Chapter 46
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 46
Chapter Title: Expeditionary Force Headquarters Calling the Storm
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Warning. Warning. MacArthur sighting. MacArthur sighting.
I'd seen it on the National Geographic Channel once. It felt just like the atmosphere when a lion shows up at a watering hole on the savanna.
Vigilance, jealousy, envy.
True to form for a man who always stirred up a whirlwind of emotions, the mood around him had shifted dramatically. But MacArthur, for whom this was par for the course, seemed utterly relaxed, oblivious or not.
No, wait—come to think of it, wasn't this guy the chief of staff right now?
Is it really okay to be this footloose? Shouldn't you be handling business back at your division!
I phrased it in socially acceptable terms, and his response was a masterpiece.
"What are you on about? Of course I've taken care of everything."
"Pardon?"
"I'm even filling in as acting division commander right now. Took it easy, and it all wrapped up in no time. Division-level stuff like that? Block off a day, and you're pretty much done, right?"
Wow, what a prick. Us lowly humans aren't like you aliens. Apologize to the U.S. Army officers.
Anyway, with His Excellency MacArthur gracing us in person, I couldn't exactly blow him off for my own work.
"Shall we go, then?"
"Yeah. Truth is, I've been fed up with all the idiots lately. I was dying for a chat with someone who actually gets me, like you."
Anyone could see it: he was treating me like a fish already hooked.
MacArthur was a tough nut to deal with.
His massive ego wasn't really the issue. He was genuinely brilliant, and destined to be even more so. It wasn't much different from the deep respect I showed Dosan.
The problem was, this blazing sun of a man was charging at me full throttle, wanting to team up—and I wanted to shake him off.
But I couldn't do anything to sour things. He was the future Army Chief of Staff, five-star general, and the last shogun of Japan. Pissing him off would make my life truly miserable.
Anyway, my dinner turned into another tightrope walk.
"—So, what do you think about that point?"
"As expected from you. If only half my subordinates could match that..."
"What the 42nd Division needs most right now is someone with a broad perspective. Someone just like you."
And MacArthur cut straight to the chase, no small talk.
"Haha... Thank you for the high praise, but as you know, assignments go to wherever the top brass thinks is the best fit, right?"
"Exactly. And General Pershing is a fine man, so he'll naturally see the 42nd Division as the perfect spot."
Whoa, what an unexpected angle.
What intrigued me was how intensely MacArthur believed in Pershing.
I didn't know the details of their relationship, but MacArthur clearly rated him as a great leader and was convinced he'd never overlook talent like his own.
"You've probably heard by now, but several outstanding officers from the 42nd are being reassigned elsewhere."
"Yes, the rumors are flying."
"It's a petty plot by those jealous of the 42nd. Frustrating for me, but a soldier follows orders—what can you do."
It wasn't really unusual, to be honest.
The U.S. Army had always done it that way. Just like scattering the 326th Light Tank Battalion's members to bolster other units, sending proven talent to up-and-coming divisions to maximize their impact wasn't odd. But to MacArthur, it felt like a challenge and a violation.
Still, it wasn't ugly power-grabbing; it seemed more like a defense mechanism against losing his cherished people all at once. Hard to dismiss outright.
MacArthur was the type who took care of those in his circle.
"That's why we need talents like you even more! The new division commander hasn't been decided yet... Who knows, maybe it'll be me. Either way, the talent gap is huge."
"Given the situation, won't General Pershing make the right call and reassign the manpower?"
"Of course, of course. No worries there. We'll be seeing you in the 42nd soon enough. You're a natural field soldier— you shine brightest in combat. If your blood boils for the front lines, I'll make sure you get the chance!"
No, that doesn't mean I'm going. It's just kind words.
But command authority was tempting.
MacArthur's offer was so sweet, I nearly said thanks a bunch.
After battalion command, regiment command was the next big draw, naturally.
Regiment commander under MacArthur? Pure merit-farming bliss. Drowning in medals wouldn't be surprising. My postwar career would be set.
The evening ended on a warm note.
MacArthur and I parted with smiles.
Up to that point.
"Long time no see, Eugene. Or should I say Lt. Col. Kim now?"
"What brings you here?"
"The division's a mess. Haven't been able to visit Chaumont in a while, but I finally got some time."
Major George Marshall looked utterly worn out.
"Care for a drink after headquarters business? Seeing your friendly face has me craving one."
"Absolutely. I'll be waiting."
I owed Marshall a lot.
After Pancha Biya Expedition, when I was sidelined to the rear, he tanked the jealousy and hostility most aggressively. Sure, he saw me as a capable ox, but he didn't care if the ox was brown or black.
And during my training, there'd been a bit—just a tad—of noise. Plenty of grounds to object, but Marshall handled it all quietly.
How many "letters from the heart" did American officers write protesting a Yellow Monkey-led course? But Marshall burned them all as kindling.
It must've been a heavy load for a mere major to lieutenant colonel, but he never let it show. That's Marshall's charm.
'Thanks? Just doing my job. If you're grateful, work harder. Quit clocking out early.'
His terrifying responses to thanks always shut me up.
After hours, we headed to a dingy joint for dinner.
"First off, my apologies."
"Apologies for what?"
"The Cambrai incident."
