It was a war where antique FT-17s found themselves in 1930s firefights, where bull-nosed armoured cars bristled with mismatched guns, and where local workshops churned out “unique” designs that defied both logic and symmetry. Whether Communist-supplied or cobbled together with whatever was lying about in a garage in Madrid, these vehicles had character—and, occasionally, working brakes.
Frankly, it’s a mystery how we’ve gone this long without adding these additional magnificent machines to our range. While we’ve always prided ourselves on covering the theatre with precision and style, this particular corner of military modelling has long been crying out for proper attention—and perhaps a little love for those boxy beasts that look like they were built by committee (and an indecisive one at that) and here at Bayonets & Brushes, we happily step up to the plate!
So we’re thrilled (and mildly amused) to unveil our new additions to our Spanish Civil War vehicle ranges—faithfully recreated in miniature, complete with all the glorious eccentricity of the originals. Whether you’re a hardened historian or just a fan of wonderfully weird tanks, this is your moment. Scroll down for the full line-up—goggles on, engines rumbling!
OK, so lets start with the Camión Blindado Vulcano
Ah, the Camión Blindado Vulcano—a name that conjures images of fire, fury, and perhaps something rather more formidable than the reality. In truth, this peculiar armoured lorry looked less like the wrath of an ancient god and more like a mobile biscuit tin with delusions of grandeur. Nonetheless, it remains one of the Spanish Civil War’s most wonderfully eccentric contraptions—a true testament to wartime improvisation, national ingenuity, and the unwavering belief that any truck can become a tank if you squint hard enough.
Constructed in the Vulcano shipyards of Barcelona, this gallant beast was the product of necessity over elegance. Armour plating of dubious thickness was riveted over a commercial chassis, gun ports were cut wherever seemed most convenient, and the whole affair had the angular grace of a brick wrapped in corrugated iron. Yet somehow, it worked—or at least moved forward in roughly the right direction while making a great deal of noise.
We’ll be the first to admit that we may have spent a little too much time fussing over how many rivets to include on the model, or exactly which mismatched wheels best capture the vehicle’s charming asymmetry. But when you’re dealing with something this gloriously odd, it would be a crime not to lean in and embrace every wonky panel and awkward silhouette. After all, the Vulcano wasn’t about perfection—it was about enthusiasm, resilience, and making the best of what you had (even if what you had was a bus with a bad attitude).
And now, at long last, this armoured anomaly joins our range. We hope you’ll find it as endearing and bewildering as we do. Whether you're recreating a Republican convoy or just parking it next to something much sleeker for contrast, the Camión Blindado Vulcano deserves a place in your collection—if only because it looks like it’s perpetually one sharp turn away from falling apart, and we rather admire that kind of spirit.
and the Camión Blindado MTM-2
If the Camión Blindado MTM-2 were a person, it would be the bloke at the pub wearing a suit two sizes too large, insisting it’s “tailored.” Built in Madrid by the Ministry of War's Technical Section (hence the snappy “MTM”), this vehicle was clearly the result of someone trying very hard to make an armoured car out of a delivery van—and, to be fair, mostly succeeding. The MTM-2 had the right number of wheels, a generous helping of armour plating, and more angles than a geometry exam.
Design-wise, it seemed to follow the sacred principle of “add more metal until it stops looking like a truck.” Featuring a sharply sloped front and vaguely turret-like top section, the MTM-2 had aspirations of modernity, even if the chassis underneath was already wheezing under the weight. It was often armed with a Hotchkiss machine gun and a prayer, and its ability to inspire confidence in the crew was, let’s say, variable.
When it came to designing our model, we found ourselves in a peculiar bind: trying to make it look both accurate and as wonky as the real thing. The original builders were clearly working with the materials to hand and a spirited disregard for symmetry, so we’ve done our best to honour that proud tradition. Every panel, vent, and rivet has been placed with care—or at least with the same “that’ll do” energy of its creators.
The Camión Blindado MTM-2 might not win any beauty contests, but it’s got a certain boxy charm that’s hard to resist. It’s a little bit awkward, a little bit bold, and entirely representative of the plucky improvisation that defined so much of the Spanish Civil War. Pop it on your tabletop and just try not to smile—it’s like a metal underdog in vehicle form.
The Rio Tinto Camión Blindado's
When the Spanish Civil War broke out in 1936, the miners of the Río Tinto basin didn’t waste time waiting for armoured reinforcements from Madrid—or anywhere else, for that matter. No, these were practical men of industry, well-versed in hard work, heavy machinery, and the fine art of making do. So, they took a look at what they had—trucks, scrap metal, riveting tools, and a deep distrust of fascists—and did the only logical thing: they built their own armoured vehicles. The results were the now-legendary tiznaos—rough, ready, and not entirely unlike mobile coal bunkers.
