Chapter 29. Prelude (4)
A small village sprawled across an open plain.
And on a slightly isolated hill from that village stood a goddamn massive hacienda.
According to our collaborators, this place had been a historic site of resistance since the days of the Independence War, and there was a high chance that Pancho Villa's gang—holed up to face us—were hunkered down there right now.
"What does that matter?"
Patton couldn't have cared less about preserving cultural heritage.
"The Mexicans holed up there against invaders? They pulled that off because they hadn't tasted tanks yet. Smash the outer walls, pound the inner ones with cannon fire, and it's done!"
He was confident as ever.
And why not? Hauling two field guns into the village was basically what we were doing—on firepower alone, no way in hell could those taco bastards outmatch us, dead or alive. That was his logic.
Dong—dong—dong—
"What the hell is that noise?"
"The bell is ringing, sir."
"I got ears, asshole. That's not what I'm asking. Those fuckers are ringing their own damn funeral bells already."
The distant, ominous tolling echoed through the air.
With cavalry, cars, and tanks—the likes of which they'd never seen—on the move, the village was in an uproar.
"Can't avoid the terrain exposing us, huh."
"What'll we do?"
At my question, he smacked his lips like it wasn't even worth pondering.
"The village and hacienda are spaced out enough, and we don't have the manpower to control the whole damn place. So obviously, we charge straight for the hacienda."
"They're already ringing bells—looks like they've prepped pretty good—"
"Maybe they're ringing to cover a getaway. Cavalry, you six! Swing around to the rear and cut off their escape! Infantry and tanks, straight to the hacienda! Remaining four cavalry, follow me!"
He pounded on the doorframe as he bellowed, and six riders split off to obey.
"Kim, Lieutenant!"
"Yes, sir!"
"You take those cavalry—no, scratch that! You gotta handle the tank! We're charging like this! Entry in two minutes!"
Patton seemed to hesitate for a split second before swinging his arm to signal the assault.
"Tank Two, hit the main gate!"
Tank Two obliterated the massive front gate and rolled in, with a squad of cavalry hot on its heels. Patton's two armored cars followed at a cautious crawl.
And right on cue, the welcome fireworks erupted.
Tatata-tang! Tang!!
"Taco fucks are shooting!"
"Fire back! Don't pussy out!!"
Gunfire flashed from every direction around the hacienda.
We'd braced for it anyway. And the tanks were doing their job perfectly.
"Listen up, you fucks! Tanks don't fucking explode! Advance slow under cover!!"
As Patton's unit breached and turned the courtyard into chaos, I anxiously eyed the pocket watch I'd just set.
"You shits nervous?"
"No, sir!"
"No? You should be. But with this monster beside you, no way you're dying. This is just a picnic. A picnic where we harvest taco heads and head home!"
Not a lie, at least. A hundred times better than charging that bullet storm on foot.
The troops and our two local guides—all jittery—were staring right at me. Show even a flicker of fear, and their morale would tank.
And right then, it was time.
"Tank One, breach the outer wall and advance!"
"Breach the wall?"
"Fire, you idiots! Shoot!"
Boom!!
The towering outer wall shattered in one go.
Tank One lumbered through the rubble into the garden, with one armored car tailing it.
"Flank the hacienda side! Charge! Keep smashing!!"
Our sudden wall-smashing entry caught a couple of stunned bandits right next to us flat-footed.
"Shoot, you morons! Fire!!"
Tatang! Tang!!
They fumbled, and we turned them into Swiss cheese. First blood.
"From now on, anything moving without a uniform is the enemy! Shoot first!"
Tang! Tang! Tang!!
Gunfire rained from the hacienda's second floor. Troops couldn't raise their heads. Fuck. Gotta spoon-feed 'em?
"Armored car! Suppress!"
"Huh?"
"Machine-gun that second floor! Keep their heads down!!"
Tatata-tata-tatata!!!
Suppressive fire.
Every window shattered instantly, and the taco heads vanished.
"Maintain fire! Rest of you, dismount! Into the building! Hey! Watch your sectors properly!!"
Sloppy as hell.
Only worked 'cause the enemy was just as green. The more I watched, the more I wanted to scream.
"Good. Keep it up like that. You! Any other exits or escapes in this building?"
"What do we do?"
Our lone interpreter was with Patton, leaving me with these two locals—awkward as fuck. But they had eyes; they'd get the gist.
I barked in English nonstop, and the two collaborators started yapping at each other.
"What do you mean, what?"
"We're losing, right? How do we beat that iron monster?!"
"Shut your mouth. The boss can take that thing!"
"Then this fucker first—"
I fired my pistol the second I heard that.
Bang!
"Wha...?"
These dogshit traitors. Traitors from the start.
They didn't know I spoke Spanish. Blowing the head off the one ranting about their boss froze the other solid.
"You."
"Wh-what the—"
"I speak Spanish, asshole."
My thick Filipino-accented Spanish turned his face to pure despair.
"Spill it right now. Unless you want your head blown off like this fucker—"
Bang!
"Guh—"
The damn traitor went for his pocket. My pistol barked again.
Too far from my troops.
Never thought I'd fuck up that bad, rookie mistake.
With a few soldiers nearby, I could've grabbed 'em for intel instead of killing.
Regrets aside, my turn now.
First kill shock? Whatever. Gunfire echoed louder by the second.
