Chapter 28. Prelude (3)
Two tanks.
Ten infantrymen riding in three armored cars.
And another ten cavalrymen.
Once Patton took command of the cavalry and I got saddled with infantry for my tanks, this truly horrific—no, lavishly overpowered—mixed unit was born.
The fight between staff officers and frontline units over who would get dibs on the future rice bowl was already reaching fever pitch.
Patton and I were just the beginning. Tanks, armored cars, trucks, aircraft—everything turned into a golden apple the moment someone tossed out, "So which branch does this belong to?" Eyes started spinning like slot machines.
This bizarre hybrid unit of ours was the unholy fusion of "armored cars = vehicles = transport = basically steel horses, right?" logic and "tanks = mobile bunkers = infantry's job, duh." Of course, I was the one who'd lit the fuse, so I had no room to complain. But now that I was stuck commanding this monstrosity, my breath caught in my throat.
"Aigoo, it's hot as hell. Lieutenant, let's take a break."
The soldiers were sprawled out openly. Anyone would think they were day laborers on lunch break, not GIs.
They'd been bundled into teams with total strangers, commanded by two lieutenants from next door—small wonder all they spouted was bullshit.
Yeah. This was my U.S. Army.
"Alright, soldiers!"
Patton's booming voice finally got the eye-blinkers to slowly turn their heads.
They weren't even proper commanders—just borrowing troops for a bit—so discipline was shot to hell. No doubt their heads were full of "Why the fuck should we bust our asses for your glory?"
"From this moment, you men are with me, Patton!! We'll be the iron fist of justice protecting the innocent citizens—"
"Can't we nap first and roll out after?"
"Yeah, yeah. Siesta and then move."
Had they picked up Mexican siesta habits already?
I had to play mediator between Patton's overboiling zeal and the soldiers' zero fucks given.
"Easy, everyone. Calm down. Bandits nap during the day too, right? Hit 'em then, it'll be easier. So just a bit longer—"
"Where's this yellow monkey butting in with his yap?!"
This dogshit bastard just floored it without brakes.
I was pissed. Hearing "yellow monkey" out of nowhere spiked my blood pressure; words failed me.
It was exactly what Ford and my father-in-law had warned about. First chance at something like command, and boom—right on cue. Even I froze up in the moment.
But one guy here moved faster than words.
"You goddamn son of a bitch!!"
Wham!
Patton launched himself, landing a kick before pummeling the soldier's head. It happened in a blink.
"You piece-of-shit insubordinate fuck! Daring to call a sky-high officer 'yellow monkey' or whatever?!"
"Ow! Fuck!!"
"You got any brothers or sisters?"
"A s-sister—"
"While Kim here achieved the historic feat of being the first Asian to graduate West Point and commission as an officer, has 'first' ever been carved into your worthless life even once? You weren't even a first out your mama's womb, and you're yapping about yellow monkeys?!"
The beating didn't stop, nor did the machine-gun barrage of verbal abuse.
"If you croak, it's one casualty report and done. If Lieutenant Kim buys it, the New York Times runs an obit big as a barn door, you brain-dead moron! Lucky enough to inherit white skin from your folks—don't you dare squander it on that crap!"
"S-sorry! My bad!"
"You. I'm watching you today. If you don't bag a single taco-fucker on sortie, it's courts-martial for you. Got it?!"
"Got it, sir!!"
"You lot! Balls shriveled up too?! No echo? Got it or not?!"
"Got it!"
Patton had smashed one guy and seized the unit in seconds; even I was awed by the threat.
While I stood dumbfounded, he straightened his uniform with a couple pats and leaned in for a whisper.
"Kim."
"Yes, sir."
"I know you're mild-mannered, but conversation's between equals. You gonna win respect from every dumb grunt one by one? When hell freezes over."
What a heartless, tearless proclamation.
Mild-mannered? Ike and Omar would laugh themselves to death. But to this Patton, that counted as mild.
He clenched his fist, grinding his teeth.
"Shut up and beat 'em. Threaten, scare the shit outta 'em. If you wanna lead, fist-first beats words every time—especially for a guy without this pale skin bullshit."
"You didn't have to demonstrate personally..."
"What? If you weren't gonna go that far, no point dragging you along."
He hawked a thick loogie onto the dirt.
"I need that tank. And you. No point playing humble—pisses me off. Get ready to roll. Play nice or fuck 'em up, your call. But fail to whip this unit, and you're dead by my hand."
"Understood."
This overwhelming macho dominance.