Constructed in foundries and workshops better suited to mending ore carts than fabricating battlefield machines, these contraptions were a glorious collision of ambition and necessity. Sheet metal was welded over lorry chassis, loopholes were cut out for rifles, and in at least one case, actual mine cart rail was used for armour. The term tiznao itself—a sort of affectionate slang—was used to describe these soot-blackened, improvised beasts. Whether that referred to their smoky engines, coal-dusted crews, or just their general grimy charm is anyone’s guess, but it certainly stuck.
Despite their homespun origins, these miner-made tiznaos weren’t just for show. In the early weeks of the war, they were used to ferry columns of volunteers—armed miners, trade unionists, and assorted idealists—towards Seville in an ambitious attempt to crush the Nationalist uprising before it could properly organise. The sight of one of these wheezing, clanking monsters trundling across the Andalusian countryside must have been something to behold. Whether they struck fear into the enemy or simply caused mild confusion remains up for debate.
Now, let’s not pretend they were invulnerable. Many of these vehicles had the turning circle of a steamboat, the visibility of a coal cellar, and armour that was often better at stopping polite conversation than bullets. Still, they carried their crews into battle with something like dignity and a whole lot of rattling. In at least one famous episode, a tiznao managed to push through a Nationalist barricade before promptly breaking down, but even that was considered a moral victory.
Recreating these splendid tinclad marvels in miniature was no easy task. There are precious few surviving photographs, and those that do exist often look like they were taken during an earthquake. Still, we’ve done our best to capture their essence—lopsided, lumbering, and absolutely packed with character. It’s the sort of model that looks just as appropriate parked next to a coal tip as it does on a battlefield. And let’s be honest, who among us hasn’t secretly wanted to build a vehicle with a hammer, some steel plate, and sheer defiance?
So, we proudly present two more additions to the miners’ tiznaos: gritty, grimy, and gloriously handmade. They may not have been the most refined machines ever to roll into a fight, but they had heart, history, and just enough horsepower to get there—eventually. Add one to your collection and give a nod to the working men who turned tools of labour into machines of war, with nothing more than courage, coal dust, and a highly questionable blueprint drawn on the back of a sandwich wrapper.
So lets continue our jaunt through our new Republican clanking catastrophes...
The Tren Blindado Libertad was a singular marvel of Spanish Civil War improvisation—one and only, bespoke, and a little rough around the edges. When the Republicans found themselves short on vehicles but fortunate enough to have railways, they seized the opportunity to convert a standard train carriage into a moving fortress. This wasn’t some shiny, well-oiled war machine, mind you, but rather a heavy, clanking beast cobbled together with steel plates and the sheer determination to keep fighting, no matter the odds.
Technically, the Libertad was modest but effective. Instead of the usual array of cannons and machine guns you might expect on an armoured train, it was fitted with a series of rifle portholes—small, somewhat rough openings cut into the armour through which soldiers could fire. Although no Hotchkiss machine guns were officially mounted, some of these portholes were certainly large enough to accommodate one if anyone had been feeling particularly ambitious. The armour was improvised, relying mostly on riveted steel sheets and sandbags, enough to offer protection against small arms fire but not much else.
This train wasn’t built for speed or finesse. It lumbered along the tracks, a hulking symbol of Republican grit, rolling into contested zones to ferry troops and provide mobile cover fire. Its crew had to contend not only with enemy fire but also the ever-present dangers of sabotage and the vulnerability that comes from being stuck on rails. But despite these limitations, the Libertad played its part in the early stages of the conflict, proving that sometimes sheer determination and a steel box on wheels can go a surprisingly long way.
Modelling the Tren Blindado Libertad was a challenge that left us alternately fascinated and slightly exasperated. With only grainy photos and fragmentary descriptions to guide us, capturing the train’s boxy, patchwork appearance required more guesswork than we’d like to admit. Yet, we’ve done our best to honour this one-off armoured oddity—a tribute to the ingenuity of its builders and a reminder that in war, even a modestly armoured train with rifle portholes can make a mighty statement.
Right, let’s zero in on the AAC-1937 — the armoured car that was Catalonia’s answer to the “We need tanks, stat!” Picture this: it’s 1937, the Spanish Civil War is raging, and the Republicans need a decent armoured vehicle fast. The solution? Take a trusty Chevrolet SD 1937 truck chassis, slap some armour on it, and call it a day. Well, not quite that simple, but you get the idea. The chassis came from General Motors Peninsular in Barcelona, but here’s the catch — it was a two-axle truck, and piling on all that armour made the poor thing wobble like a toddler on a tricycle. To steady the beast, Soviet engineers (brought in for expertise and probably to keep an eye on things) grafted on extra axles borrowed from their GAZ trucks, themselves inspired by American designs. The result was a quirky hybrid: a vehicle heavily inspired by the Soviet BA-6 but with a bit more pep under the bonnet.
