issue new orders! You may arrange some men to rest... But make sure the position is secured! Okay! Long live the heads of state!"

After ending the communication, the commander walked over to an officer who was studying a map of Madrid. "Lieutenant Colonel! Our forces have captured the strategic hotel in the fifth block. A squad from the 2nd company is currently defending the area nearby."

"And the casualties?" the SS lieutenant colonel inquired, taking a sip from his glass. "The enemy forces executed some counterattacks this afternoon. I heard the National Army suffered 54 casualties."

"Reportedly, yesterday our battalion lost three men and nineteen were injured," the commander responded, a hint of distress in his voice. "To be honest, the National Army is far less determined and stubborn than the Republican Army. Their advantage lies in their new equipment and our support."

"To be honest, we're still not accustomed to this endless urban attrition warfare. In open fields, the SS 2nd Armored Division can advance dozens of kilometers a day with negligible losses. But here, in the streets of Madrid, the same losses yield only a few insignificant streets," the lieutenant colonel lamented. He paused, seemingly recalling something, then asked, "What about our hunting team? How are they faring in the city?"

"The hunt group is performing exceptionally well, as usual. They seem to be thriving in the urban environment," the commander replied, his spirits lifting slightly. "Yesterday's report claimed they eliminated at least 49 Republican soldiers and officers. Though most of these results can't be verified."

"There's no need to risk verifying these claims. Those who inflate their achievements usually end up dead, as each exaggeration leads them to increasingly dangerous assignments," the lieutenant colonel remarked with a wry smile. "It's akin to chronic suicide."

"Mr. Lieutenant Colonel, it's worth noting that snipers have appeared among the Republican ranks, and we've lost one man to enemy snipers," the commander continued. "They're quick learners of our tactics. I suspect that as the war drags on, they'll train more snipers."

The lieutenant colonel gave a bitter laugh. "That's inevitable. We can bait our enemies into mistakes, but we can't stop them from doing the right things."

In the distance, the sound of shelling resumed. "Franco suspects there's a Republican headquarters here. They're shelling the suspected area," the lieutenant colonel explained, tapping on the map. "However, General Bock believes their headquarters might be in the direction of our offensive. This afternoon, I'm bringing seven tanks to support your troops in taking this school here. Hopefully, we'll find something."

"I've heard there are some issues back home, some small-scale rebellions... is that true?" the commander finally ventured, addressing a more personal concern. "Some of the new recruits mentioned that the head of state is purging the Junker nobility, destabilizing the domestic army."

"That's true, I can't deny it," the lieutenant colonel responded sharply. "My family has pledged allegiance to the head of state. Those who fail to recognize their place will be systematically eliminated."

"But I've heard from the logistics department that the domestic turmoil is affecting ammunition output, and there are issues in the mines. Is the crackdown too harsh? The barrels and ammunition supplied to our battalion have been inadequate. We've had several batches of ammunition imported from Italy with copper casings."

"You should be grateful. The 2nd Armored Division has always had to use inferior ammunition and machine gun barrels made in Spain due to logistical constraints. Shell issues were quite severe until they captured Barcelona a few days ago and received a resupply," the lieutenant colonel admitted, clearly also concerned about the supply issues. "General Bock has sent a telegram to the head of state requesting that the front-line troops' arms needs be prioritized."

"Is it really that serious?" the commander sighed. "So the recent change to the grenades wasn't due to a shortage of materials? Even the wooden handle was removed, leaving only the warhead, and the surface was segmented, making it look much cruder than the old grenades we used before."

"You're mistaken this time," the lieutenant colonel replied with a smile. "General Bock has reviewed the performance report of the new grenade. It's indeed more powerful than the old model, though the throwing distance is reduced by about 10 meters. However, the cost has decreased by 20%, and production speed has increased by 70%. With these improvements, you can deploy twice as many grenades as before. Isn't that a good thing?"

"It would be nice if the fuze were improved," the commander mused, scratching his head somewhat sheepishly, yet still expressing dissatisfaction.

"You! I've heard they are indeed working on that, but I'm not sure how effective the improvements will be," the lieutenant colonel chuckled, then grew serious as he considered the domestic turmoil. "I hope everything is alright back home."

"It will be! Rest assured," the lieutenant colonel reassured him, patting his shoulder and pointing towards the door. "I'll return to the headquarters this afternoon. Tomorrow's offensive should go well, and we'll drive the Republican Army out of Madrid."

"Long live the heads of state!" the commander stood and saluted.

"Long live the heads of state!" the lieutenant colonel echoed before exiting the command post.

The afternoon attack commenced with the distinctive sound of German machine guns slicing through the air. Auxiliary gunners fed ammunition belts into the guns, the bullets spitting out in fiery bursts towards the Republican soldiers. Tanks rolled forward, their tracks churning up the earth and dust, providing cover for the infantry who carefully advanced from one crater to another. Sandbags and spare wheels hung in front of the tanks, makeshift armor that might just save a soldier's life.

German soldiers, firing their rifles and submachine guns, sent volleys over a low wall, the opposing position erupting in white smoke. After most of the infantry had fired, they ducked back behind the wall to reload their Mauser 98k rifles. One soldier struggled with a jammed rifle, eventually having to invert it and kick the bolt handle to eject the stuck casing. His efforts were time-consuming, but he eventually managed to clear the jam and resume firing.

Due to a shortage of copper, Germany had been forced to adopt steel-cased ammunition domestically. This type of ammunition was prone to jamming and could not be stored for long, affecting the reliability of the firearms. However, its quicker production time compensated for the shortage of copper-cased ammunition, and most soldiers had begrudgingly adapted to using this less reliable ammo.

Another barrage commenced, targeting a distant school building that had been converted into a Republican machine gun position. The building was reduced to rubble, the glass shattered, and the walls collapsed, directly neutralizing the enemy's fire and leaving dozens of corpses scattered around. German soldiers moved cautiously past the ruins, ignoring the explosions and dense smoke in the distance.

Among the debris, the battle flag of the Ernst Thälmann Battalion lay buried, and a German field reporter captured the moment, filming several German soldiers as they passed by. Their faces, dirty yet smiling with visible white teeth, seemed oblivious to the surrounding chaos.

The fight turned out to be easier than anticipated, and by late afternoon, Franco's forces had declared control over the entire city of Madrid. Although pockets of resistance persisted, with sniper fire occasionally breaking the silence, the organized resistance had effectively been crushed. The Republican Army had withdrawn from the capital, leaving behind a city in ruins.