Chapter 49
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 49
Chapter Title: 93rd Division, Startup (2)
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Chaumont's beggar.
I never imagined my nickname would plummet from Cambrai's hero straight to Chaumont's beggar.
But the 93rd Division was flat broke, without a damn thing to its name.
In a situation like this, all I could do was beg even more desperately for scraps.
Just like everyone else, whenever a pitiful yellow beggar came crawling, they'd get the cold shoulder as a matter of course.
But pull out that magic tongue item I'd borrowed from Patton—the ivory-decorated pistol—and suddenly everyone turned friendly. At least we were steadily sorting out equipment and supplies. Small mercies.
But more urgent than supplies were people. My current setup was like playing Romance of the Three Kingdoms with no generals under my lord—just me, all alone.
That's why I was playing poker right here, right now.
"Straight! You're done for! With this—"
"Don't bet if you're not sure, got it?"
I flashed a hand glittering with diamonds, and my friend's face hardened like stone.
"No way, you cheating bastard! Hid 'em up your sleeve?! This ain't possible!"
"Pfft, I can't hear the loser's pathetic excuses."
"This is bullshit! How the hell?! Hey! You cheated! You got caught cheating back at school too!"
"If it bugs you that much, catch me in the act. Don't be such a sore loser."
"Aaaargh!!"
"Heh, ring out. As promised, this application form is mine."
William Cabel.
My brilliant classmate, top of the class at graduation.
And the man who ought to be heading up engineering for the 93rd Division right now.
"This has gotta be a dream. Why the hell would I—"
"Keh heh heh heh. Shut your trap, loser. You ain't backing out now, are ya?"
"Fine! I'm going! You rotten prick! You wanna screw up my career, you devil?!"
"Screw up your career? You'll go down in history as an outstanding commander, versed in both civil and military arts, with real combat experience to boot."
I tucked the application form into my pocket. Look at those bloodshot eyes—he wanted to rip this paper to shreds right then and there. Eek, scary.
"Hey, while you're at it, got a favor to ask—"
"What the fuck now, asshole!!"
"Grab some artillery guys. Sell me three, and I'll tear up this paper."
"...For real?"
"Nah, kidding. Of course. But seriously, we got no one for artillery. Hell, we don't even have field guns to begin with."
"You're telling me I gotta join that godforsaken unit...?"
Why's everyone staring at me like I'm some ragged old beggar? Wanna get stuffed in the sack with me or what?
I turned around with a satisfied smile, and the onlookers slyly looked away. Bunch of cowards. No guts to march toward glory with Eugene Kim.
Guess I need to crank up the courtship dance for MacArthur even harder.
To make this unit look like a proper outfit, we needed an artillery regiment—a badass one. When it came down to it, the only lifeline I could trust was MacArthur.
Behind Cabel, who was clutching his head in despair, Senior Benion watched me with a faint smile.
Sorry, Cabel. I played you with full knowledge of your hand.
Blame Benion for selling you out, even while pretending he didn't wanna come.
"Welcome to France!!"
I spread my arms wide in welcome, and the two officers looked flustered.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Kim, in charge of assembling the 93rd Division."
"Colonel William Hayward, commanding the 369th Regiment."
"Colonel Franklin Augustus Denison, commanding the 370th Regiment. It's an honor to meet the hero of Cambrai."
Surprisingly, Denison was Black.
Yeah. As I said, Denison was Black.
I gripped the hand of what was practically the only Black field-grade officer around back then.
"I'll be counting on your help a lot from here on out."
"We've heard a lot about the 93rd Division's rough deal—"
Hayward spoke low and deliberate, and I nodded.
"There are plenty in AEF headquarters who balk at using Black troops in combat. I won't deny that."
"We're here to shed blood for the United States. On behalf of all Black people, I reiterate: every Black soldier wants to go to the front."
"That's exactly why I'm here."
My firm words brought a faint light to their faces.
"One way or another, I'll get us a full division."
"Is that even possible? No offense, but are there really that many officers lining up to join this division?"
"Ah, I've already secured plenty of volunteers. Don't worry about that."
I didn't cheat. Not even once.
We had volunteers coming out our ears.
They wanted fame and glory, and I could hand it all to them.
Besides, the more whites we pack in here, the trickier it'll be to shortchange any one of them on merits. The second they think their achievements are getting stiffed, they'll be screaming bloody murder all the way to D.C.
"You two get training prepped as soon as the troops arrive. Supplies are already locked in on my end."
"Huh."
"And, uh... never mind. Head to Chaumont first for now. Considering the unit's unique nature, we'll probably need to overhaul the training syllabus quite a bit."
"We just want to be treated normally!"
There was a desperate edge to Denison's cry.
Yeah. Words like "unique" or "different" were probably the last things these guys wanted to hear right now. And honestly, that part had me racking my brain too.
How the hell do I squeeze victories out of this unit?
With the U.S. Army's pathetically under-equipped state, turning my ideas into reality was gonna be a nightmare.
Nothing satisfactory—not machine guns, not field artillery, not trucks. Grease Gun? They'd get turned into ketchup before breaching a trench.
I'd ordered some B.A.R.s as a stopgap, but who knew how much good they'd do. All I could do was push as hard as possible.
"Don't worry. I have zero intention of discriminating. But I doubt your stateside training was all that useful."
"Hrm..."