The armour? Steel plates welded together in Valencia’s blast furnace at Saguntum, giving it decent protection, though nothing too fancy—this wasn’t a luxury ride. Its four-person crew included a driver, commander, gunner, and a helper who doubled as a hull machine gunner. Now, the turret situation was a bit of a patchwork affair. Depending on what was available (and that was never consistent in wartime Barcelona), the AAC-1937 came with a variety of turrets and weapons: Maxim machine guns, DT machine guns, or MG 13s, plus cannons like the Puteaux SA 18 37 mm — a relic carried over from the Renault FT-17 tanks of yore. Sometimes, they even pinched turrets from defunct T-26's, BT-5's, or BA-6's. This eclectic armament reflects the desperate improvisation of the era—take what you can get and hope for the best.
Production kicked off in April 1937 at a brisk pace of about four vehicles a month, all emerging from the Hispano-Suiza factory in Barcelona. But as the Nationalists tightened their grip in 1938, cutting off crucial steel supplies, the production line slowed to a crawl, well... a crawl with considerably less inertia. In total, somewhere between 60 and 90 AAC-1937s rolled out — not a massive fleet but respectable given the chaos. They served primarily on the Eastern fronts of the Spanish Civil War, notably in the Aragon and Catalonia offensives. Sadly, their baptism of fire included the bloody Battle of the Ebro, where at least 17 were destroyed and 18 captured by the Nationalists, who promptly swapped their armament for MG 13 machine guns and pressed them into service.
When Catalonia fell, the remaining AAC-1937s in the north limped over the border to France, where the French army inherited these eclectic beasts. The French used them in the Battle of France, with relatively modest losses considering the carnage around them. However, about 20 ended up in German hands, who refashioned them with their own MG 34 or MG 42 machine guns and repurposed them as troop carriers or self-propelled anti-aircraft platforms. The Germans then sent these Frankentrucks to the Eastern Front, where they were seen battling in the bitter Battle of Moscow—though their stay was brief, as the Soviets dispatched most of them to the scrap heap in short order.
So, the AAC-1937 was no sleek panther but a scrappy, cobbled-together workhorse born out of necessity, featuring a motley collection of turrets and weapons that reflected the resourcefulness (and desperation) of wartime Catalonia. From its patchy manufacture to its patchier armament, it fought on multiple fronts and ended up in the hands of four armies—Republican, Nationalist, French, and finally German—before finally fading into history, leaving behind a legacy as one of the Spanish Civil War’s most stolid armoured cars.
The Union Naval De Levant UNL-35
Ah, the Union Naval de Levante UNL-35 armoured car—a curious concoction of wartime necessity, industrial ingenuity, and a healthy dollop of Spanish improvisation. Developed during the tumultuous years of the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939), the UNL-35 is perhaps best described as a mobile tea trolley clad in boilerplate and thrust into battle by men of valour and, one suspects, mild scepticism. Manufactured in Republican-controlled territory, specifically by the Union Naval de Levante shipyards in Valencia, the UNL-35 was born not of peacetime procurement plans but of desperate wartime expediency. The Republicans, lacking tanks in meaningful numbers and unable to conjure them from thin air (despite what one might have read in certain Moscow-sourced communiqués), turned instead to the age-old art of sticking steel onto lorries and calling the result a fighting vehicle.
Now, lest one think the UNL-35 a mere lash-up of rivets and wishful thinking, let us acknowledge that it was in fact a rather robust effort given the context. The chassis was typically a modified commercial truck frame, often a Ford V8 or similar imported type, providing a degree of mechanical reliability—although whether that reliability extended to the ability to traverse a Spanish hillside without shaking loose its axles is open to gentle interrogation. The body was entirely armoured, with plates up to 8 mm thick, which, while offering reasonable protection against small arms fire, would likely fare poorly against anything with a whiff of anti-tank ambition. Nonetheless, it gave the Republican militias and army something vaguely tank-shaped to frighten the less committed Nationalists, and that, in war, is half the battle.
The UNL-35 was armed with a combination of Hotchkiss or MG13 machine guns—one in a rotating turret and additional mounts elsewhere as enthusiasm (and available gunners) permitted. The turret itself was, somewhat charmingly, based on that of the Soviet BA-6 armoured car, though with a delightful Valencian twist. It is worth noting that the Soviets did indeed ship tanks and armoured cars to the Republicans, but demand outstripped supply, hence the need for indigenous creations such as our noble UNL-35. The vehicle could carry up to five crewmen, who must surely have been on quite intimate terms by the end of each mission, given the cramped interior, mechanical noise, and an interior temperature not unlike a roast suckling pig’s oven.
Operational use was as mixed as the Republican forces themselves. The UNL-35 saw action across various fronts, most notably in Madrid and along the Eastern Aragon campaign. It was used for infantry support, convoy escort, and general morale boosting (of Republican troops) or terror-inducing (among Nationalist ranks). While mechanically underwhelming and susceptible to breakdown, its mere presence—rumbling along roads where previously only mule carts had dared—signified the Republican commitment to modern warfare. That said, its off-road capability was, shall we say, theoretical. Many UNL-35s were confined to urban or well-paved environments, where they might lurch menacingly through the streets like a hangry tortoise in a tin corset.
