Chapter 36. To Europe (2)

After a long voyage, I finally set foot in Europe.

France at last—

"Welcome to London, you yellow monkey!"

No, why London?

Ignoring my bewilderment, these ugly Brits grabbed me and shoved me straight into a dressing room, forcing me into a Chinese eunuch costume.

"Come on, Shaman America! Spit out a prophecy quick!"

"Prophesy that the British Empire wins, right in front of this massive crowd!"

"Oriental shaman! Need a crystal ball by any chance?"

"Wave! Wave your hands! London! Shout 'London' nice and loud!"

"Argh! Get the hell out! All of you, fuck off!!"

"—Sir, Major Sir?"

"Yes, yeah."

"We're almost there! Get ready to disembark!!"

Ah, fuck, it was a dream.

Those Brits' tea-flavored delusions must've creeped me out so bad that I dozed off and ended up in the Earth-3 they wanted.

July 11, 1917.

I finally set foot in France, at St. Nazaire.

Europe.

The land of longing.

The land I'd so desperately wanted to reach.

Unlike the Europe I'd seen through a 21st-century monitor, 1917 Europe was shrouded in massive storm clouds, suffocating.

A grim atmosphere. An eerie thickness, like the end of the world was nigh.

All of it blanketed the city—no, all of France.

"Major Eugene Kim... sir?"

"That's me."

"Expeditionary Force HQ orders you to Paris immediately."

Paris? That's not where HQ is, is it?

I nodded at his follow-up explanation.

"July 14th, three days from now, is France's Bastille Day. A US Army battalion's scheduled to march through the streets to boost French morale. Looks like you'll be joining them, sir."

I had no idea how Europeans would react to seeing me.

But as long as it wasn't Fu Manchu. No, as long as it wasn't Fu Manchu or shaman stuff.

Gripped by tension and anxiety, I headed to Paris—and soon enough, ran into some very familiar faces.

"Well! If it isn't the great Major Eugene Kim."

"Kyahahaha! Our major's here! Impressive!!"

Waiting for me were George C. Marshall and Patton. Wait, why the hell are these two together?

Patton had leveled up to a flashy captain's insignia in the time I hadn't seen him. War sure accelerated promotions.

"We were just talking about you. Plenty to discuss."

"You brought that red cap, right?? I wanna see Captain Kim—no, Major Kim—drill those owl cadets too."

"Left it at home. You think I'd train here too?"

"You bet."

I'd left the red cap at home.

Figured there'd be no need for it in Europe. Logically, why wear it? I wasn't dying for attention. My yellow skin was attention magnet enough.

But surprisingly, I'd never known Marshall to lie—even Patton, maybe, but not him.

So this was real... No way, no fucking way they'd really have me drill recruits here to kill time?

"As you know, the only US troops in France right now—excluding Marines—are the 1st Division."

"Fucking unbelievable. What the hell was Washington thinking, sending these morons as soldiers? Christ, half can't even shoot straight?"

It was getting worse by the minute.

Why couldn't they shoot? Oh, I knew exactly why.

No guns at training camps, so they whittled sticks and went "bang bang" for rifle practice. No grenades? Chucked potatoes instead. Proper training? Fat chance.

The reserve officer training I'd run with Marshall was decent by comparison. Those guys paid a 'participation fee' because they wanted war, so at least we had ammo.

Government-funded enlisted training? I could guess without looking.

"Fuck. Asked what they learned at camp—'drill.' Asked about shooting—'played with wood blocks.' Even so... these are America's face, aren't they? This is too much."

"They're redoing basic drill from scratch now. Parade in two days, but the troops can't stay in step. This is our 'elite' 1st Division marching the Champs-Élysées."

Incredibly, this was the cream of the crop—a single battalion, hand-picked.

Marshall's last words carried real regret.

"That's why! We need your amazing skills right now!"

"What the hell's that supposed to mean all of a sudden?"

"One day! Just one day. Get their steps synced!"

"Damn right. Major Kim, our new boss overnight, can handle it easy."

Marshall, sir... future Chief of Staff and Secretary of State, don't be so snarky—it scares me.

But what could I do?

"Listen, junior. Gonna keep ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dodging? The US needs you now!"

"Fine! I'll do it! Tomorrow, just one day, right?"

"Yes! I swear I won't stick you as camp commandant!"

"W-Well, we should at least report in—"

"Quit yapping! I'm the HQ commander! You showed your face—report done!"

"But we've come this far—shouldn't we at least pay respects to General Pershing?"

"Respect for the general? Make these shit-for-brains march in step—that's real respect. He's laid up sick anyway, planning to parade these idiots for Paris civilians tomorrow."