I could see exactly how this personality-wrecked mad dog made four-star general.
As always, when the senior shits the bed, the junior cleans it up.
"S-sorry 'bout that. Mouth ran away with me."
The guy who'd gotten his ass kicked saluted awkwardly.
What now? Patton said threaten, but nah.
I'd emulate Pershing over Patton.
"Hurt bad?"
"N-no, sir."
I offered my hand; he hesitated, then shook lightly.
"That guy's got a short fuse. We'll be watching each other's backs a bit—let's keep it cool."
"Yes, sir. Private Brian, sir."
"Yeah. Eugene Kim, as you see. Dragging that iron beast is my gig."
I bullshitted lightly, shifting eyes from my damn skin to the glorious tank.
"That's the wonder weapon? Runs smooth—"
"Wait'll it spits fire. You'll piss yourselves praising it. You're damn lucky—first GIs in U.S. history to fight alongside tanks. Immortalized."
Seeing its majestic form, they all chattered like "Guys riding that won't die!"
Seemed patched up. Time to roll.
I ordered final checks, then headed to the shack where Patton waited.
I chucked the creepy-headlined newspapers littering the table onto the floor.
'Strongest U.S. Army'? Gave me more chills than 'strongest Lotte.' I'd bet my life 1916 GIs were weaker than a modern DEA squad raiding Mexican or Colombian cartels.
Ignoring my silent scream, Patton—away from soldier eyes—grinned ear to ear before first sortie.
"Troops settled?"
"Patched up."
"Good. As I keep saying, you overthink with that brain."
So you go full berserker?
"Battlefield's chaos. Armchair pen-pushers never earn grunt trust—especially you. Let 'em stew, they'll squeak 'Why's that yellow monkey over me?' Guaranteed."
"Heh... Show results, won't they buy in?"
"Guys with brains to buy in ain't in the Army! They'd be doing something else!"
Don't say that, soldier. You psycho.
What drove me nuts teaming with him: he could think and talk normal, but chose edgelord psycho mode.
Psycho faking human? Or normal guy LARPing psycho? Couldn't tell—and it rotted my guts.
But sage wisdom slipped between mad-dog bullshit. Couldn't just tune out the barking... remarkable bastard.
"Behold—aerial reconnaissance photos!!"
Ignoring my turmoil, Patton strutted like he'd shot 'em himself.
"Right here! Intel says those fucker bandits are camped."
Target: some pissant village.
Didn't know if Pancho Villa was there, but primitive air pics showed armed Mexicans prowling.
More precisely: plane buzzed village, bullets flew—confirmation Mexicans hated GIs.
"Yeah, yeah. Locals confirmed too. Retranslate?"
"Sure. They say Villistas holed up, raising hell."
Three local youths volunteered as guides, like awaiting our charge.
"Molesting women, guzzling all booze, threatening with guns—villagers just pray GIs hurry."
I knew Spanish—four years bunking with Anastacio.
But Mexican vs. Filipino Spanish nuance? I'd spook 'em with my thick Southeast Asian accent. Took effort to parse theirs too—easier with interpreter.
Above all, these guys reeked suspicious.
"Bandit scum through and through. Plunder, murder, arson, rape—second nature."
Patton nodded like duh, but I wasn't sold.
Pancho Villa.
I didn't know Mexican history, but even I—a total outsider—knew the name. 20th-century Robin Hood toppling regimes doesn't trash popular support like that.
Sure, grunts could be feral independents.
But awaiting 'liberator' GIs? Smelled like a setup. Mexicans waiting for U.S. Army? Like Koreans welcoming Japanese troops.
"Shouldn't we dig deeper?"
"Kim, I admire your meticulousness."
Patton shook his head.
"But intel's belief. If they're good Mexicans begging help, and we greet with threats and grilling—who helps us next?"
"Fair, but—"
"Not denying the iffy vibe. But! Trap or not, we crush with force. Taco-heads scheme all they want—they just die."
Pure Patton.
"Trap means enemies waiting. Approach sharp: tactics, firepower, guts win. Lame ambush just digs their graves!"
Bam!
Overcome by passion, Patton slammed the desk.
"Right or wrong, we sweep that spot. So we go! Command decision. Prep."
"Yes, sir."
I saluted; he returned it.
Time to move.
"Let's go!! Kill some tacos!!!"
"Roll out! Roll out!"
Patton, mounted machine gun on armored car, bellowing.
Me, horseback beside the tank.
Looked like swapped branches, but this ragtag mob somehow headed for the village.
Clueless what awaited.