Technically, its performance metrics were serviceable if uninspiring. The vehicle could reach a top speed of around 40–45 km/h on roads, though one suspects this was downhill with a tailwind and minimal crew. The 8 mm of armour was sufficient to deflect rifle bullets and shrapnel but stood no chance against anti-tank rifles or artillery. Vision ports were narrow, and visibility was poor—an issue for both driver and commander, and not exactly ideal when one is trying to avoid both potholes and fascist artillery shells. Cooling and ventilation were minimal, and the petrol engine, while hearty, was known to overheat under pressure. Not unlike certain members of the Republican general staff.
In conclusion, the UNL-35 stands as a testament to the Republican effort to industrialise under siege, to innovate amid shortage, and to give as good as they got with whatever they could hammer together. Though it may not have matched the technological sophistication of German or Soviet designs, it served its purpose with a distinctly Spanish flair—undaunted, uneven, and entirely authentic. One might say it was the armoured embodiment of the Spanish Republic itself: resilient, resourceful, occasionally unreliable, and never entirely sure which direction it was supposed to be going. But by Jove, it had a turret, and sometimes, that’s all one really needs
Ok so now lets turn our attention to the other side of the front lines and see what goodies the Condor Legion has just had added to their rolls:
The Vomag 5 LR 448 Heavy Truck
Ah, the German Vomag 5 LR 448 Heavy truck — a true testament to Teutonic engineering, where brute force meets borderline obsession with mechanical complexity. This beast was not designed for Sunday drives or genteel outings to the countryside, but rather for hauling prodigious loads over unforgiving terrain, probably with a grimacing driver clutching the steering wheel as if his life depended on it. With a hefty chassis, a robust 5-ton payload capacity, and an engine that sounded like a brass band warming up on a cold morning, the Vomag 5 LR 448 was the kind of vehicle that inspired both admiration and mild terror in equal measure. If trucks had personalities, this one would be the gruff, no-nonsense type who wouldn’t say “hello,” but would shove you out of the way with a rusty crowbar.
Its technical specs read like a manual for enthusiasts with a penchant for spanners and cursing under their breath. Powered by a hefty inline six-cylinder diesel engine, it delivered the grunt necessary to haul tanks, artillery pieces, ammunition, and supplies without a hint of complaint — though the drivers might have complained enough for both parties. The transmission was a complicated affair of multiple gears, designed to give the driver options but more often resulting in confusion, especially when negotiating the steep, rocky tracks that passed for roads in 1930s Spain. The suspension, solid as a rock, was designed to withstand the roughest of conditions, which meant passengers were treated to a ride that felt suspiciously like being in a washing machine on a bumpy cycle.
Now, onto its starring role in the Spanish Civil War — a conflict which, among other things, put the Vomag 5 LR 448 to a test that was as unforgiving as the war itself. The Nationalist forces, backed by Germany and Italy, requisitioned these trucks to ferry everything from men to munitions across the rugged Spanish hinterland. The Vomag’s hefty frame was perfect for carrying tanks and artillery pieces, making it a logistical backbone in an era when mechanised transport was still wrestling with the realities of dusty, uneven terrain and a general shortage of decent roads. It was, for all intents and purposes, the glorified donkey cart of mechanised warfare — slow, reliable, and utterly indispensable.
Yet, this reliability came at a cost. The Spanish heat and dust were relentless adversaries, playing havoc with the Vomag’s cooling systems and air filters. Drivers, many of whom had more faith in prayer than in their vehicle’s durability, frequently found themselves stranded miles from anywhere, armed only with a toolbox and a patience that would make a saint wince. Maintenance was a constant battle — oil leaks, transmission failures, and electrical gremlins were par for the course. Spare parts were scarce, meaning that ingenious improvisation became an art form. Imagine soldiers cobbling together replacement components from scrap metal, old vehicle parts, and sheer bloody-mindedness to keep these mechanical behemoths on the road.
Despite its many foibles, the Vomag 5 LR 448 earned a grudging respect from those who depended on it. It wasn’t fast, nor was it particularly comfortable, but it got the job done, often under conditions that would break lesser machines. Its role in the Nationalist logistics network was crucial — without such heavy trucks, moving tanks, artillery and supplies across Spain’s rugged landscape would have been an impossible nightmare. The Vomag became a symbol of grim determination, an unsung hero that toiled away behind the scenes while the more glamorous aspects of the war played out in headlines and propaganda.
In the grand theatre of war vehicles, the Vomag 5 LR 448 may not have had the sleek allure of a tank or the roar of a fighter plane, but it was the essential workhorse, plodding through mud, dust, and chaos with the doggedness of a chap who’s been told to “keep going, no matter what.” It embodied the awkward marriage of German engineering precision and wartime pragmatism — complicated, stubborn, occasionally infuriating, but ultimately reliable. One could almost imagine it muttering to itself in a thick Saxon accent, “You want this lot moved? Fine. But don’t expect me to smile about it.” And that, dear reader, is a quality we can all admire.
