Chapter 37. To Europe (3)
In summary,
nothing happened at the meeting with French headquarters.
"Major Eugene Kim?"
"Yes, that's me."
"So you're the famous one. Caught me off guard for a second—you're Asian. Chinese?"
"Korean."
That was it.
I didn't step up to say a word, and no one paid me any attention after that.
But Pershing seemed immensely satisfied even with that much.
"What'd you think, Major Kim?"
"It was a good experience."
"Yeah? Those guys were probably dying to ask you something—their tongues twitching with it—but damn if they didn't hold back."
He caught the baffled look on my face and explained further.
"The moment I got your report, I had it translated and sent a copy to Paris too. Word is, it stirred up quite the storm over there. The stuff in it was a masterpiece, first they'd heard of it."
— Looks like there's a typo in the report's date.
— Yeah, that's the one.
Pershing actually cracked a rare smile at that point.
"And then the author turns out to be Asian. Awkward to ask, unbearable not to—bet it twisted their guts something fierce. You played your part perfectly."
Hell, the way you put it makes me sound like some baguette-gut-twisting machine.
And as General Pershing said, the French did have their guts twisted plenty—proven later in a whole different way.
After the parade in Paris, the 1st Division shipped out right away.
Division commander General Sibert and his staff officer Marshall both wore faces full of frustration and self-loathing. Yeah, after that embarrassment, what could they say?
Our Expeditionary Force headquarters dove straight into a conference.
"It's been proven: the U.S. Army isn't ready for combat yet."
"……."
"……."
Everyone hung their heads at Pershing's sharp assessment.
A ragtag militia mob.
While the British and French had forged their million-man armies through total war, paying in rivers of blood, the U.S. Army had stood still. No surprise there.
"But that's the end of it. We'll learn fast, absorb the lessons they bought with blood, buy the weapons they've developed.
This war ends on our terms. Keep that in mind."
"Yes, sir!"
"We won't commit right away."
He went on.
"Take it easy, take it easy. Rush these poor bastards into the trenches now? Cross the Atlantic just to die? No intention of that here. If possible, I want to focus on training through the rest of the year."
"Understood."
"I hear the 1st Division's already scouting training grounds. I want to get ample supplies, weapons, and training to our troops ASAP, and I expect you all to make that happen. Do everything to get our men proficient with rifles and the battlefield, and fast."
A legendary general really was something else.
Pershing's principles were rock-solid.
We won't serve under anyone.
We decide when we enter the fray.
And that moment comes when our troops are trained up.
For a commander leading an army full of idiots and morons, it was near-perfect policy.
"Major Kim."
"Yes, sir."
"As you see, what we need most right now is training."
Fuck.
You said you'd send me!
Send me wherever I want, you bastard. You said you'd ship me out somewhere decent. Don't tell me that meant 'to some training camp'?
Justice demands a lead bullet.
Even Patton had lied to me. The headquarters company commander who'd boasted loud now sat slumped and silent. Just one day of training, my ass?? Now it looked like we'd train till the war ended.
To think I'd trusted that lunatic senior. Should've known when I gave him that red cap. No skull mark like my custom one—maybe I should've stamped Patton's skull on it—
"You alright? You look spaced out."
"No, sir. I'm fine."
Fine my ass. I wanna die.
"I've got a mission for you, Major Kim."
Everyone's heads snapped up.
"The Frogs ordered ten thousand tanks from Ford. With Britain and France both seeing the potential in tanks, the War Department says we need to operate them in earnest too."
"You mean—"
"Start with one battalion for now. Get a full tank battalion ready. I'll send over troops with driving experience from what we have; test it thoroughly—training, operations, combat use, everything."
"Yes, sir!"
This was definitely important.
No combat for the U.S. Army anytime soon anyway.
I had no clue why this got dumped on me after my freak promotion, but it was a golden opportunity.
"The French requested you specifically."
"??"
"Of course, I shut that down. Who are they to summon another country's officers? Stick to your duties, but if you need foreign cooperation, check with headquarters first and handle it casually within reason. Bear in mind we're allies, like it or not."
"Understood."
That's when one tactless bastard slipped in.
"General."
"What is it, Captain?"
The 20th-century berserker, always in his own world, had that gleam in his eye again.
"I want in too."
"Don't you have plenty as headquarters company commander?"
"General, I'm the first U.S. Army officer to lead tanks in combat. Obviously, I'm the perfect man for this new tank unit!"
What kind of miracle logic is that? By that reasoning, Pershing as Mexico expedition commander would qualify too.
"Hmm……."
The problem? Pershing was buying it. No, General! Don't hand me that mad dog!
"Fair point."
He glanced between Patton and me, then nodded.
Fuck.
"Sending you bandits as a set, and the tank future looks bright as hell."
"No, General—shouldn't elite talent like Captain Patton handle critical headquarters duties?"
"Kim!! You get promoted to major and ditch me already? I bought you meals, drinks! Everything! And you turn cold like this? I didn't raise you that way!!"
Anyone overhearing would get the wrong idea, you psycho.
Regardless of my screams, Pershing made his call.
"Captain Patton."
"Yes, sir!"
"You'll be under a much junior major— that sit alright?"
"Major Kim and I are one body already! Why would a heart mind its hands and feet?!"
"Ho. That close, huh. You two click perfectly. Get handover ready then. Help out your new boss plenty."