Fuck. Goddamn West Point. The class system was pure toxic legacy.

Couldn't withstand six years senior's pressure. Marshall nodding eagerly beside him was just salt in the wound.

Wait for me, you owls.

"Come on! Show us quick! Do it!!"

Quit nagging. I said I left the cap.

Our berserker Patton scoured Paris high and low until he scored a blood-red baseball cap.

The moment I donned that cursed hat and sunglasses, Hartmann Kim—whom I'd thought buried forever—resurrected inside me.

"Ho ho. Drilling 'em like that, huh."

"Seems harsher than before."

"Gotta learn from it. Kids look motivated—born trainer."

"You think? Not just that. Give him a deadline, push to the brink—he handles it."

"But shouldn't we assign him to staff? No need to push that hard—"

"Don't worry. Work's overflowing."

I can hear you backbiting!

Fuck, never dreamed Marshall thought that way. No wonder missions got hardcore.

Reminded me of a past-life game: "You beat this? Cool, team you with worse noobs against better foes." Marshall was exactly that matcher.

Anyway, one mad dog drilling desperately, Patton getting hooked and joining in—we barely hit minimum pass line.

"Is... is it... finally over...?"

"Good job. As expected from a guy major in two years."

"Cut it out. This rank's got deep backstory."

"Enough! Let's grab a drink!"

We wrapped training, fussed over final uniform checks, then naturally hit the officers' bar.

And there, I learned why I'd really come.

"You went there... senior?"

"Yup! Bravely approached the general. 'Sir, spare five minutes. It's the US's future!'"

"Heard you pissed yourself and he said just leave quietly."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Hey! Don't leak classified info!"

Haig having that book was surprising, but it was the British Empire—war-crazed. They'd snag it any way.

But why did Patton know?

"Senior."

"Yeah? What's up!"

"Where'd you hear about the book—"

"Your classmate told me! Got wounded in Mexico, sent rearward—overheard then."

"Who?"

"Name? Something aristocratic—"

"Van Fleet?"

"Yeah! That guy griped you only put 'VAN' for his name in your book. Spilled everything."

Sigh...

Found the leak. Loose-lipped bastard.

"Wanna hear the kicker?"

Marshall sipped quietly, then spoke.

"This clown drags Pershing mid-chat with Haig, yapping away. 'Eugene Kim wrote that book—says he wrote an even crazier report!'"

"Never said that. 'General, the Eugene Kim who split Mexican deserts with me, racking up feats for America—'"

"Stop. Cuss words gone, flowery bullshit added. Anyway, hadn't even seen your report—stubborn as hell."

"Heroes recognize heroes! I know Eugene Kim—West Point legend who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wrote it. Gotta be epic!"

Only Patton could pull that.

Didn't know contents, but insisted I wrote a report—blasted Pershing straight. Grateful for help, but dying to crack his skull and dissect that brain.

"So you're in Europe safe thanks to meee! Cheers!"

"Yes, sir. Grateful beyond words."

"Hah!"

Me: no posting yet.

Patton: eyes bloodshot, plotting US org under Pershing.

Marshall: 1st Division staff, endless suffering.

No clue what awaited, but reliable folks around? Solid comfort.

"This is the US Army's reality."

Pershing whispered, but it hit like thunder.

We'd drilled till they marched—barely.

That was it.

French ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠elites: perfect ranks, bayonets gleaming, marching proud.

US "elites": shaky ranks, sloppy gear, amateur shuffle.

Aim: announce US arrival, boost morale. But any civilian'd think, "These second-rate losers replacing Russia? Nerds?"

"It's fine. You did enough."

Even Patton consoling? Confirmed we're fucked—heartbreaking.

"General. The Kim who restored US glory with me is now Major Kim. We'll snag the Kaiser's head soon—don't worry!"

"That's why I'm worried."

"Sir...?"

Would've been better silent. Patton: opens mouth, loses.

"Major Kim."

"Yes, sir."

"Wrote a terrifying document."

"I'll revise it!!"

"Revise what? It's like you foresaw the future. Use that insight well."

He lit a cigarette, frustrated.

"Why didn't Washington show it sooner... I get it. Funston was supposed to lead, switched to me—chaos."

"..."

"This battlefield'll devour countless Yanks' blood and bodies—like Brits and French before. Need a beacon to guide us right."

Pershing clapped my shoulder.

"You can shine bright. Chin up."

"Thank you, sir!!"

"Good. First, shine that light. Hot meeting with French frogs—you're coming. After, send you wherever."

This ain't a beacon—it's straight fire.

Blaze up, got it?

"Understood."

Orders are orders.

At least Pershing wouldn't bait-and-switch. That was my sole comfort.