The Horch 830R was a sprightly little German four-wheeled wonder, the automotive equivalent of your uncle’s slightly too enthusiastic but charmingly earnest weekend hobby. While it lacks the brute heft of a Vomag 5 LR 448, this nimble chap made up for it with agility, practicality, and a rather endearing lack of pretension. Designed primarily for reconnaissance and personnel transport, the Horch 830R was the sort of vehicle that seemed to say, “I may not look like much, but I’ll get you there — and probably back — without too much fuss.” It was the official “let’s get from A to B without breaking down or embarrassing ourselves” car of the Wehrmacht, equipped with a sturdy chassis, a dependable four-wheel drive, and the kind of German engineering that screams, “I’ll work all day but don’t expect me to be flashy about it.”
The technical heart of this Kübelwagen was a modest yet reliable 3.8-litre inline six-cylinder engine, paired with a gearbox that offered a decent spread of gears for tackling the varied terrain of war zones. With a curb weight just over 2 tons, it was light enough to be nimble, yet solid enough to shrug off the occasional pothole or shell crater without sending the driver into cardiac arrest. Its four-wheel drive system, coupled with portal axles, gave it impressive ground clearance, allowing it to wade through mud, sand, or rubble with a tenacity that would make an off-road enthusiast nod in grudging respect. The canvas top and minimalist interior suggested a vehicle made for function over frivolity, though it did manage to carry its occupants with a degree of comfort better than one might expect from a military jeep of the era.
During the Spanish Civil War, the Horch 830R made a somewhat understated but nonetheless pivotal appearance. German support for the Nationalists saw these Kübelwagens deployed as staff cars, reconnaissance vehicles, and quick transport for officers and couriers darting between the chaotic fronts. In a theatre where roads were often little more than dust tracks, the 830R’s agility was a godsend. It darted through narrow mountain passes and across rough terrain where heavier vehicles would have been reduced to lumbering crawling. This was the vehicle for the chap who needed to arrive at the right place, on time, and without too much fuss, even if that meant occasionally skidding spectacularly in the loose gravel and cursing his luck.
The Spanish sun and dust, ever the great adversaries of wartime machinery, tested the Kübelwagen’s mettle as well. Its air-cooled engine was a boon in the dry heat, sparing it from the radiator woes that plagued many of its contemporaries. However, the rough terrain and constant use took a toll on its suspension and drivetrain, and spares were a constant concern. Mechanics had to become adept at on-the-spot repairs, often resorting to creative solutions that balanced engineering know-how with sheer desperation. Despite these challenges, the Horch 830R proved remarkably resilient, earning a reputation as the dependable “little workhorse” of the Nationalist side.
By war’s end, the Horch 830R Kübelwagen had quietly established itself as a stalwart companion to officers and reconnaissance units alike. It might not have had the glamour or firepower of tanks and bombers, but its role was crucial: to ferry commanders, scouts, and dispatch riders across battlefields and back roads alike, often under less-than-ideal conditions. In the great catalogue of military vehicles, it occupies a charming niche — the dependable, nimble little scout, ever ready to slip through cracks in the front lines and bring news or orders with as little fuss as possible. And if you listen closely, you might just hear it grumble under its breath in a Bavarian accent, “Not fancy, not fast, but I’ll get you there, no questions asked.”
The Wanderer W-11 12-60 PS Kübelwagen
Ah yes, the Wanderer W11 12/60 PS Kübelwagen—a vehicle so unmistakably German in its character, it may well have insisted on punctuality, orderly queueing, and the immediate consumption of wurst. Developed by Wanderer-Werke AG in Chemnitz during the early 1930s, the W11 Kübelwagen (a contraction of Kübelsitzwagen, meaning “bucket-seat car”) was no frivolous Sunday saloon. It was the rugged military variant of the Wanderer W11 touring car, tailored not for leisurely promenades down the Unter den Linden, but rather for trundling across muddy fields with a colonel in one seat and a set of high-octane field orders in the other. Designed with all the martial sensibilities of a Prussian sergeant major, it found its way into the Spanish Civil War via that thoroughly unsubtle German intervention force, the Condor Legion.
Technically speaking, the W11 12/60 PS Kübelwagen was a cut above many of its contemporaries in the light military vehicle category. Introduced in 1933 and produced through 1936, it was built on the civilian Wanderer W11 chassis but heavily modified to meet military specifications. It featured a six-cylinder in-line engine with a displacement of 3,286 cc, producing a rather respectable 60 horsepower (PS) at 3,200 rpm—hence the “12/60” moniker, using Germany’s pre-1940 horsepower rating system (taxable HP / actual HP). That engine, coupled to a four-speed manual gearbox, offered robust torque and surprisingly lively performance for a car expected to transport moustachioed men with binoculars and an aversion to walking.
