Chapter 50
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 50
Chapter Title: 93rd Division, Ignition (3)
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As soon as the press wizard MacArthur lifted the embargo, reporters unleashed a torrent of exclusive headlines like they’d been waiting for this moment.
US Tank Unit, Savior of the Tommies!
United States' Astonishing Strategy Saves 1,400 Volunteers!
Cambrai's Secret! Kaiser Curses the US Army!
Fallen Russia, Rising America! Tremble, Autocrats!
Kung Fu Master Kicks Hindenburg's Balls!!
Patton & Kim, From Mexico to Cambrai!
Like conducting a grand orchestra, the coverage started with juicy gossip pieces, built to the full story of the massive event, and delved into the two commanders involved and their backgrounds.
The truth of Cambrai—what had been vaguely reported as just another failed British offensive—was revealed as the US Army's first victory(?), and starved for good news, American citizens snapped up every newspaper carrying Cambrai stories like madmen. The newsboys' grins never faded.
Naturally, MacArthur's friends channeled the public's victory cravings toward Eugene Kim and Patton. Their next target, no surprise, was the 93rd Division.
Kung Fu Master Remakes the Niggers!
Turning Niggers into Warriors? Oriental Secrets Make It Possible!
"In Three Months, I'll Turn Them into Killing Machines." Colonel Kim Declares.
Genius Promotion Speed! Pershing – MacArthur – Kim, Miracle Generation!
MacArthur Exclusive Interview: "Kim Can Do It. Just Like Always."
Of course, there were no interviews or verifications. 100% pure bluff.
The spicy sauce MacArthur tossed them turned into habanero-level fire chicken through the reporters' hands, and Americans got hooked on the thrill, buzzing about it daily.
With public opinion exploding, Congressman Curtis seized the tide in Washington D.C., unleashing fierce supporting fire.
"It doesn't make sense that our boys crossing the Atlantic have no rifles, no artillery—nothing!"
"Why should we beg the French for cannons? This is humiliating!"
"Citizens, the British are drooling to shove our soldiers into that incompetent Haig's clutches! Without weapons for America's sons, they'll fall into his clutches!"
The congressmen—especially Republicans—who'd been gutting budgets to deny the military more funds suddenly turned into crusading knights, hammering the War Department for failing to provide enough arms.
The War Department reeled like they'd been slapped awake, dumbfounded, but promised more weapons instead of paying up—and immediately pledged loyalty to Congress with tails wagging.
Meanwhile, in Chaumont...
"Colonel Kim, why organize the 93rd Division with such a bizarre structure?"
"Oh, that? Because it's the Nigger Division. It has to differ from white units, right?"
"Handing flamethrowers to the troops? Why on earth?"
"Oh, that? Because it's the Nigger Division. It has to differ from white units, right?"
"Others are dying for lack of tanks, and you're hogging them all! Even with your Ford connections, this is too much!"
"Oh, that? Because it's the Nigger Division. It has to differ from white units, right?"
La la la, can't hear you, can't hear you, ebebeop.
I'd become a gramophone, walking a straight line of blood and tears.
Ike, Omar, James.
You don't know my pain.
But I'm spilling blood to protect you. Sigh. Understand this mother's heart, leaving the baby alone to forage for clams.
Fending off greedy bastards who wanted to strip my precious 93rd Division bare while securing fresh units and gear for my kids was nonstop warfare.
But hustling like this sometimes lands lucky breaks.
"Hey, junior!!!"
That train-whistle voice shredding my soul. Ugh. Didn't we part ways for good—
"Why didn't you call me?!"
"Because you're meant to be the father of US armored forces, sir."
"What nonsense is that! You're the mother—dump the kids and run off? Abandoning our darling armor babies who can't even wean yet for some new nigger batch? I'd raise those babies myself!"
Not even a minute in, and my mind's already reeling.
But I'm fluent in Pattonese now. No crumbling to this mind attack.
"Heh heh, congratulations in advance on your division command?"
"Grrrumph! Fine. I'll let it slide this time. Like you said, junior, just forming new armor units for each outfit is killing me. The 93rd already has tanks, right? Zeros even? Junior's loaded, huh?!"
What the hell kind of crazy talk. Zero tanks?
"Uh... not bought with my money. Ford's letting us test their upgraded prototypes."
"Hahaha! No need for that lame excuse with me! Anyway, your unit has tanks, so next is crew assignments, eh?"
"...Yeah."
"Rejoice! Got friends itching to transfer to you! Rockenbach'll kill me, but screw it—I can send some troops your way."
This madhouse chatter, but this was the craziest yet. Lunatics wanting into the 93rd?
"Who?"
"326th Light Tank Battalion guys, obviously! Fresh off sickbeds, missing their mama bird—natural, right? So, you want 'em?"
"If you send them, I'll take them gratefully."
Kuhuhu. Armor's sorted. Sweet!
"Good. Don't go nuts over niggers and die screaming. You're born for the heavy mission of rewriting armor history. Your life's not yours anymore, junior. Got it?!"
