Gathering of the Stars (1)
The United States' forces were pathetic.
Their combat power was laughable.
Their armament was woefully inadequate.
But even as the German Empire merely drew breath, those pitiful, laughable, inadequate forces were swelling day by day.
From 1 to 2, 2 to 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128...
At a speed beyond the Germans' wildest imagination.
If the German Empire's generals had known that two million strong would arrive in 1918, a year later, they probably all would have killed themselves.
The American Expeditionary Forces reorganized at a blistering pace.
The 1st Army Corps was established under headquarters, and beneath it gathered the "Big Red One" 1st Division, the "Indianhead" 2nd Division, and the National Guard-based 26th, 32nd, 41st, and 42nd Divisions.
And my precious tank battalion was wedged right in the middle of that hellish scrum.
"Calm down, gentlemen. Tank forces will be reinforced soon enough. No need to—"
"What's the point if headquarters just sits on them? They're basically decorations!"
"Our 1st Division's already in the trenches. To show the might of the U.S. Army, shouldn't they be attached to us?"
"Hey! What division-level outfit thinks it can snag a tank battalion? This is corps-level at minimum!"
"A corps is basically a decoration too, isn't it? Wasting that firepower in the rear? Finish training first, then talk."
Shut up. My HP's already zero.
Why the fuck are they all losing their minds over my tank battalion... I mean, hell, even I'd go nuts to get my hands on something that badass.
According to the Talmud, when two mothers fought over a baby, Solomon ruled to split it in half, revealing the true mother. But we can't cleave a tank battalion, so—
"Let's all calm down. If battalion-scale makes it hard to use, why not split it into companies for frontline divisions now, then form a new corps-level battalion once we get more tanks?"
"Brilliant idea!"
"Excellent."
Fuck off. Fuck off, you lunatics. Don't split my battalion, you assholes.
"No, that won't do. Using tanks as mobile pillboxes defeats the purpose of creating the battalion. Better to keep it intact and form new tank companies later—"
"This yellow monkey butting into high-level talk!"
"Don't strut around, you upstart!"
Ah, I want to shoot the bastards. Filthy scum.
"With organization done, isn't Major Kim's role over?"
"Colored folks lack esprit de corps and combat prowess. Appoint a capable white man now."
"Entrusting precious tank forces to a yellow monkey? Britain and France will laugh. General Pershing, reassign him to staff."
"Putting someone tied to tank manufacturers in combat command biases data. Put a fair evaluator in charge!"
These dogshit motherfuckers.
My position was shaky as hell. That much was true.
I'd been told to organize, but no one ever officially made me battalion commander. My actual slot was some ridiculous "training plans staff aide" under Expeditionary Forces HQ, and the only talks I had with the training staff were about tank crew training. Knowing that, these pricks were already scrapping over the future tank battalion slot.
As my blood boiled on the verge of reversal, General Pershing sat silently, eyes closed in thought.
"Attention, all."
The conference room fell deathly silent the instant he spoke.
"Brigadier General Doyen."
"Yes, sir."
2nd Division commander Brigadier General Doyen barked back.
"Coming from the Marines, seems you've got gripes with my personnel decisions."
"I'm speaking objectively, sir. I've worked closely with the French for years—I know their views! A colored man can't—"
"All those battle credits gone to your head? Eyeing my seat as Expeditionary Forces commander?"
"......No, sir."
"Don't overstep. Last warning."
"Understood."
Having smacked down an easy mark from another branch and chilled the room to subzero, Pershing finally laid out his stance.
"The tank battalion stays intact."
"General!!"
"It's for real-world experience with large-scale tank ops—what's with the disband this, disband that? Tanks are already crossing the Atlantic; you'll get yours soon. Enough whining."
"Ahem..."
Calling out their candy-coated excuse for "I know you all just want to play with them" made faces flush and heads bow.
God-king Pershing. I'm all in on him.
"Colonel Rockenbach?"
"Yes, General."
Samuel Dickerson Rockenbach snapped to.
"Set up a Tank Section under Expeditionary Forces HQ. You're in charge. Delegating all tank matters to you—keep the others out. And Major Kim."
"Yes, sir."
"Tank battalion organization status?"
"Essentially complete."
"Designate it as the HQ-direct 326th Tank Battalion. Major Kim is battalion commander."
Finally!
Finally a combat command.
How long I'd waited for this day.
My chest tightened.
In this dogshit racist land, I'd finally seized a combat unit command. No clue how long it'd last, but my career was on solid ground now.
As I fought not to show it, Pershing's orders continued.