Screw up here, and I'd die screaming.
And then, a grim thought hit me.
If these shits planned to backstab us from the jump, what about Patton?
"You fucks! Hey!!!"
I dismounted and sprinted to the idiots cluelessly huddled behind the tank.
"Fuck! Your CO's getting shot up back there—what the hell are you doing?!"
"Resistance is too fierce!"
"What the fuck's the tank doing!!! Fire! Blow this shithole to hell!!"
Fuck, so frustrating.
Frustrating enough to lose my mind.
I stormed up, climbed the tank, and flung open the hatch.
"L-Lieutenant?!"
"Fuck yeah! Hate jumping into real combat after tests? File for transfer! I'll approve it!"
"N-no, that's not—"
"Piss off, you dickless wonders! I'm commanding this tank now! You, load shells and fire, fucker!"
Half out the hatch, I booted the dawdling tank commander with my boot.
Fuck. If Patton croaks while we dick around, we're screwed.
Even in past life's canyons, they said: Hate it? I'll grab you by the collar and carry.
GIs don't move on nice words. Gotta order every damn step.
"Main gun loaded! Fire!"
Kwaaang!!
A perfect hole punched one side of the hacienda. Bricks crumbled; tacos scattered in panic.
"Machine guns! No—ram the tank in!"
"B-but Lieutenant, you'll—"
"Fuck! If I die, I die—so ram it in!!"
With a rumble, the tank slammed through the hole. A bandit got crushed, screamed, then took a headshot.
Of course, bullets hailed from everywhere. But fuck 'em. If small arms pierced it, we wouldn't have built tanks. One grazed my neck, but after regressing? No cheap death for me.
"Blast 'em!"
Tatata-tata! The machine-gun roar silenced the tacos. Noise beats noise.
"Main gun, fire!"
"Inside the house—"
"Fire!"
Another boot; the cannon roared. Fancy paintings and tapestries vaporized—pure catharsis.
"Reverse! Make a hole for the grunts! Reverse!! You lot! Pile in! Time to clear!"
"In! Move! Move!!!"
Tank's job done.
Troops flooded in; shell-shocked tacos dropped guns and surrendered. Tension finally eased.
Fuck.
This shit's exhausting.
Patton went even harder.
His embedded traitor lunged; he skewered the fucker's throat with his saber, then charged tanks and armored cars.
Tacos realized gunfire was useless against that majestic assault—panic set in. One mass charge later, bandits got one-sidedly crushed.
Pancho Villa? Nowhere, obviously.
Without tanks, we'd have casualties. It was their best-shot ambush.
Tanks dominated unprepared foes with killer exchange ratios.
Problem was cleanup.
"Kim, Lieutenant!! Help quick!"
"What's up? We gotta handle battlefield recovery—"
"That recovery? Can't just ditch our glory, right?"
What bullshit.
Ignoring my puzzled look, Patton yapped like a dog.
"Gotta drag these shits who threatened civilians and shot at U.S. troops!"
"Yeah, cut the crap, sir."
"What?!"
After today's insanity, Patton's growling barely fazed me.
"Fine, compromise. Five. Five bodies. One per armored car hood, one per tank barrel."
"No way. Don't even think of hanging that on my precious tank."
"Three! Armored cars only!"
"You'd get scorned."
"Bull! Everyone'll go 'damn, those guys are badass!' Shows the experience gap between you and me!"
Only you want that "experience," weirdo.
Anyway, after ranting, Patton suddenly shut up and eyed me hard. What? Six-years-junior sulking trigger your boomer mode?
"Kim, Lieutenant."
"Yes."
"Got a favor to ask."
"Shoot."
"That enemy boss you shelled."
Yeah.
Why the tacos lost will so quick.
Their boss here got main-gun'd to bits.
"His head's intact, right?"
"Yep."
"Gimme that head? Credit for slaying the enemy chief goes to you, Kim. Just the noggin for me."
Is this 1916 or 916? Headhunting?
"......Take it."
"Thanks! Hahaha! That head was too tempting! Spear it and carry!"
Fuck it, whatever.
We returned to base in triumph.
Bodies lashed to armored car hoods. Patton proudly waving a spear with the head. Pershing just chain-smoked, silent.
After burning a pack, Pershing sighed.
"Came to catch bandits, didn't know my men were the bandits."
Why plural?
Exclude me, General. I'm innocent.
Days blurred with after-action reviews and reports.
Then Pershing summoned me.
"Gotta send you to the rear."
"General! What the hell!!!"
Before I could reply, Patton—as usual—jumped in yelling.
"Lieutenant Kim's the reliable pillar of our future Army! More glory to rack up, not rear echelon! Washington! Those blockhead bastards gonna steal credit from the yellow boy again?!"
"Calm down. Kim can't even speak."
"I'm speaking for him!"
"......"
"Sorry. Zipping it."
Pershing reined in Patton and turned to me.
"Word first: Me and expedition command never planned to pull you back."
"Then—"
"Like Patton said, brass requested it. Heard a bullet grazed your neck—some bigwigs flipped."
......I didn't die. Good enough?
"Got letters. Yours and mine. Had to after reading. Take a look."
I took Pershing's letter and tore it open.
The handwriting was familiar—short and sweet.
Son-in-law. Start thinking of a name for our first child.
Two days later, I boarded the train to the rear, meek as a lamb.