The Kübelwagen version differed notably from its civilian cousin in bodywork and purpose. The body was open-topped, often with a folding canvas roof for when it rained (which was frequently in northern Spain and always when the generals forgot their caps), and was constructed with simplified, angular panels to ease manufacturing and improve durability. Doors were sometimes omitted entirely, replaced by canvas flaps or low cut-outs to facilitate dashing exits—or more frequently, awkward clambers. The seats were spartan “bucket-style” configurations, designed to keep passengers firmly planted during cross-country romps, hence the name. Suspension was leaf-sprung, which gave it all the comfort of a cast-iron bathtub over cobblestones, but ensured it could tolerate rough terrain and the occasional abandoned vineyard.
Germany’s military interest in Spain, nominally under the guise of “volunteerism,” saw the Condor Legion receive a number of these vehicles. Though the exact number of W11 Kübelwagens shipped to Spain remains elusive (war records having suffered the indignities of both Francoist censorship and subsequent Allied bombing), photographic and archival evidence confirms their presence among Legion motor units. They were primarily used as command cars, reconnaissance vehicles, and general staff transports. Unlike their armoured contemporaries, these vehicles were unarmoured and unarmed—apart from the occasional irate officer wielding a map and shouting in Saxon dialect. Their effectiveness relied on speed, mobility, and looking vaguely too insignificant to be shelled.
Field performance, by all accounts, was solid—auf Deutsch, naturally. The W11 Kübelwagen was capable of reaching 85–90 km/h on paved roads, with a modest off-road capability limited more by weight and ground clearance than engine power. With a wheelbase of 3,000 mm and a kerb weight of around 1,500 kg, it could navigate most rural Spanish roads and dry riverbeds, though it was known to flounder in deep mud or steep inclines. The rear-wheel-drive layout and relatively high centre of gravity meant that overly enthusiastic cornering could produce dramatic results, often involving shouted recriminations and inconvenient ditch inspections.
Maintenance in the field was a mixed affair. German mechanics prized the W11 for its straightforward engine and robust construction, but Spain’s unforgiving climate and limited spares meant that improvisation was frequently the order of the day. The single Zenith carburettor, for instance, was known to clog if exposed to the ubiquitous Spanish dust, requiring frequent cleaning and a healthy dose of curses. Tyres, too, suffered from poor road conditions and overuse—there are reports of W11s operating on mismatched or retreaded rubber, much to the chagrin of the more fastidious German quartermasters.
In terms of battlefield impact, the W11 Kübelwagen was never intended to engage in combat directly. Its contribution was logistical and organisational: shuttling officers, delivering dispatches, and serving as mobile observation posts. It represented a key cog in the motorised warfare doctrine the Germans were then honing—a kind of proto-Blitzkrieg dress rehearsal played out in the dry hills of Spain. The vehicle’s reliable performance, comfort (relative to motorcycles or horses), and transport capacity made it a vital tool in maintaining command and control across dispersed and rapidly shifting frontlines.
In the final tally, the Wanderer W11 12/60 PS Kübelwagen occupies a curious yet commendable niche in the mechanised annals of the Spanish Civil War. It never fired a shot, yet enabled the orchestration of many. It embodied the industrial might and tactical doctrine of Nazi Germany, long before the world had fully grasped what that would mean. And while overshadowed in popular memory by tanks, aircraft, and the horrors they wrought, it deserves a nod from the annals of military motoring history—as a vehicle that kept the fascist wheels turning, quite literally, in Spain. Whether that’s a distinction of honour or infamy, one leaves to the conscience of the reader, but by Jove, the thing certainly ran on time.
But what have we got to supplement Franco's forces themselves I hear you ask? Well in response to one of our erstwhile customers we offer you:
The Cannone da 75/27 Modello 11
Italy’s somewhat earnest attempt at field artillery, introduced with great patriotic fervour just in time for the First World War and then promptly kept in service long enough to see Mussolini’s moustache grey and the world catch fire all over again. Designed by the well-meaning but occasionally over-ambitious engineers at Ansaldo, this 75mm field gun was very much a product of its time: reasonably modern in 1911, positively antique by the 1930s, but still wheeled out (often literally) with dogged pride by Italian forces and their various ideological export ventures. With its wooden-spoked wheels, hydro-spring recoil system, and a breech that looked suspiciously like it belonged on a Victorian train cannon, the Modello 11 was the sort of weapon that looked both heroic and slightly exhausted at the same time.
On paper, it wasn’t a bad bit of kit. The 75mm calibre allowed for a fairly respectable high-explosive shell, useful for both anti-personnel and light fortification duties. It had a maximum range of around 9,000 metres if the crew was feeling optimistic and the barrel hadn't spent the last decade rusting in a barn. It fired fixed ammunition — a bit of a novelty when introduced — and was light enough to be towed by horses or, in more modern outfits, trucks that groaned under its weight as if questioning their life choices. The recoil system was clever enough for the time but needed frequent maintenance, particularly in rough terrain or if subjected to enthusiastic firing by crews keen to see if “rapid fire” was something this thing could manage (it couldn’t, at least not gracefully).