"Thanks for the blessing. I'll drop by soon with an elite unit."
"Yes! Can't wait to see those niggers as blood-and-flesh-starved warriors! Raise the strongest unit I can lead from the front!"
No wonder the kids went nuts under that mindset. Poor Ike.
I vowed not to raise mine that way and headed back.
"-Therefore, your blood and sweat will be rewarded. Good luck. Dismissed."
Clap clap clap clap!!
In the auditorium, black and white officers mingled.
I finished my brief pep talk and spoke again.
"For a moment... only colored officers stay. Everyone else, clear out."
They looked confused but soon filed out in orderly fashion.
But three beside me were exceptions.
"Colonel."
"When did you become black? Get out."
"You said I'm chief of staff? One of us should stay, right?"
Bradley shook his head, whispering.
"If you and the blacks talk alone, idiots might think you're plotting some colored conspiracy. I need to sit in."
"Fine. You?"
"I'll guard you as your aide."
Damn pest.
Hodge clung like chewed gum. Regretting picking him as aide for symbolism.
Didn't expect him this smitten. Sinful Eugene Kim.
His gaze screamed cult fanatic ditching home and family. Unsettling.
"Ver..."
"You said colored stay?"
Newly arrived Anastacio beamed innocently.
Poor guy's luck. Filipino fighting in this shitty French winter.
Grateful he came, but no Tail-low Charmander here. Warned I'd send him rear if condition slips—he'll manage.
"No regrets. I warned you."
I gripped the podium hard and bellowed.
"Attention! Any idiots bought my 'Oh, fight hard and you'll be rewarded' sugarcoating?!"
"...?!"
Blacks' eyes filled with shock, then rotten fish glare.
"Sorry! Take it back! Won't happen! Think whites have gone mad enough to accept you?!"
"Then why the hell are we here?!"
Scream from the back. Perfect.
"Why, you moron! To kill Germans!! Your first and last legal shot at whites!"
Bradley muttered something. Sweet Omar wouldn't say "that crazy bastard finally..." Must be hearing wrong. Time for an ear check.
"Listen up! Rational foes swayed by talk and reason are rare as hell! No matter your courage, will, loyalty—you're still niggers! Ex-slaves!!"
"That's too harsh!!"
"No way!!!"
"Harsh my ass! Listen, retards. Don't come loyal—that won't cut it! Kill! Slaughter tons of Germans till whites fear the body pile! Fastest way to convince humans? Fear! Become fear itself! Can't? Die here! No 3:1 kill ratio per man? Drop dead!!"
Black officers paled. Good—bleached. Soon honorary whites like me. Fine omen.
"Remember. You're black America's hope. Be the most brutal, ferocious, ruthless killing machines to get your rights. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!"
"That all? Scream so Kaiser hears!"
"YES, SIR!!!"
"Good, you bastards! Drill it into your minions! Dismissed!"
Mindset training done.
I found Hodge's soulless shell standing there, then jumped into the next meeting.
Time was insanely short.
1917's winter was brutally harsh.
"Everything we've learned—old doctrines—trash 'em all."
Lately, officers stare like I'm nuts.
Can't help it. West Point crap was real garbage.
Second-rate power US Army doctrine was dogshit.
Scorn artillery, worship infantry excessively. And that infantry firepower? Bolt-actions ain't much.
Desk-jockeys drilled in this lead charges into MG nests standing, end up hill-sized tank bait. No plans to train that outdated crap.
"Eugene. Too radical?"
"Radical? Brits and French proved old doctrines trash with their bodies. And those Anglo-French can't touch modern tactics Germans. Obviously import latest."
"Examples?"
"No long-range shooting. Especially not at MGs—hit the dirt. No advancing frontal on enemy MG nests. Want that? Tell me. I'll kill you myself."
Blind faith in rifle power.
Want to suppress enemy MG? Blast with ours, call arty, mortars—real firepower.
Ignored this simple rule, thousands died in no-man's-land.
"Next?"
"Train arty liaisons—even privates—flawlessly. Fail to relay to arty, assault dead."
"Isn't that obvious?"
"Obvious my ass. Wanna bet?"
"...Lost too much on your bets. Pass."
Great War's unique.
Killer defensive tools abound, offensive scarce.
Crucial comms.
Radios years away; rely on fragile wires, runners, pigeons.
"Runners on motorcycles if possible. Horses fine. Shorten by a second? Dolphin, dog—whatever."
"Commander's issuing this crap, but scribe's sadder."
Omar's sighs grew daily. No wrinkles from me yet.
"And... can we run Stormtroopers?"
"Ugh! Say something sensible!"
"I think it'll work? Recruit volunteers, test."
Despite my smile, Omar's forehead canyoned deeper.
Damn, it'd rock if made.
Our winter passed thus, sharpening the 93rd Division's rusty club into a blade.
1918.
As German Empire launched final offensive,
Whether this blade pierced the Empire's heart would decide our fates.