Like handing a rabid dog to a trainer and skipping happily away.
Me, the mystery hound handler? Just bewildered.
"Kuhahaha!! Thank you, sir!! I'll drill into those German dog bastards what a tank is! Straight to Berlin, hang that eight-limbed Kaiser corpse on one—"
"Major Kim, take good care of Patton."
"Yeees, sir……."
"Is that why the tank unit's nicknamed 'Hell Hunters' or 'Headhunters'?"
Don't say that shit seriously.
It doesn't sound like a joke.
France was deeply depressed after the failure of the Nivelle Offensive.
This massive push, right before the U.S. Army's full entry, had ended in the worst blunders and humiliations, racking up casualties for nothing.
Newly tasked with rebuilding the French Army, Petain offered a simple slogan to soothe the enraged, despairing troops.
"We'll wait for the Americans—and the tanks they'll bring."
Tanks come, we all live.
No more charging trenches like dogs, panting, just to eat machine-gun fire!
So the French military, under him, started hyping the new American wonder weapon big-time. In their dire straits, tanks looked most promising, with real results expected.
France had ordered ten thousand Ford-model M1917 tanks—with licenses for domestic production. All-in bet.
In this mess, the fact that the guy who'd predicted this hellish trench war before it started—and proposed tanks faster than anyone—hailed from the savage lands across the Atlantic? Drove the French mad.
"……You?"
"That's right."
Fuck, look at these frogs flip.
They'd dragged me out on some pretext about tank training site coordination, then their faces rotted the instant they clocked I was Asian. Pure art.
"Hmmm……."
"You requested me, but what's with the 'hmmm'? Versailles your hometown? Some un-necked noble spawn?"
Nice one, Patton. Fuck yeah, that's the stuff.
His spinal-reflex trash-talk, brain bypassed, froze the French reps' faces.
"Ahem! If that offended, my apologies. Just caught off guard by how young you are."
"The United States doesn't discriminate by age or race. We judge by ability alone."
Crazy racists yapping about age. Straight up, you flinched at my skin.
At my words, they refocused on reality, spreading blueprints and docs on the table.
"Both we and the British, researching ways to break this trench stalemate, arrived at the concept of an armored armed tractor."
"Makes sense. Most rational approach."
"Then why develop these small, dainty things instead of massive 'land battleships'?"
"Then don't buy 'em—why order?"
Shit, gotta hold back.
Emotions wriggling, my tone kept turning snippy.
History had them making damn near the same anyway. Funny now I think— they figured these were best too, so why ask? Showing off?
"Ahem!"
"Just so you know, I contributed to the M1917's development, but that doesn't make me a Ford salesman. Questions? Hit up Ford. Anything else?"
I'm swamped prepping a new battalion—why this bullshit?
Even slotting the new tank battalion was chaos.
Sibert of the 1st begged headquarters: "Obviously the combat unit goes to frontline 1st Division??" mouth agape like a baby bird. HQ squawked back: "Prize like this stays under direct HQ control!" Military bullshit as usual.
Amid the blood-pressure spikes, the tank battalion formation progressed smoothly.
"……You're giving this to me?"
"Yes, Captain Patton. Time for you to……inherit the hero's mission."
"Hahaha!! Don't worry—I'll forge perfect elite rookies!"
Elite morons incoming.
Was this the right call?
Maybe overwork had cracked my brain?
I shoved aside visions of the personality-wrecked troops he'd train and handed Patton the red cap and shades.
Yeah. Time to rest.
Hate training.
Captain Dwight Eisenhower was stuck training recruits in Texas. His pitiful pleas to deploy got bounced by ironclad logic: 'No. Losing one great instructor like Kim was enough.' From across the Atlantic, I got letters seething with inexplicable hate and rage.
Comforting the heartbroken Ike who couldn't hit the front? His newborn son Dwight.
Ike, who'd cursed my letters for baby spam, now filled his own with dad-brags. See? Happens to everyone with kids.
Captain Omar Bradley guarded Montana's copper mines—a key strategic spot—from evil reds and German spies. Got curses from him: "Why do you keep winning?"
Captain James Van Fleet led a machine-gun company, deploying soon. The day that bastard hit French soil, I'd greet him with a joyful neck-snap.
Marshall shuttled between 1st Division and HQ, spitting blood. Reconciling them, plus politely telling the Brits and French 'Fuck off, we're not your subordinates'—all on him now.
Patton…… Patton being Patton.
"At attention!"
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Remember! Crush the enemy like a steel wave! Kill 'em all!!"
"Kill 'em aaall!!"
I averted my eyes from the mass brainwashing at the training ground.
Something……something huge was happening.
Everyone hustling for war prep, November rolled around before we knew it.
On November 1st, fresh U.S. troops hit St. Nazaire as usual.
The 42nd Infantry Division, 'Rainbow' Division.
Drizzle welcomed them, and their transport ship never made it home—torpedoed by a U-boat.
All these omens felt deeply ominous to the 42nd's commander.
"Can these misfits……really pull it off?"
"Don't worry, General. Your army's invincible."
"Such spirit. My health's shot……not sure I can manage."
"I'll support you fully. No need to fret."
The morale-crushing drizzle,
the sunk transport,
the frail boss.
No adversity or ill omen could snuff the fire in Chief of Staff Douglas MacArthur's heart.
The battlefield needed him.