Chapter 39. Gathering of the Stars (2)
I sat with Patton and MacArthur in the dining hall, elegantly slicing into our steaks as we talked.
"I've wanted to have a serious conversation with you two at least once."
"Haha. It's an honor to hear that from you, Colonel."
"I'm the one who's honored. Lately, no one's stimulated my intellect like Major Kim."
MacArthur flashed an impressive smile as he spoke.
"I was deeply impressed by that report of yours. The foresight, the logical progression, the clear conclusion. It was like a single beam of lighthouse light piercing the fog for a ship lost at sea."
"You're too kind—gilding the lily on my account."
"Gilding? What humility is this when someone finally recognizes you properly? Since when did you start playing modest?"
Patton, who had been aggressively chewing his meat, tossed that out bluntly, and MacArthur chuckled deeply, nodding in agreement.
"Captain Patton hits the nail on the head. Indeed, at this level, even humility is excessive. You need to hold your head higher! Why should the man who made such a miraculous prediction bow his head?"
If I don't play humble, what kind of trouble am I in for? I'm not MacArthur. Know when to bow.
"Of course, your race will be an issue."
He said that and brought his wine glass to his lips.
"But from time immemorial, prophets have made predictions without power. In the end, you need power to make them listen. Even Christ had to whip the filthy merchants defiling the temple. If they won't open their eyes even when shown the way, you have to force them open."
"Hm..."
"Of course, you've done your best. You developed that 'Grease Gun' weapon and introduced tanks too. You didn't stop at words—you acted. Truly the mark of a righteous man."
But new concepts always meet resistance, he muttered.
"This is a duty. The duty of one who knows more. When I pushed to accelerate the adoption of that firearm to help you, I was merely fulfilling my duty."
His conviction seemed rock-solid. It probably wouldn't waver for the rest of his life, even on his deathbed.
Suddenly, my thoughts veered in another direction.
If my report was a prophet's prediction, as he said, then who recognized its truth faster than anyone—the author himself?
What staggering egoism. Syngman Rhee? That guy's combat power was barely a 5.
"Don't take it the wrong way, but I'm glad you're Oriental, Major Kim."
"What do you mean by that?"
"If you were white, would you have come to West Point? You'd have gone to State Department or Manhattan or somewhere. I'm truly fortunate to have a talented junior like you."
"Hahaha..."
"After General Pershing, it will naturally be my era. And when I retire, the one to lead the U.S. Army will obviously be you, Major Kim—no one else."
My knife slipped mid-cut.
"As you just said, isn't my race a penalty?"
"Don't worry. The incompetent fools without vision will all be cleared out in my era. All you need is loyalty and diligence to the United States."
It might have been laughable coming from some random colonel blathering about "my era" after Pershing, but when it's MacArthur, that's a different story.
That boundless arrogance couldn't be dismissed as mere "arrogance." In reality, after Pershing came MacArthur's era.
"Aren't you frustrated? Incompetents grabbing at your ankles with lame excuses? Join me, and you won't have to waste your brain teaching those blockheads the ABCs one by one."
"Join you, you mean—"
"Not some faction nonsense, of course. Literally. Just working together to make a better U.S. Army. You couldn't join the 42nd Division anyway."
Phew. Thought my heart was gonna stop.
If it had been 'You! Be my comrade!', that would've been a massive headache, but the most politically savvy soldier in U.S. history had stopped right at the line I could accept.
"I'd be grateful to work alongside an outstanding man like you, Colonel. The honor of my lifetime. Hahaha!!"
"Hahahaha!!"
"Hahahahaha!!!"
Patton laughed along cluelessly, and afterward, we just traded idle chit-chat.
On the road back to the 42nd Division's garrison.
MacArthur sat in the back seat of the vehicle, lips pressed tight.
The Expeditionary Force headquarters wasn't in good shape.
As expected, everywhere he went, there were plenty envious and jealous of the great MacArthur, and HQ was no exception.
He could already smell the political conspiracy targeting the 42nd Division. Despite the division commander's health deteriorating daily, no replacement had been made, and dozens of his capable officers—practically his own limbs—had been suddenly transferred to other divisions.
Why? When they should be concentrating more power on the best unit to boost combat effectiveness, why pull this crap? To split the glory? Is glory and record that important?
Disgusting, incompetent bastards.
Heads full of shit, mouths with serpents' tongues—sycophants clouding the eyes of the great General Pershing.
A man like Pershing couldn't possibly misjudge. Heroes recognize heroes, so those shit-stars around Pershing must be desperately slinging mud at this MacArthur's brilliance.
As his thoughts reached that point, MacArthur suddenly recalled the junior he'd met today.
The new hero only he recognized the true value of.
A sparkling gem crawled up from the bottomless swamp, in a far tougher position than his own.
Didn't that gem being slandered by incompetents mirror MacArthur himself too closely? How could a senior stand by?
Major Kim probably didn't know, but MacArthur's "long arm" had been supporting his back for a while.
During the Mexican Expedition, as War Department spokesman, hadn't he spotted this ingenious junior's potential and hyped him up big in the press? If he knew, the junior would surely shed tears of gratitude for MacArthur's grace.