When the Spanish Civil War kicked off in 1936, the Modello 11 found itself pressed back into the limelight, courtesy of Mussolini’s desire to play geopolitical chess with real people. 143 were shipped off to Spain to bolster the artillery capabilities of Franco’s Nationalist forces — often arriving in a state that can best be described as “well-loved.” These guns were soon dragged into position across the dusty Spanish countryside by a combination of overworked horses, vintage Fiat trucks, and exasperated conscripts wondering if they’d drawn the short straw. Once in place, however, they proved to be rather useful — a kind of “better-than-nothing” artillery solution in a war where firepower often outpaced logistics and good sense.
Their main duties were as traditional as they come: bombarding Republican positions, shelling towns that had the temerity to pipe up and occasionally trying their luck at counter-battery fire (with mixed results). The Modello 11’s relatively light weight meant it could be positioned quickly — assuming the crew hadn’t all collapsed from heatstroke or sheer existential fatigue — and its ammunition was still being produced in decent quantities back in Italy. It was a favourite for supporting infantry attacks and, thanks to its fairly flat trajectory, could deliver accurate fire against trenches, buildings, and occasionally unlucky armoured cars, though one suspects the latter was more down to luck and cheek than official doctrine.
That said, it wasn’t all glory and ringing ears. The gun’s age often betrayed it — many of the pieces sent to Spain were worn, poorly maintained, or cannibalised from earlier conflicts. The recoil mechanisms, in particular, had a reputation for failing spectacularly at inconvenient moments, and there are accounts of entire crews suddenly finding themselves playing an unintentional game of “catch the gun carriage” after recoil kicked the thing halfway back down the hill. Elevation was limited, and its traverse even more so, making it a poor choice for rapid repositioning or dealing with flank attacks. Still, when it worked, it worked — and it’s hard to argue with something that lobs high explosives with a certain rustic charm.
In the end, the Cannone da 75/27 Modello 11 was a field gun with delusions of relevance and just enough reliability to make itself indispensable in a war full of improvisation and second-hand solutions. It wasn’t cutting-edge by the 1930s, and frankly, it wasn’t cutting-edge in 1911 either, but it held a certain stubborn dignity. Like an ageing actor reprising the same role for the tenth time, it knew its lines, hit its marks (mostly), and left the audience slightly deaf but impressed. In Spain, as in Italy, it did what was asked of it, creaked under the strain, and kept firing — a gun out of time, perhaps, but very much of the moment.
The Breda 20/65 Modello 1935 was Italy’s answer to the question “What if we gave a machine gun an espresso and a promotion?” A pert little 20mm autocannon, this lively number was designed to provide mobile anti-aircraft defence at a time when aviation was becoming quite the nuisance. Compact, rapid-firing, and deeply committed to making a racket, the Breda 20/65 was a thoroughly modern piece of kit for its day — albeit with a few very Italian quirks, such as an unnecessarily complicated feed system and a pathological dislike of dust. Officially, it was meant to deal with low-flying aircraft; unofficially, it would cheerfully shoot at anything that moved, rattled, or gave off an air of political unreliability.
Technically speaking, it was a clever little design: it fired 20x138mmB long rounds from 12-round strip clips at a rate of roughly 240 rounds per minute (on a good day, downhill, with a following wind). It had an effective range of about 2,000 metres against aerial targets and could be mounted on a tripod, vehicle, or even the back of a willing mule, provided one had the appropriate bribes, or a damned big stick! The barrel was air-cooled and replaceable, which came in handy when the gun inevitably overheated from enthusiastic use. The sighting system, while better than squinting and guessing, wasn’t exactly cutting edge, but then neither were most of the aircraft it was trying to shoot down.
In the Spanish Civil War, the Breda 20/65 was sent in respectable numbers to aid the Nationalists, also to the tune of 143 actually, where it was received with a mixture of delight and occasional bafflement. Against the modestly performing aircraft of the Republican side — many of them Soviet-supplied and flown with a touch more courage than coordination — the Breda proved surprisingly effective. It was light enough to be moved into forward positions, nimble enough to track low-flying targets, and just powerful enough to ruin a pilot’s day. Crews developed a healthy respect for its punch and a less healthy relationship with its feed strips, which had a habit of jamming at the most inopportune moments. Still, when it fired, it sang — a crisp, mechanical aria of tracer and vitriol.
Beyond its aerial ambitions, the Breda also developed something of a sideline in shooting at ground targets — armoured cars, soft-skinned vehicles, and the occasional stubborn door. In this role it was frankly overqualified. The high-velocity 20mm shells could punch through light armour and make life extremely unpleasant for infantry caught in the open. Spanish Nationalist forces began mounting it on trucks and scout vehicles, effectively creating early “technical” platforms before that term became trendy. Its bark was certainly worse than most things’ bite, and the psychological impact of its rapid-fire chatter should not be underestimated. By the end of the war, it had earned a reputation as one of the most versatile and unpleasant surprises the Nationalists had at their disposal — a gun that never quite got the credit it deserved, but left an impression all the same (usually in 20mm diameter holes).
