Chapter 43
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 43
Chapter Title: Heroes of Cambrai
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"Colonel MacArthur! What in God's name is the meaning of this!!"
"I rescued our comrades in peril."
"Damn it!!!! That's not what I'm talking about!"
James G. Harbord, the chief of staff whose lid had finally blown off, bellowed at the top of his lungs, but MacArthur stood ramrod straight, unmoved.
Harbord had watched MacArthur through his days as a fresh lieutenant and then a lieutenant. That stubborn streak of his hadn't changed a bit since then.
"Douglas. My friend Douglas. Why do you insist on making my life hell?"
"...I did what I believed to be right."
"That wasn't your place to go! Nor your unit's!"
MacArthur had blatantly crossed the line.
Certain units had to remain in reserve. This time, it had been decided that role fell to the 42nd Division.
But MacArthur hadn't come to headquarters to protest, debate, or persuade.
Instead, he'd wired the National Guard congressmen who made up the 42nd Division. There was no legal concept of military secrets in the U.S. Army yet, so it wasn't a legal issue. Just a moral one.
But the result was a barrage of fiery protests from those congressmen flying straight into Expeditionary Force headquarters.
[We must express grave concern that the proud sons of Connecticut have crossed the Atlantic only to become home guards-]
[Regarding headquarters' judgment that the sturdy sons of Massachusetts are frailer than the riffraff-]
[The young men of Rhode Island burn with fighting spirit more than any other, and their vigor and passion are-]
Headquarters was in an uproar. If Harbord hadn't held them back, some of the staff officers would have pushed for a court-martial on MacArthur.
Fine. Let's say they let that slide.
"But this time, you went too far!"
"No, sir."
"No? No?!"
"Of course, there were elements of the 1st Division closer, at Gondrecourt. But they weren't combat-ready; they were still in training, so I couldn't expect full combat effectiveness from them."
"In contrast, the 42nd Division's 83rd Brigade was on immediate standby, fully supplied with ammunition, and ready for combat with no issues. Comparing the two, I judged the 83rd Brigade could deploy about 12 hours sooner, and in fact, that allowed us to rescue our troops at Cambrai."
Harbord was left speechless by MacArthur's lengthy explanation.
"...Right. I get it. You're probably not wrong. I know that much."
BAM!!
"But why can't you understand that everything has procedures!!"
"Why are you turning a blind eye to the fact that following those procedures would have meant the annihilation of the 326th Light Tank Battalion and the 11th Engineer Regiment!!"
"Twelve hours was plenty of time for another unit to go!"
"No! That was just Major Kim's freakish capability! Don't ignore the military miracle of breaking through the Germans with that ragtag outfit!"
Finally, MacArthur started shouting back.
"You know better than anyone that we should have clashed head-on with the Germans to break the encirclement and rescue them! Because of procedures, were we supposed to abandon them in that trap for at least 12 hours, or days at worst? How many more had to die for your precious procedures?!"
"Listen, Colonel."
As MacArthur's voice rose, Harbord's tone actually softened.
"That's what the army is."
"......"
"If they had to die because of procedures, then they were soldiers who had to die. Shake military discipline for those thousands, and millions could be at risk."
"Could you say that to the faces of the soldiers who made it back alive?"
This time, it was Harbord who was at a loss for words.
"I have no regrets. Court-martial me if you must. But please, have all the survivors from Cambrai present in the gallery."
They, their parents—and the United States—would pronounce him not guilty.
MacArthur saluted and marched out with heavy steps.
"You stubborn fool... How many more enemies do you need to make before you're satisfied?"
Harbord's sigh filled the office.
Even amid a hail of reporters, MacArthur snapped just one photo before driving off coolly and indifferently.
I headed straight to the aid station afterward and, thanks to everyone's devoted care, was soon up and about.
"Annihilated."
"...It's devastating, junior."
The returning 326th Light Tank Battalion filled an entire massive ward.
Ninety percent casualties.
No surviving tanks.
The 326th Battalion had truly ceased to exist.
Of course, fatalities weren't that high.
But over ten days of combat—especially the final breakout—had concentrated the casualties. Multiple clashes with Stormtroopers and ending in trench close-quarters combat meant even minor wounds were inevitable for most.
And the tanks.
They'd punched out before full encirclement, but by the time they linked up with the 24th Division, they'd ditched everything and run for their lives. Naturally, zero tanks salvaged.
But at the cost of this unit's destruction, we'd saved lives.
Miserable as it was, every soldier laid up in the field hospital was smiling.
"Battalion commander?"
"Stay down, all of you."
As Patton and I slipped into the ward, the chattering bunch instantly fell silent and looked up at us with bright eyes.
"You did good. Damn good. Hell, let's just rename the 326th Tank Battalion the 326th Band of Fuckups. Every familiar face is here. Didn't salvage a single tank."
The troops burst into laughter at my banter.
"For our comrades who didn't make it, wrapped in the Stars and Stripes on their way home, let's pray first."
Shadows fell over their faces, and even Patton solemnly bowed his head.
A moment of silence.
As their uplifted faces started to glisten with emotion, I slammed my foot down hard.
"But be proud! We saved lives! Those who volunteered solely to defend the freedom and democracy of this land, and the British who needed our help more than anyone! Not just anyone—only us! We rescued our comrades, trading our own bodies for their safety!
