Chapter 44
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 44
Chapter Title: Cambrai - Post-Battle Review
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December 1917 was a whirlwind of madness for the American Expeditionary Forces.
General Sibert of the 1st Division received transfer orders.
The reason? Preparation for future chemical warfare.
The 1st Division, already seething with rage, erupted into chaos.
"Why the hell! What did General Sibert do wrong?!"
"They need him back home for chemical warfare training? Fine, train him! But do they have to pull a guy who's already on the front lines for some super-important mission?!"
"It's that bastard MacArthur! He flapped his devious mouth and got Sibert booted!"
Of course, the last claim was a bit unfair to MacArthur, but the 1st Division staff were at the point where they'd blame him even if their morning piss split into two streams. Talk about deep karma.
The turmoil only calmed when the 2nd Brigade commander under the 1st Division was announced as Sibert's replacement division commander, and Pershing himself visited the 1st Division.
Meanwhile, the eye of the storm, the 42nd Division, was just as hectic.
The division commander ended up bedridden after days of coughing, and MacArthur—who'd long been acting as de facto commander—seized the opportunity to step fully into the spotlight.
"The division commander's under the weather? Then regrettably, I'll handle things until he's back on his feet."
"Understood!"
With a workaholic deputy in charge instead of their sick commander, the 42nd Division's efficiency skyrocketed overnight.
On top of that, the officers MacArthur had "stolen" from other units—causing such a fuss—began openly singing his praises in their new postings.
"Sigh, working under Colonel MacArthur was so much smoother..."
"How was the 42nd? The chief of staff was nuts. A total god."
"Just close your eyes, cling to MacArthur's coattails, and everything gets handled."
It wasn't intentional, but something resembling a "MacArthur faction" began forming across the AEF.
Still, plenty hated MacArthur—especially in the 1st Division and expeditionary HQ.
The 1st Division: struck by lightning out of nowhere, branded as unprepared and slow.
HQ: horrified by officers meddling with politicians to override higher commands and launching ops without a word.
That resentment from those two spots was the dark cloud hanging over MacArthur's future.
"You hate this Douglas MacArthur? How petty can you get?"
The avatar of self-centered coolness tossed out the line and got back to work.
And a massive year-end bombshell awaited the expeditionary forces.
The British Army, handed their Cambrai battle report card, could only laugh bitterly.
"Why! Why do we always get our asses kicked by the Germans? Are those goddamn militarists devils or something?!"
"Tanks helped, sure, but weren't they neutralized way too easily?"
Perfect surprise attack.
Mighty new weapons.
State-of-the-art air-ground coordination.
They'd played every card in the deck, yet the result was a crushing failure.
They'd repelled the German counterattack, at least. The startled Germans rushed reserves and hit back hard, but counter-counterattacks led to the usual stalemate.
Field Marshal Haig bellowed defiantly at the furious cabinet.
"We didn't lose. We chilled the enemy's blood, and our final defensive line held against their counterattack. Considering how our past offensives always crumbled under German ripostes, there's no reason to hesitate on attacks anymore."
The cabinet, stuck sending death notices, spewed double curses—but with no immediate replacement for Haig, his neck stayed intact.
The Germans saw it differently.
"We're done for!"
"The Entente can poke anywhere they please now. But us?"
German lines had been impregnable.
Assaulting them required massive barrages by necessity; while trenches ate shells, Germans prepped defenses at leisure.
Tanks shattered that.
No more prolonged prep fire needed. A quick barrage, shove in tanks, and even the mighty Hindenburg Line crumbled like paper.
Victory at Cambrai? Sure—but they inherited a wrecked Hindenburg Line. Rebuilding would devour time and resources.
And tanks threatened the empire's economy outright.
"We need our own tanks!"
"With no budget or resources? Dream on."
"Fine, anti-tank weapons then. No way to stop their tanks, and this war's toast!"
"Ugh, the treasury's already broke!"
Scraping the barrel, Imperial Germany now faced huge new demands for anti-tank forces.