So thats it for the Nationalist side of the fence but where would we be without adding something spicy to the Republican arsenal.
Of course we are referring to
The Putilov 76.2mm Mod.02/30 Field Gun
The Soviet Union’s slightly wheezy but determined effort to modernise a pre-revolutionary antique and pass it off as something fit for the 1930s battlefield. Originally born as the Model 1902 under the care of Tsarist engineers who favoured elegance over simplicity, it was a fine weapon for the First World War — accurate, well-balanced, and capable of hurling a 6.4kg shell with the kind of flat trajectory that made infantrymen and low walls equally nervous. Fast forward to the 1930s and the Red Army, never ones to waste a perfectly good cannon, gave it a light makeover: a longer barrel, strengthened carriage, and new sights, birthing the Model 02/30. A bit like slapping a new coat of paint on a steam engine and calling it a sports car.
This updated (but still recognisably vintage) gun quickly found its way into the Spanish Civil War, courtesy of Soviet support for the Republican forces. A whole 79 units were crated up, shipped across the Mediterranean, and often unloaded by men who’d never seen anything heavier than a mule cart, the Putilov guns were a welcome sight — if not exactly cutting-edge. Republican gunners, many of them learning on the job, found the 02/30 surprisingly forgiving. Its solid construction and relatively gentle recoil meant that crews could get a fair rate of fire once they'd worked out which lever did what and stopped standing behind it during discharge.
In action, the gun served in a traditional field artillery role: suppressing infantry, battering buildings, and occasionally indulging in counter-battery duels with Nationalist 75mm pieces that looked suspiciously like they’d been built by everyone else but Spain. The 76.2mm round had a respectable range of about 8.5 kilometres, and its high-explosive shells were quite capable of making life miserable for anyone caught in the open or behind light cover. The gun's mobility — it could be towed by horse or truck — was more theoretical than practical on Spain’s rocky roads, but once in position, it was a reliable, if slightly grumpy, companion. Crews developed an almost superstitious reverence for the thing, affectionately providing them with a wealth of nicknames which imparted a fair sense of their perceived age and temperament.
Though hardly a marvel of modern engineering by the mid-1930s, the Putilov 02/30 was nevertheless robust, accurate, and reassuringly unwilling to explode without provocation. It wasn't sexy, it wasn't fast, and it certainly wasn’t light, but it did the job — and in a war as chaotic and improvisational as Spain’s, that counted for a lot. Its Soviet origin added a touch of revolutionary glamour, even if it occasionally arrived missing bits or requiring a manual printed only in Cyrillic and wishful thinking. All in all, it was the sort of gun one might grumble about hauling up a hillside, then silently thank when it turned a Fascist strongpoint into a smoking ruin — a relic of Tsarist design, polished up for Bolshevik export, and fired in fury under the Spanish sun.
So, to sum up, the various machines that clanked, rattled, and trundled their way across the sunbaked battlefields of the Spanish Civil War form a veritable scrapyard symphony of interwar military ambition. From Italy’s theatrically antiquated Cannone da 75/27 Modello 11 to the Soviet Union’s repurposed Putilov 02/30, these weapons were as much political statements as they were implements of war — testaments to the ideological pageantry of foreign powers determined to have a stake in someone else’s civil squabble. They came in crates, convoys, and occasionally under tarpaulin, bearing the peculiar stamp of their homeland’s design philosophy — be it German efficiency, Italian improvisation, Soviet utilitarianism, or American “good-enough-ism.”
What unites this curious menagerie — the Horch 830R dashing through the dust, the Vomag 5 LR 448 lumbering along with existential gravity, or the Breda 20/65 chattering away like a caffeinated woodpecker — is not merely their technical merits, but their embodiment of a broader truth: that war, particularly one as chaotic and proxy-laden as Spain’s, is rarely fought with ideal tools. Instead, it is a patchwork affair, won and lost on the backs of aging field guns, overworked trucks, and autocannons mounted on anything vaguely mobile. These vehicles and weapons were often outdated, sometimes mismatched, and frequently unreliable — and yet, they were pressed into service, repaired with wire and hope, and somehow made to function in the crucible of modern warfare.
Their legacy is not one of sweeping battlefield dominance or glorious technological revolution, but rather of stubborn persistence. They reflect the grim humour and ingenuity of their crews, who coaxed them into action day after day, in conditions that would make a workshop manual weep. In the end, these machines were not just artefacts of industrial ambition — they were characters in their own right: underappreciated, battered, sometimes laughable, and yet utterly essential to the tragedy and absurdity that was the Spanish Civil War. One might even say they had a certain charm — provided you weren’t the poor soul tasked with pushing one uphill.
No comments:
Post a Comment