"The badly wounded will go home, and the rest will join new units to fulfill their duties. But I swear on my honor: from now on, no matter who you meet, you can proudly say, 'I fought with the 326th Tank Battalion!'"
"326!! 326!!"
"And."
I took a deep breath.
"It was an honor, if only briefly, you magnificent bastards!"
"Eugene Kim! Eugene Kim!"
"Kung Fu Master Eugene Kim smashed Hindenburg's balls! Oh, he of Cambrai—"
"What the hell is that shitty song?!"
"Oh, that? I composed it. Got a problem?"
"Senior..."
While I was groaning in a hospital bed, that's what you were doing instead of work?
Hah, life's savior—I'll let it slide this once.
The day I was discharged, the Battle of Cambrai was officially over.
And that day, the 326th Light Tank Battalion was disbanded.
But this disbandment was no punishment for defeat.
Those survivors fit for frontline duty would head to new tank units or training camps, forming the sturdy backbone of the nascent U.S. armored forces.
The United States' first tank battalion—and Army—combat had yielded invaluable lessons.
And the giant was ready to grow stronger on those lessons.
Unitless strays like us bantered our way back to Expeditionary Force headquarters at Chaumont.
Sure, we could yap about combat lessons or improvements, but what good is high-level talk for total losers with no next posting?
"There they are!!"
"Welcome back!"
Even the sentries treated us like stars, snapping salutes. Inside headquarters, everyone spontaneously applauded and saluted—a total madhouse.
We barely squeezed through the handshake demands to reach General Pershing's office.
"Good to see you, young men. Glad you followed orders."
"Thank you, sir."
Orders—probably that "come back alive" bit.
"Shall I get you something to drink?"
"Yep, I'll fetch it—oh."
Senior. You're embarrassing us. Sit down already. You're not an aide anymore.
After a glass of cool water, we got to the real talk.
"First, return to the armored section and write up reports on this battle. AARs and such come after the official reports."
"Understood."
"The reason I called you... it's about decorations."
Knew it was coming.
The U.S. Army's awards system back then was a headache.
First, the famous Medal of Honor.
And... that's it. Nothing else.
No Silver Star, no Distinguished Service Cross, no Purple Heart for wounded. Just Medal of Honor or bust.
"Details will go to Congress, of course, but I doubt it'll be the Medal of Honor."
If Pershing said so, it was true. Disappointing, but unavoidable.
"...Why not? Is Major Kim's valor insufficient for the Medal of Honor?"
"It's more political than valor, Captain Patton. You may not know, but Colonel MacArthur of the 42nd Division went out on a limb to save you. Awarding the Medal now would set a bad precedent: 'Good results justify bad actions.'"
"Why drag the 42nd Division into our actions?!"
"It was inevitable. Use that head of yours a bit."
The runaway locomotive Patton started slowing his engine with a grumble.
Bad precedents are definitely trouble for the Army.
Just look at those overpowered Japs: that "ends justify means" mindset birthed the Manchurian Incident, Sino-Japanese War, and their rampaging troops.
Regrettable, but fair. If MacArthur hadn't gone rogue, we might all be dead—no real complaints as a life debt.
"That aside, your promotions are confirmed. Congratulations, Major Kim—no, Lieutenant Colonel Kim—and Major Patton."
"But sir, the Medal of—"
"Don't make it uglier, senior. Drop it."
"Aren't you bummed!! The Medal of Honor!"
"Another chance'll come."
"Ahem! With us, the Medal's a cinch if we want it! Hahaha!!"
Of course, we all knew the unspeakable: damn race issues, the Republican Curtis congressman behind me, and sundry others.
But from my view?
Good. Snag the Medal now, and Ford and my father-in-law go, "Heh heh, you've done all a field soldier can! Time for Washington desk duty!"—like some old fogey dragging me off.
I plastered on a feigned look of poignant regret.
"I'm not disappointed at all. I didn't fight for medals, so if I stick to my soldierly duties, another chance will come."
"I understand your sentiment. We'll max out everything short of the Medal. Let's leave it there."
Now I've tactfully indebted the Expeditionary Force commander—next posting looks promising.
Owe a debt to the top dog? Total win. Gulp!
U.S. Army 1st Infantry Division.
The headquarters atmosphere was viciously hostile.
Rumors that General Sibert had failed Pershing's expectations in recent training had spread to every private.
And rumors from headquarters that Pershing would ship Sibert back stateside fueled the bad vibes.
Then came the news pouring fuel on the fire.
"This... this... what kind of bastard...!"
"Twelve hours? Twelve hours! Damn it. Where do these National Guard rabble-rousers get off insulting our elite 1st Division?"
"Three hours would've sufficed—what nonsense!"
"Rainbow Division, my ass—they hung their sanity on a rainbow?! How can they pull this crap without shame?!"
The 1st Division, pride wounded more than anyone by MacArthur's recklessness, was ready to storm the 42nd and shoot him on sight.
As the staff tore into MacArthur as one, one man crumpled the paper with MacArthur's "explanation" in his fist.
"Thinks he's the smartest, his unit the best, everyone else idiots. Napoleon reborn."
1st Division operations officer Major George Marshall muttered, suppressing his rage.
"Just you wait, Colonel MacArthur."