"Probably combat in a month. Prepare."
"Yes, sir."
The meeting dragged on, until my turn came.
"—Thus, the new 326th Tank Battalion will operate. And tank crews will get special personal weapons."
"Special personal weapons?"
"Yes, sir."
Here, I finally unveiled the item in question.
At my signal, waiting Patton dragged in a crate and cracked it open before everyone.
"What the hell is that?"
"That's the personal weapon?"
"Ugly bastard."
"Just a hunk of metal? Fuel pump? Grease gun?"
"Heh. It's a weapon."
Decades early, the legendary Grease Gun made its debut.
Not officially M3 yet, but "Grease Gun" whispers erupted instantly. Yeah, it looked that greasy.
"New weapon. Your development?"
"Some here know my report from years ago."
Armageddon report fans vs. not—faces told all.
"I predicted trenches would need a weapon to spray bullets right in your face in extreme close quarters. Hence this submachine gun."
"Why not shotguns?"
"Shotguns fire multiple rounds at once. Can't compare to field guns or MGs. Anyway, I was convinced we needed this, sank my own cash in, and this is the result."
Ugly as sin.
Cost-cutting and productivity tweaks borrowed from the iconic Sten made it even uglier than the original M3. Pure metal lump, zero aesthetics.
This era's generals, who believed guns needed wood stocks or die, were culture-shocked.
"You want to use this?"
"Kim, your unit's pioneering future tanks. Introducing this eyesore army-wide?"
"This is about U.S. honor! We'll be ridiculed!"
Reaction: abysmal. Quiet Patton started snorting—yeah, mood was shit.
Amid the slaughter of critiques, one man strode up, grabbed a Grease Gun.
"Mind a test?"
"What the—"
"Bolt like this, huh."
Quick sight, expert stance, pull trigger—
BRRRRTTTTT!!!
Corner burst. Deafening roar, faces paled. Even rage-ready mouths clamped shut in three seconds.
To reach this room took brains. No denying that insane rate of fire up close.
"Spares?"
"Yes, a few but—"
"Send 'em all to 42nd Division."
"Hey, what—?"
Haggard 42nd commander whipped around, but he stood firm.
"General, sir. This weapon is the future—our troops' lifeline. We must claim it."
"I-is it...?"
"Yes."
Thud.
Rifle on table echoed through.
"Douglas MacArthur says: this will save countless U.S. soldiers."
"Ahem!"
"MacArthur, even so, firing off like that—"
"You evaluate guns without seeing them shoot? With all you lot sitting? Had to demo."
MacArthur chuckled incredulously.
"Remember: our old common sense died in those trenches. Europeans stack corpses daily for new truths. We frontier spirits clinging to the past? Whose bodies do you want piled higher?!"
One roar flipped the room like magic.
Post-meeting, I approached MacArthur.
Douglas MacArthur.
One of the most famous soldiers.
Third in West Point history.
Giant who left massive footprints in America's great war.
Man who rewrote U.S. military history with immortal records.
I knew his future triumphs, his fatal mistakes, his downfall. Even knowing "Mac the Scum's" ugly sides, I was floored by how he dominated a general-packed room.
Had to admit: dusty-book MacArthur and the one before me? Totally different.
This man was charisma incarnate.
A solitary sun—worship it or curse it, your choice.
Ego refusing equals, backed by genius befitting it. Prodigy commander.
If I stayed in the army, I'd choose eventually.
Join the worshippers.
Or knife his back with the opposition.
"Thanks for the help."
"Help?"
"The gun thing earlier."
"Not help."
He shook his head firmly.
"Its utility would've proven itself. Difference is adopting with insight—or after rivers of blood, grudgingly. I just opened the brass's eyes for the frontliners."
Arrogant as fuck.
But he delivered, so undeniable. How many easier kills for trench-charging GIs with Grease Guns?
Yellow monkey penalty kept me from crushing the old farts there.
Patton? He'd rage-quit.
MacArthur? Words, consensus.
"Today's stunt probably irked some."
"Irked by this? Incompetents fretting seats. Thinkers would thank me. No worries. You're a worrier, huh?"
Damn, how's anyone that brazen? Studied max-annoying truths only.
He extended a hand to me and Patton.
"Douglas MacArthur, 42nd Division staff officer."
"Major Eugene Kim."
"Captain George Patton."
"Saw your report—impressive. Late hour; dinner together?"
What to do.
Patton and I locked eyes; I decided.
"An honor, sir."
"Hm. Of course. Let's go."
Grateful, but fuck off.