Chapter 42
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 42
Chapter Title: Cambrai (3)
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"Let's camp here just for today and set out at first light."
"Wouldn't it be better to slip away under cover of night?"
"If we're traveling with the tanks, it'll make noise anyway. Better to move during the day when visibility is clear."
"You're right."
The 11th Engineer Regiment wasn't a combat unit to begin with.
The U.S. Army was already strapped for cash as it was. They couldn't afford to hand out personal firearms to non-combatants.
All these guys had were pickaxes and hammers. Even a fantasy dwarf unit from another world would be better armed than this. It was insane.
"Anything else?"
"Now that you've arrived, I was thinking of fortifying the village enough to hold out for the night. What's your opinion?"
"If you have the manpower, of course it's a good idea. Don't overdo it, though."
"Hmm... Could we borrow a few tanks? It feels burdensome to move on our own. To shake off the soldiers' fears, we need tanks nearby."
"Very well."
Any tank with even minor mechanical issues or damaged armor from hits was scrapped outright. They gutted them, salvaged the good parts, and fitted them into the others.
The salvage tanks had their cumbersome cranes removed, and while they were at it, the upper armor was stripped off to use them for evacuating the wounded. It wouldn't be comfortable at all, but they couldn't exactly carry people out on stretchers.
With 1,400 civilians in tow, they had to escape a battlefield surrounded by the enemy and bolt for the rear. They needed to cram on as many as possible.
In the end, they had 13 combat-ready tanks.
They could hardly call it a tank battalion anymore. Tank company, at best.
Led by the Stars and Stripes flapping proudly in the wind, British infantry came trudging in from afar.
Sometimes by platoon, other times by squad, even singles or pairs staggering into the village in disarray—it was a tragic sight.
"What in God's name is happening up ahead?"
"It's over!"
One British soldier spat out the words like blood.
"The Germans, the Germans are coming endlessly! The ground we took is open fields—no way to stop them—and shells rained down on us nonstop. No contact with high command—those shells! That gas! Hiiik!!"
"Understood. Rest up. We'll hold here tonight and withdraw immediately."
"Save me! Save me! Don't breathe! Hold your breath! Mommy! Mommy!! Aaagh!!"
"Grab this guy! Hold him!"
Was the shock too much?
Even as the medics dragged him away, the bitterness in my mouth wouldn't fade.
"They're collapsing faster than expected."
"We can't move at night regardless."
General Lisle approached, seeming to have regained some composure, so I saluted and replied.
"We have no grasp of the current situation. We're cut off from all contact, and command probably can't locate us either."
"Likely... Damn it all."
British aircraft, which had been visible now and then, were long gone. The skies belonged to the Germans now.
The German war machine had fully awakened.
If the British and French were still refining their tactics atop mountains of corpses, how many lessons had the German Empire absorbed after crushing the Russian and Italian empires on three fronts?
You could tell just from the poison gas. While the British merely fired it off, German chemical warfare was twice as vicious.
Now the Germans led with emetics instead of lethal gas. British troops, hastily donning masks, couldn't handle the vomit-inducing agent seeping through and ripped them off retching—only for lethal gas to envelop them in the second wave, ushering them to death.
The assault troops were the same.
Stormtrooper units roaming the battlefield dragged 37mm anti-tank guns, hurled bundled grenade sets, and some tankers screamed reports: "Their bullets penetrate the armor!"
Could they win in this situation?
No, they couldn't win—but they wouldn't lose either.
The Stormtroopers being scattered meant they were cut off from command too.
This land had been German-held for years, so they knew the terrain better, naturally.
But there was an uncrossable gulf between infantry and armor, and a vast difference between our positions: them defending, us breaking through.
Save as many as possible and get them out.
Annihilating the enemy was impossible, but this much they could do.
That night, I stayed up staring at the operations map, eyes wide open.
Searching for the most viable escape route.
Not as Kim Eugene with future knowledge,
but as Major Eugene Kim, determined to save his men.
"Grenades!! Bundled grenades ahead!"
"Aaagh!!"
"9 o'clock! Anti-tank gun!"
"Fire first! The three on the far right! Swing left and take out the anti-tank gun! Everyone else, keep distance and shell them!"
The next dawn.
We hurriedly started the tanks and rolled out.
Scraping together even the British stragglers, we had about 2,000.
Compared to when they'd boldly crossed the first Hindenburg Line trench, it was a pitiful sight.
We gathered the remaining tanks to clear the path ahead.
We picked the fittest, most battle-eager men regardless of origin and loaded them onto the tanks. Speed dropped, but it didn't matter. This way, at least, they could prevent the last tanks from being senselessly destroyed.
A few skirmishes.
Stormtroopers ambushing here and there to slow them down.
At the end of this desperate retreat waited the very trench line they'd first crossed.
"Fuck."
The Germans had moved back into it. Damn it.
"See those Jerry bastards over there?"
"Yes, sir!!"
"Get past those fuckers, and we're home free. We live."
It was a lie, really.
Even beyond, there'd probably be Germans swarming.
But you had to sell hope to spark fighting spirit.
"Break through in one go. Charge!"
"KILL!!!"
Spare me the Patton-esque slogans!
Fuel was running low anyway. Once they punched through this trench, they'd abandon all tanks and go on foot.
No need to hold back—full charge!
"Gaaah!!"
Boom!
