Chapter 40. Cambrai (1)
“Some of our engineer regiment is off in the rear on a separate mission.”
Pershing tapped a spot on the operations map as he spoke.
“Your tank battalion will provide cover for them.”
“Tanks providing cover?”
I nodded along with Colonel Rockenbach’s words.
“Just a figure of speech. They join the first assault, then pull back right away to guard the engineers.”
Don’t like it?
Then fuck off and don’t complain.
It was a simple choice: add dozens of tanks to the initial push, or hold them back in reserve.
The Brits sure as hell wouldn’t turn that down.
“That’ll work.”
“We’ll notify the British Expeditionary Force, so you focus on prepping for your debut. Good luck.”
The first headache for Patton and me as we prepped for battle was the era’s limitations themselves.
“Hey, junior. The tanks are spread out way too thin. No joke.”
“What can we do? That’s the best we’ve got after all our efforts. So we drill the breakdown procedures until they’re second nature.”
Win, and it doesn’t matter.
Victory means you clean up at leisure, recover the dead tanks, fix ’em up. No problem.
But lose?
You’re abandoned in the no-man’s-land between trenches—a hellhole where survival’s a long shot.
“Right now, what we need is to cover infantry, advance together, and seize enemy trenches. Tanks can’t take a trench line solo anyway, so if yours break down, dismount immediately, pile onto another tank, and lay down covering fire.”
“Fuck. Ride on top? They’ll die the second they fall off. Can’t lose good men like that. These kids are gold.”
“Staying put is death anyway. This way, their odds go up.”
Probability.
Stuck with a busted tank? Certain death.
This was the only way to save even one more.
“No matter how I slice it, our battalion’s role is straight-up cavalry. High-speed maneuver, hit their flanks and rear hard as fuck, smash ’em! No need to tag along with infantry then.
Exploit mobility to neutralize their defenses, and even stragglers can fall back alive, right?”
“If that was the goal, they’d have formed us at regimental strength or higher. On this front, is there even a ‘flank or rear’ vulnerable spot we can hit with fast maneuvers at battalion scale? Even if there is, we can’t seize and hold it.”
“Hmmm.”
Patton shook his head in frustration.
In a few decades, maybe. But not yet.
The M1917’s top speed barely hit 6 mph. Shockingly, that was an upgrade over the original Renault FT, and British Mark heavies were even slower. No maneuver warfare with these beasts.
We disagreed on tank doctrine, but we agreed: get every man back alive from Cambrai first.
Patton and I pulled all-nighters from then on.
“Maintain every damn piece of gear! Hey! You fucks! If that shit breaks down in the field, you’re dead! You goddamn assholes!!”
“You dickless wonders! Remember: breakdown, bail in 3 seconds! Fail, and you die with the tank!!”
Patton had somehow scored another cursed red cap. Rumors swirled among the troops that he’d ripped out a unlucky German POW’s heart and dyed it with the blood. What the hell was this guy up to?
Whatever. Us two in our caps, barking at the men—it was routine now.
“A tank lives through tank commander and driver teamwork! One mind, one body! Think of her as your girlfriend! Me! Tank! Buddy! We’re in a goddamn threesome, you hear me, assholes!!”
“Hey! Can’t you drive straight? At this rate, you’ll knock up the commander upstairs with no dick! You’re puking from motion sickness? You stuffed or what?!”
The original Renault FT had zero comms between commander and driver. Engine roar drowned out talk, so the turret guy stomped signals with his feet. That was it.
Knowing that, I’d tinkered: a gearshift-looking rod in the commander’s seat. Move it, driver sees and follows. Wanted signal lamps, but too high-tech for now. Tears.
Tank training.
Gunnery drills.
Grease Gun basics for every man beyond rifle quals, burned through what ammo we had on live fire. Everything possible.
And destiny’s day approached.
Pershing bickered with Haig for a while, but we got a decent outcome.
November 18.
The 326th Light Tank Battalion rolled into the British Third Army sector.
“Pleased to meet you. Colonel William Barclay Parsons, regimental commander.”
“Major Eugene Kim, commanding the 326th Tank Battalion.”
The 11th Engineers were volunteers, mostly New York railroad workers.
Parsons too—an engineer, founder of Parsons Brinckerhoff. Volunteering for the front? Impressive guy.
“Truth be told… tanks covering us feels surreal. Aren’t they assault weapons?”
“Haha. It just worked out that way.”
Railroads were crucial in this war. Hauling millions’ food, clothes, beds, ammo—essential. Here at Cambrai, these engineers would build tracks for max advance.
“To us, best cover is offense. We’ll push the Germans back as far as we can, then return.”
“Bold. Count on us. Probably nothing anyway—rack up kills for glory. Soldiers live for that, right?”
Polite chit-chat done, I headed back to our babies.
“Maintain properly! Properly!! Where’s the trench-crossing planks?!”
“What a mess.”
No matter the training, combat pressure lingered. If I was shaking, what about the troops?
“Kim, junior! Why the funeral face?!”
“What’s wrong with my face, haha.”