"Those guys haven't seen real combat anyway. Hell, Chaumont HQ is tearing its hair out over reports that half these ocean-crossers have never even fired a rifle."
"I've heard you're a wizard at training rookies, Colonel Kim—"
"I'll personally oversee it, down to the last detail. I'll drill 'em so hard they'll beg for death."
The two regimental commanders' faces turned ashen at my words. Should I push a little harder?
"They're already written off anyway. Time to remind them there's no backing down. These men have more reason to fight than any other U.S. soldier, and we're gonna forge them into the strongest damn fighters alive!"
"...Alright. Seeing your fire like this puts my mind at ease a bit."
"Then lead your troops there first? I've got other business."
"Got it. See you in Chaumont!"
After sending them off, I bolted straight toward the idiots gawking from afar.
Ahh, I've been waiting. My darlings.
"Eugene!"
"Whoa! Long time no—"
Thwack!
One hearty love-tap to the gut first thing.
Van Fleet hit the deck rolling the second he disembarked, eyes twitching.
"What the hell... why...?"
"Maybe think about why you deserved it?"
Payback for yapping to Patton, you punk.
Sure, it ended up working out, so I'd already cut you some slack. Otherwise, there'd be a king-sized Van Fleet clam in the Atlantic right now.
Thwack!
Suddenly the sky filled my vision, and my mind went blank.
Why? Why the hell am I getting hit now?? What did I do? Wait, am I getting gut-punched just 'cause I'm a colonel...?
"You trained that tank battalion into something elite. Classic Eugene."
"Heh, yeah? I put in the work—"
"So you turned 'em all into nutjobs, you bastard?!"
No, that... that was Patton's fault.
I always operate on reason and rationality.
I tried explaining, but Ike—scarred from years dealing with Cambrai's maniacs—wasn't having it. I knew their psyches had taken a deep hit too.
"Why hit our cute little Eugene? Thanks to him, I got out of that shitty mine. Appreciate the summons."
Omar's the only decent one. The rest are twisted.
While we bantered, Black troops kept disembarking under the regimental commanders' orders.
Officers who should've been founding the other Black unit, the 92nd Division—but I'd gobbled them all up. Gotta make at least one full division, right?
Circumstances being what they were, the new 93rd ended up with an all-white brass and Black ranks below. No Black West Point grads? What can you do.
I could guess the gripes later on, but no choice. Let history books whine about discrimination down the line—better than "they fought heroically but all died at the Hindenburg Line."
We piled into vehicles, prepped to welcome them, and raced back to Chaumont.
How many future U.S. stars would vanish if this ride crashed? And me in it too—heart's pounding.
"So, what exactly do we gotta do?"
"Everything."
My curt reply soured their faces.
"For real?"
"Dead serious."
"Feels like we're getting off too cheap—"
"Play along, and this gets you labeled all-rounders. Suck it up."
"Ranks?"
"Major for all of ya."
"Loyalty! Loyalty!"
"That's the spirit of bros and country!"
Quick on the flip, these guys.
They knew there was no backing out now that they were here.
Meanwhile, up in the high ranks, some seriously insane shit was unfolding.
As a National Guard unit, the 93rd had tight restrictions on movement. Easiest would've been poaching from the Regular Army's 92nd Division—but they had no troops yet either.
To untangle this clusterfuck, I had to beg the bigwigs as usual. I'd shaken hands with Black groups, and every department had its headaches with them—figured they'd dump it all on me.
"I've got the junior officers mostly lined up. I'll fast-track the standouts."
"Smart."
"Ike."
"Yeah."
"Mind taking chief of staff—"
"Nope."
Ike cut me off cold—rare for him.
"Front lines. Field command only. Field! You said I could fight, then stick me behind a desk?!"
"No, wait—"
"Fight me. How about I do it instead?"
"Nice. That's our Omar. Hype. Major time, boys!"
Feels like Nexon showering acorns. This is power.
"What about me?"
Van Fleet had been a machine-gun company commander originally.
"How about division-direct machine-gun battalion?"
"Battalion command? Above my pay grade, but chief of staff and battalion CO? Overkill, no?"
"What're you on about? There is no battalion."
Guy's got it all wrong. I didn't say command one.
"Wanna be battalion CO? Finish org and training first. Nothing exists yet."
"What? Then after we build it all?"
"Regiment next."
"Fuck... so what do we even have now?"
"No time to slack. Create from nothing. Engineers, signals, MPs, logistics... zilch."
These guys thought it'd be "just fight with the Blacks," but learning the 93rd's reality pushed them to eruption.
"Hey! This is a suicide pact!"
"Whoa whoa whoa! Truck's shaking! Gonna flip!!"
"Dragging us to this hellhole!"
"No, I meant we rise together, hand in hand—"
"Die! Dieeee!!! I'm the idiot who crossed the Atlantic trusting this prick! Just die!!"
Sorry, kids.
If this flops, our careers are toast anyway. Let's hustle. Heh heh.
"Shall I send the wire like this?"
"Yes. Right now, priority flash."
"Understood, Colonel."
The man who took the note from Colonel MacArthur headed straight into the telegraph room.
[Press embargo lifted. Publish immediately.]
He packed his pipe with tobacco.
Public opinion ahead, Black reactions, white supremacist backlash, politicians' moves—all of it.
"Let's see how the public moves. Just wait till then."
The conclusion was already clear in his head.