Anyone with eyes whispered of imperial doom inwardly,
but some sought paths out of the abyss.
"Crush Russia completely, and we reset the war."
No matter how much they inwardly screamed "we're fucked" and tore their hair out, the Germans hyped their Cambrai victory massively.
Marching triumphantly amid burning, abandoned M1917s and Marks!
Results were crystal clear. New weapons or not, Britain lost. The upstart Yanks across the Atlantic got schooled too.
To shake off defeat's shock? Heroes. The go-to for any politician.
But...
"So, you want to use my face?"
I couldn't go public yet.
More precisely, fame would cost more than it gained. Like... plenty hate yellow skin on sight.
Higher-ups already knew and respected me. I'm not running for office—what good is public support? At best, "Young hero! Sell war bonds!" Captain America ending.
"But you said no."
"What? No?"
My temp boss, Colonel Rockenbach, chuckled heartily.
"You're from... Korea, right? Korean descent?"
"Yes."
"Under Japanese empire rule."
"...That's true."
"So it's awkward. Britain and Japan are allies. Japanese embassy threw a fit—insist you're Japanese."
Whoa, plot twist beyond imagination.
Makes sense for Imperial Japan, though. Even original-history China frothed over "Tibetan" or "Uyghur" labels.
Plus, 3.1 Movement hits soon. Any famous Korean appearing? Fireworks.
"So what happened?"
"As expected from the land of the weird—odd request came in. Headache, so push Patton instead."
"Those bastards repaying kindness with hate! All the world's shit comes from the Brits! How dare they snub the man who saved their troops!"
I soothed the growling Patton and waited for the colonel's next words.
"General Pershing replied simply to the British war cabinet: 'Fuck off.'"
"Kh... Pfft!!"
Cambrai was a messy tangle. Good men don't dive into that witch's brew lightly.
Award's inevitable anyway. MacArthur wouldn't drag reporters to the front unless he timed it perfectly.
No word yet? He's waiting for prime time. Man's the Everest of media-handling in US Army history—no need to worry.
"Want a tea-flavored medal? Pershing figured you'd pass, but if you want—"
"Nah, no need. They'll hand it over with some bizarre strings attached."
'Slitty-eyed Last Samurai Saves British Troops!' in the Times? I'd swim the Channel to torch London. Tell 'em to shove it.
Until next assignment, tank office duty: after-action reports.
Stories galore.
Compiling them took ages; I even visited lingering wounded for their tales.
Cambrai's lessons weren't trivial.
The few tank office officers all knew: every word here would become the US armored corps' gospel, passed down forever.
"Riding infantry atop tanks? Solid idea."
"Not yet. Viable tactically with better tanks, but M1917? Desperation to survive."
"Table it. Emergency option, but avoid in peacetime—maintenance nightmare."
Report shaping up; hit the controversial bit.
"Major Kim's SMG... near worship. First time I've seen troops rave like that."
"Trench essential. Long-range? Maybe not. But tankers in CQB? No-brainer."
Yushin, rejoice! Orders for a million Grease Guns incoming! Don't die happy—run those factories like dogs!
Kidding. Royalties, outsource to giants—smarter.
War's got under two years left. Expand now? Nah.
Factory goals: modest riches, Korean jobs. Worst sin? Hiring then firing. Better not hire.
Barbed wire? Sell civilian heaps. Guns? Pushing it. Grease Gun to civilians? Mafia?
Speaking of—Prohibition and Mafia era soon. Whistling home, I penned a heartfelt letter to my brother.
[Dearest brother. Start ancestral rites now.
Christians don't do rites? Shut up and do it. Claim all Koreans do it as tradition. Prep to insist rites need ritual booze. Always.
Fuck up, you're dead.
Your loving bro, from some pasta backwater.]
Nail this? Jackpot.
Prohibition exempted sacramental wine.
So push "minority custom" ritual booze. Passes? Boardwalk Empire, here we come.
Grease Gun in one hand, legal hooch in the other.
Perfect picture.
Body in the trenches, heart back in San Francisco.