“Heading to battle—you gotta be thrilled! Smile! First crack at German skulls, don’t look like death!”
Patton raved solo, then climbed a tank, arms high. Busy troops erupted.
“Warriors of the mighty 326th Tank Battalion!”
“Patton! Patton! Patton!”
“To Berlin! It calls us!”
“KILL! KILL! KILL!”
Guess I’m the only sane one left.
November 20.
Three companies, 15 tanks each. Some front-modified for wire-breaking.
Plus command tanks for me and Patton. Eight recovery/aux, spares. A few already DOA. Grim.
Over 50 tanks formed up.
Brits swarmed behind—follow-on if we opened the field.
Wanna crack some Tommy skulls. Cooperation? Fantasy. They treated our lights like heavies, begged frontal assault. Unbelievable.
0620 hours.
Dawn breaking, artillery thundered sky-shattering.
Desperate bid to breach the world’s worst hell: Hindenburg Line.
Shells shredded wire, doom rained on unlucky Germans.
Stunned by the barrage, gas followed—pure murder mist. Panic-stricken, maskless troops dropped. RAF strafed low.
Europeans’ blood-learned lesson: efficient barrage, gas, air.
Now, tanks’ turn.
I eyed my watch anxiously.
“Junior. You good?”
“You’re the one looking rough, sir.”
Even Patton trembled before his first big show.
“Of course. Our boys might not come back—can’t help shaking.”
Human after all.
Felt bad for seeing him as a caveman berserker.
Shells and smoke pierced, a sunbeam lit the hellscape.
Patton’s eyes changed.
“Ah, aaaaah!!”
“Sir? Patton?”
“Ancestors! They watch me! Sorry! Patton heir scared of battle! Forgive this unworthy descendant!!”
The fuck? We’re together—what drugs? He’s clean.
“All units! Battle stations!! I, Patton, open the road to heaven!!! Ancestors! Another Patton joins you today!!!”
“Waaaaaah!!”
Tankers pounded hulls, howling back at mad Patton.
Fuck it.
“We’re the first U.S. to the front! No pussying out, fucks! Die on the field! Turn tail, America’s honor’s in the shitter! Got it, morons!!”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Charge!!! For the Kaiser’s head!!”
I’d prepped epic speeches all night. He ate ’em. Payback post-battle.
“Tanks, advance!!”
Rumble!!!
Steel giants awoke one by one.
Engines roared everywhere.
Tanks surged, thousands of Brits behind.
WW1 ritual: human waves sprint, shells drop, survivors snag on wire, MGs shred the strugglers.
Not today.
One unlucky tank brewed up. Crew trapped—probably instant.
No time to mourn.
“Barrage commence!”
Flags waved, M1917s blazed main guns.
“MG nests first!! Clear wire! Clear that fucking Yun-shaped barbed wire so Tommies live! Make way! Chaaarge!!!”
Shouts inaudible, but flags visible.
No radio—flags only.
These German bastards using my Yun-shaped wire. My patent.
No royalties? I’ll roll into Berlin post-war, demand cash. Versailles clause: “Pay Eugene Kim wire royalties.” Fuckers.
“Hit us! Fuck! Kids die otherwise!!! Take it on our hulls!!! You might luck out—we save Tommies for sure!!”
Rat-tat! Clang! Ping!!
Horror: thin plate could pierce anytime.
Perched out for view, bullets whizzed my head.
Die?
Here, foreign soil?
No.
Why reincarnate otherwise?
Pumped fake faith, bravado—screamed shamelessly.
“You fucks! Suppress MGs! Breach trenches!!”
Shell-smashed nests silenced. Bunkers collapsed, MGs and men crushed.
Enemy close.
Trench Germans: second-raters. Clumsy masks, rifles.
“Breach! Fire! Field guns! Suppress arty! Patton, you fuck! Their guns before batteries!”
BOOM!!
Ex-Germans pulped, splattered in trench.
Flesh chunk hit my mask—glad not bullet. Thanks, God.
“Commander! Keep firing!”
“Firing!!”
“Crush ’em! Pulverize all!!”
Steel wave engulfed trench.
Germans panicked.
“They’re falling back! Retreating!”
I scanned ahead of the shout.
No fight—orderly withdrawal.
MG nests gone, no organized resistance. Just fleeing.
Brits in trench cheered, tears streaming.
“We did it! Breached!”
“Yes!!!”
“Hooray!!!”
Cursed line pierced.
Stepped on blood-soaked Hindenburg.
They wept in awe.
“Tell Tommies secure trench—we pull back, refit. Just starting. Long road!”
“We did it?”
“Yeah. We did.”
“Really…?”
“For now.”
Too easy.
Not victory—they yielded first line, fell back.
But pursue. Hit harder for momentum.
Cambrai.
History: Brits big win day one. Then doom.
Prelude to long defeat just began.
And we charged in.
Author's Note
In real history, this was the British formation during the Cambrai advance.
'Parsons Brinckerhoff' is better known today as 'WSP,' involved in major projects like Songdo Free Economic Zone, Lotte Tower, Seoul St. Mary's Hospital, and more.