Fortunately, General Pershing was also looking out for the kid. Anyone could see the battalion command was a stretch, but he'd pushed it through. Probably judged the young talent needed combat experience.
And the unit assigned: a tank battalion.
Saying "combat in one month" meant, naturally, our offensive.
An Allied offensive within a month, where tanks—this new weapon—would be deployed.
France? Ridiculous. France hadn't recovered from the Nivelle Offensive shock. So, Britain's offensive. Logically, Britain wasn't in a position to attack either... but one word—"political objectives"—and they could launch anytime.
Not Passchendaele. No tank could handle that muddy hell. Shoving troops in there again would get Haig assassinated for sure.
A map of the Western Front floated in his mind, countless units and arrows drawn and erased in seconds.
He quickly reached a conclusion.
"Cambrai."
"Pardon? What did you say, sir?"
"There'll be a British-led offensive at Cambrai, with tanks as the mainstay."
"You must have gotten some hint about upcoming operations."
"No? Can't you figure that out yourself?"
Ignoring his baffled aide, he pondered.
How many more front and rear enemies would he have to fight?
"Good luck, Major."
"Cambrai."
"What?"
"We'll probably head to Cambrai."
The battle where tanks truly emerged as the core of warfare.
Thanks to U.S. tanks developing much faster than in original history, and my existence accelerating tank unit formation, U.S. participation in Cambrai was plenty plausible.
"Where the hell is Cambrai?"
Patton frantically flipped through the map, muttering Cambrai... Cambrai...
"Here? What's there?"
"Germans."
"No, why this place specifically?"
"Firm ground. Perfect for rolling tanks—no better spot."
A few months back, the Third Battle of Ypres—infamous as Passchendaele—had raged under British Expeditionary Force commander Douglas Haig.
In the blink of an eye, British casualties hit at least 200,000, up to 400,000. Britain had buried its troops in that hellish mud again, and now needed results to placate the furious public.
Hence, Cambrai.
An enemy stronghold where the new weapon might yield something.
But what could our battalion with a few dozen light tanks do?
Going felt like suicide, but we had no choice.
Of all places, our first battlefield was a guaranteed defeat. Driving me nuts.
"Heh. You hear that and immediately think Cambrai? You're a monster, Kim! Legend of the U.S. Army!"
Yeah, 'cause I know that's where it goes down. Wanna regress after dying and see for yourself?
Anyway, MacArthur's the issue.
Simplifying U.S. Army politics: Pershing faction vs. MacArthur faction.
They weren't outright hostile. MacArthur constantly bucked Pershing, but Pershing never beat the insolent punk or shipped him to Panama Canal duty.
But post-Pershing, with Marshall rising as successor, things got complicated. Were MacArthur and Marshall on good terms? Hell no.
Super simply: Align with Marshall. Rigid-looking but deep-hearted Marshall over self-aggrandizing MacArthur? Marshall, obviously.
Problem: Marshall saw me as "This black sheep's prime marbled grade-A. Even with a heavy plow, it'll dig well, right?" I'd die! Nooo!
No joke. If I rode Marshall's line, he'd seal me next to Roosevelt in D.C. and waltz off to smash Hitler himself. From what I'd seen up close, Marshall was that type.
MacArthur, though?
First, his era lasted decades until WWII. Huge merit. Plus, just flatter diligently—no big hassle!
Issues: Bonus Army incident shoving vets under tanks, and as he aged, more "MacAsshole" than MacArthur... but help from the side might work out.
No need to overthink.
They clash post-WWII outbreak, so charm both! Boom! Simple!
"Major Kim?"
"You called?"
"Commander wants you. Go now."
"Understood."
The time had come.
"The British are launching an offensive at Cambrai. A massive armored operation centered on tanks."
Patton listened quietly to the briefing from my new CO, Colonel Rockenbach, as I quickly scanned the operation summary.
"We're deploying the newly formed 326th Light Tank Battalion here, but what do you think?"
"I agree it needs combat deployment."
"But that sounds like there's a catch."
"We'll lose. Probably."
Rockenbach frowned at my words, but Pershing, seated at the head, remained silent.
"Any reasons?"
"Anyone can see it's a rushed offensive to save Haig's seat. Success would be the real miracle."
"Major Kim! Mind your language."
"Plenty of gain if we take Cambrai, and tanks as main force makes sense. But that's it."
"Many offensives have political motives. Not enough. More reasons?"
"The British would use us as cannon fodder without blinking. Their tanks are slow but thick heavy ones; ours are light and fast. Perfect to toss away."
"British would do that. Self-preservation first."
Pershing nodded.
"Your life isn't yours. It's a U.S. asset. Act accordingly by your judgment on site."
"Understood."
Pershing pondered briefly, then clapped my shoulder.
"Come back alive. That's an order."
"Yes, sir. I'll follow that order."
"Good. That's all. I trust you, no matter what anyone says. No extra pressure."
My throat tightened suddenly, but thankfully, it didn't show.
Could I come back alive?
I missed Henry and Dorothy.
"If it feels off, go see them first."
What the hell?
Is that possible?