Marshall squeezed his eyes shut and downed a shot.
"Our 1st Division was closest to Cambrai but didn't move. We only learned afterward that the 42nd was deployed once everything was over."
"Why apologize? It wasn't a division-level call to begin with, and you were just a staff officer, not the commander."
MacArthur was the weird one. Chief of staff, my ass.
Honestly, it saved our lives, but a guy who ignores chain of command on pure conviction? If there were two of them in the world, it'd be horrifying—oh, Patton. Shit.
I nursed my throbbing headache with a shot. Life tasted sweet.
"Good to hear you say that. Thanks."
"If you've got something weighing on you, spill it. We're not strangers."
"Ha... alright."
He fiddled with his glass, still pondering, then spoke.
"When MacArthur's overreach blew up, the 1st Division staff was furious, naturally."
"I can imagine."
"But I shouldn't have been."
What?
"The 42nd saved your lives, and we did nothing. Regardless of the division's honor, I should've been grateful my friend was saved—instead, I got caught up in the humiliation and forgot."
Wait, he called me a friend? Didn't expect him to think of me that way.
Sudden injustice welled up. I thought he saw me as a plow ox, but he was whipping a friend? Even cotton field slaves worked less brutally than I did!
Oblivious to my aimless rage, Marshall continued calmly.
"It hit me late. Then I ran into you at headquarters and figured I'd say it."
"No need to agonize over that. It's all in the past, no harm done. Did you grab MacArthur by the collar or something?"
"No."
He finally cracked a sly smile. Rare for him.
"Don't worry about me. Instead, let me ask: if you'd known, if you'd known I'd be shitting blood in Cambrai, would you have looked away?"
"No. I'd have pushed for a rescue within my authority. But... I doubt I'd have overstepped as boldly as Colonel MacArthur. Probably not."
And shouldn't have. Marshall added.
After dealing with maniacs like Patton and narcissists like MacArthur, chatting with this sensible, excellent man felt surreal. Was I too used to abnormals, or was I abnormal too—
Nah. I'm the picture of normalcy, always living right. If anything, Marshall and I are cut from the same cloth: rational, cool-headed, but deeply loyal. Booze was hitting fast after so long.
We wrapped up the pointless topic and bantered idly.
Then he got to the point.
"Your next assignment set?"
"No. Everyone's pulling me every which way—it's a headache. Guess as long as merits flow, Yellow Monkey or not doesn't matter?"
Hanging with guys who'd sneered at the weak was annoying, but that's office life.
"I've got a position to suggest."
"I'm all ears."
"1st Division chief of staff. Thoughts?"
Ugh!!
Nearly spat my drink. Forced it down wrong—burning alcohol filled my throat. Dying.
"Kuh, kuhk! What—suddenly, what do you mean?"
"Just what I said. The slot's open."
"Then obviously—"
Anyone would say Marshall for chief of staff.
The man who'd command millions, forging America's army. That seat was his by right.
"I've got this and that to handle. But it's not just me—it's the division's consensus. If you're interested, we'll push hard from our end."
"Still—"
Too fast a promotion.
Chief of staff meant colonel automatically. Not fast-track—rocket.
Tempting, though.
Regiment command was great, but chief of staff? Bossing Marshall around? Irresistible.
What was this? My era dawning?
"Eat too fast, and you'll choke. I'd have to be cautious. Others must want it too."
"The 1st's in chaos from back-to-back incidents. Plenty want a war hero and one of the Army's few combat vets to sort it. Mood's good. With your nod, we push."
"Hmm... I'll think it over."
42nd Division regiment commander.
1st Division chief of staff.
Insane. Either way, no downside.
I returned to my room thrilled, dreaming of poker for once, and had a blissful night.
"Ha, taking the joke too far."
"Pardon?"
"Cambrai's hero as chief of staff? Not a bad call—from the 1st's view, anyway."
"But I, Douglas MacArthur, declare: Lt. Col. Kim shines with the troops. A colored hero in the unit symbolizing 26 states' unity! That's perfection."
"Spent too long as War Department spokesman? Why dramatize a mere division post. Lt. Col. Kim's a born instructor and ace staffer. Losing him would be a huge blow to America."
"A U.S. officer scared of combat?"
"Normal people don't shove a near-death survivor back in."
"I saved him."
"Through combat lines and HQ orders alike."
Shit, freezing.
December living up to it—the HQ conference room was subzero.
Watching MacArthur and Marshall duel with tongues like rapiers, shrimp-in-the-middle Eugene Kim could only shiver.
General Pershing, puffing his cigarette as always, watched. That look—from the Mexico expedition, interpretable. Let's see...
'Good, good. Keep going. What a mess. Gotta cross oceans to war trusting these clowns?'
Can't deny it, sir.
Only Pershing left to trust. My yapping wouldn't help. Hear me... General... Speaking to your heart...
"Enough."
My desperate telepathy worked? He'd finished his smoke and spoke.
"Lt. Col. Kim."
"Yes, sir."
"Any preferred assignment?"
Damn, asking here? Hoping I'm dead?
Marshall and MacArthur's gazes locked on me. Best policy: 36 stratagems.
"I'll follow headquarters' judgment."
"Then I'll decide here."
Thank you. Legends differ.
Chief Justice Pershing rendered judgment.