"Anti-tank gun ahead! Anti-tank!!!"
"Whoever spots it, take it out! Do I have to call every shot?!"
"Captain Patton's tank is heading for it!"
"Then leave it! He'll handle it!"
Into the trench once more.
Opposite direction from before, so defenses were much weaker. Piece of—
Wham!!!
"Wh-what?!"
"Grenades! Engine's stopped! The engine!"
"Fuck, what are you doing?! Were you sleeping in training?! Clear 'em out now, you fucks!"
I kicked the tank commander's head and leaped out the hatch.
Exhausting.
The Grease Gun's feel, carried unused till now, was vivid in my hands.
Soon after we bailed, the engine roared hot, then belched fierce flames.
"Attack! Fuck! Push!"
The flag.
I still had the flag in hand.
I swung it fiercely one last time, took a deep breath, and charged the trench.
"Feind!! Feind eingehend!!"
"Eat lead, you motherfuckers!"
No officers or ranks now. In the trench, bullet count made the king.
And by Eugene Kim's decree, whoever held the Grease Gun was Roman emperor.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!!
Before they could fire a rifle round, the Grease Gun poured hot lead into their skulls.
Tanks rammed heads-first into trench spots, shells and MGs roaring.
As expected, they'd prepared anti-tank defenses well—but tankers swarming out of disabled tanks to deliver rapid bullets? Not anticipated.
Overwhelming firepower superiority.
The years I'd slaved to develop the submachine gun paid off now.
With German corpses piling instead of our men's blood.
"Sweep 'em! Conserve ammo!"
Another burst.
Kill and kill, endless.
"Uwaaaah!"
"Die! Fuck! Die!"
Bursting rounds into charging Jerries. One shot for the fallen, wailing Germans.
Ammo's scarce. No burst fire—such a pain. So many left to cut down.
Dump empty mag roughly, slam in new—another bayonet flies in.
"Wha—"
Stock hits head—feels like it'll split. Teeth gone? No, intact.
Couldn't dodge the boot, though.
Thud!
Fuck. Dying like this?
After all that hell, croaking in this trench?
No way—
Bang!
"What'd I tell you? Buy more pistols."
Patton approached, soaked in blood and mud, gripping ivory-handled pistols.
Fuck, Senior Patton's the best.
"Lend me one. Kill these fuckers first, think later."
"Oof, my thigh aches. Thanks to you, Captain, I live!"
"Survive this, I'll be major too. Call me Major Jim! Haha!!"
"Then call me Colonel Kim."
"You got it! I'll shout it loud— just stay alive!!"
As we bantered casually, the second wave hit the trench.
"Wipe 'em out!! Uphold the honor of the United States!!"
"Leave none alive!!"
Ferocious engineer uncles.
Pickaxes and hammers looked deadlier than ever.
Right—those uncles were railroad workers. Specialists at cracking cop skulls during strikes.
With close-quarters brawl setup instead of potshots, the muscled laborers' pent-up rage smashed German heads.
"These tiny-dicked fucks firing beans?!"
"A, aughh—"
"Hey, nice weapon! Hand it over, asshole!"
Miracle: fighting enemy, armed friendlies multiply.
The mere battalion's worth melted like sugar in water before the numbers.
"Can you walk?"
"Fuck, took one to the thigh—"
"Hey! Support our noble Colonel Kim!"
"Whew. No need. I can still walk. More importantly, our advance route?"
"No."
Patton growled low.
"What... Enemy coming?"
"Not that."
"Then wha—"
"Friendlies."
"Pardon?"
I dragged my leg out of the trench.
What I saw was utterly unexpected.
Hundreds, thousands of soldiers in the distance.
Not British.
Not German.
Unmistakable U.S. Doughboys.
Then, a vehicle sped toward me from afar.
Bouncing wildly yet unflipped, it stunt-jumped crushed barbed wire and braked before me.
"Late, Major?"
"N-no, how is this—"
"Rushed out a single regiment. Get out now. If the Germans catch us, we're done."
Colonel MacArthur nodded at the passenger seat.
"What're you waiting for? Hop in."
"Y-yes, sir."
Dazed, I climbed in; the car whipped around and tore rearward.
"Close call. Cambrai's hero nearly a ghost."
"Why is the 42nd Division here...?"
"I pulled some strings."
Pulled strings? This wasn't a strings issue. The 42nd wasn't even closest to Cambrai.
"Just a minor field exercise. Battlefield air's good experience for the lads, no?"
This... mad bastard...
No clue what madness command approved.
Speechless, I shut up; he pulled bandages from nowhere.
"Thigh out."
"Sir?"
"Gunshot. No bullet lodged. Grazed... Disinfect quick or lose the leg."
So damn gracious.
Noble MacArthur tore my uniform himself, disinfected, bandaged—then the car stopped.
"Big breath. Smile prep."
"Smile?"
"Obviously. Second battlefield awaits."
He exited, opened my door personally.
"Out, Cambrai's hero!"
As I stumbled down dazed.
Flash! Boom-boom! Flash!!
"Major Kim!"
"Major Kim! Cambrai's hero! A word!"
"Thoughts on first Hindenburg Line breach?!"
This... motherfucker.
Thanks a ton.
MacArthur sidled up, arm around me, beaming charm.
"Smile big. Cheers."
MacArthur... you're a real bastard.
Flash!