Chapter 51
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 51
Chapter Title: Mistletoe
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1918.
The nations embroiled in the Great War were reaching their limits.
The collapse of the Russian Empire rang like a death knell for them all. Every politician was haunted by nightmares of their heads rolling and red revolutionaries strutting through the streets.
The Russian Revolution, which they'd thought concluded with the fall of the Tsarist regime, delivered a shock of terror when Vladimir Lenin sparked it anew, establishing the world's first communist state.
And these protagonists of the communist upheaval, the Bolsheviks, stunned the world once more with an idea no one could comprehend.
"The world's first communist nation has been born! Now, workers everywhere will rise up and cast off the chains of capitalist slavery!"
"All we have to do is watch as those evil empires crumble at the hands of laborers and peasants!"
Of course, no global red revolution ever materialized.
While the Bolsheviks burned with fervent delusions of world revolution—eschewing both negotiation and warfare—German troops were inevitably the ones waiting for them.
The Germans tried negotiating with these bizarre, otherworldly figures who refused dialogue, but soon realized these madmen lacked both the will and the capacity for it. So, they prepared to plunge deep into Russia.
In essence, the Eastern Front war was over.
But would everywhere else roll out the red carpet for the Germans?
In October 1917, Austria-Hungary's incompetence was laid bare for all to see. Germany had no choice but to intervene on the Italian front, smashing the hapless Italian army at Caporetto.
Even so, the mere fact that they'd be stuck on the Italian front going forward was enough to overload the German high command's brains.
In December 1917, British forces finally entered the Promised Land of Jerusalem. For Germany's Ottoman Turkish allies, only ruin remained.
If they could stabilize the newly conquered Russian territories and suck dry their resources, hope might glimmer for Germany.
But at the same time, they feared America's swelling army by the day.
After much deliberation, Germany reached one conclusion.
"Before the Americans build up further, gather every last soldier from the Eastern Front and end the Western Front!"
Thus was born the Spring Offensive, better known as the Ludendorff Offensive.
Germany had no soldiers left. Every last able-bodied young man who could possibly enlist had been shoved into uniform.
There was no food, either. With wheat bread and potatoes long gone, German troops filled their bellies with turnips—swill fit for pigs. Shortages were so dire that civilians gnawed on sawdust and turnip leaves.
If this final offensive didn't utterly crush Britain and France, there was no future. That much was plain to anyone.
The empire's last chips were on the table in a colossal gamble.
The stakes were Germany itself.
I'm getting antsy.
The Ludendorff Offensive is just months away.
Impossible not to know.
Unlike the Armageddon Report I'd tossed out before the war, anyone with a brain knew Germany's "rational" options boiled down to one: an all-in final brawl.
Next worry: where would the Germans push?
Germany's path to victory was simple: annihilate either the British or French army outright. Easy peasy!
To pull off that insane feat, they'd have to breach hellish trench lines built since 1914, execute flawless strategic maneuvers, and obliterate the enemy's main force.
I knew exactly where the Germans would slither through, but for now, I kept my mouth shut.
Best to let original history play out as much as possible.
It was absurd coming from me—the guy bulldozing history without mercy—but I genuinely wanted to avoid massive divergences like Stars and Stripes over Berlin.
Hell, what if Germany got crushed so hard that instead of Versailles, they got a puppet republic? No World War II?
Of course, chasing those thoughts always ended with "What if Hitler died at Cambrai? Do I get screwed?" But the gap between minor tweaks like now and wholesale strategic meddling to smash the Germans was vast.
Moderation in all things. Pissing the bed once doesn't mean you crap it next. I'm a rational, sensible adult.
Besides, even if I spilled everything—"They're coming here!"—I had no proof to convince anyone, and our stellar 93rd Division boys would lack a spotlight.
Look outside. Our eager lads are training non-stop.
Back in the day, I'd have donned a red cap, blown my whistle, and drilled them silly. But with a division command reserved for me, charging out like that would backfire.
Imagine the division commander playing guerrilla instructor. Mutiny city. I'm not that heartless.
Maybe it's the talent pool, but the 93rd was shaping up at breakneck speed.
Future stars I'd slotted in? A ton. If they flopped, I'd be in trouble.
"Lucky bastard. Some of us can't even catch a breath with the workload, and here you are, lounging and philosophizing."
"Hey now. This is deep strategic planning for upcoming ops, as division commander."
"Bullshit."
Omar chucked a stack of papers at me in annoyance.
"Your recruits are still crossing the Atlantic, and you got no shame?"
"Shame? I'm handing them epic glory on a platter—"
"Rot in hell."
MacArthur nailed what I needed most: media spin.
Once "Cambrai's Hero" shook the world, top talent came knocking for a great leader. Natural order.
In that sense, my charisma had surpassed Liu Bei's, right?
"You know your boys dash off telegrams and letters every free minute?"
"Huh? Why??"
"Why? Too pissed to die alone—they're recruiting company."
No way. What is this, a pyramid scheme?
Thinking about it, yeah. First arrivals snagged triple-platinum... er, lieutenant colonel and major spots. Next wave: majors to captains. Total MLM.
How'd my "justice and valor" officer corps devolve into this? Heartbreaking.
"Direct reporting units are nearly set: machine-gun battalion, signals, engineers, HQ, transport HQ, MPs, supply, medical, ammo! How many heads rolled, you soulless prick?!"
"Ah, read the reports. My friends are aces. So competent, tears of joy."
"Really?"
"Rice was tasty today. Sniff."
Feeling a punch incoming, I straightened up and pored over the reports.
"Division-direct Rangers are almost ready. Finish them, and direct units are complete."
"Built it, and it's regiment-sized? I... dunno."
Those German Stormtroopers at Cambrai were nightmares. Even leading armor, they bloodied me. Facing that horror without wanting to copy it? Commander fail.
Unlike Germans, we didn't need infantry clown shows against enemy tanks. No anti-tank grenades, rifles, or towed guns for us.
Enter Rangers.
Originally, I envisioned modern recon platoons. Blend German Stormtroopers with future scouts, run 'em division-direct. Rough plan.
Hit snags in setup.
Recon I recalled patrolled mountains or DMZs—not what we needed. Trench-Jerry hunts? Maybe.
One goal for the new unit: a sledgehammer to exploit weaknesses and shred lines. Friends blurted "elite light infantry? Rangers?"—adopted on spot. Better to use familiar US officer concepts.
Done right, they'd be 93rd's aces in combat.
Botched? All dead. Damn.
"How's Anastacio?"
"...Yeah, doing great."
"Good to hear."
He'd trained to lead Philippine Scouts, not standard GI. Rangers could be perfect.
Omar's sacrificial-fish glare unnerved me today. Time for a heart-to-heart after hours.
Major Omar Bradley, acting chief of staff for the 93rd Division, was glum again today.
Cambrai's Hero.
West Point's pride, Eugene Kim.
Even as a cadet, he was extraordinary.
Every antics and incident featured him—no exceptions. He slung more punches than anyone, took more beatings, danced on the edge of rules relentlessly.
Sun? Nah, that's MacArthur-senpai territory.
Moon? Insane. Too cozy for him.
Celestial fit? A shooting star. Flickers rarely—quick, make a wish.
Drops on my head? Auto-curse. On a foe's? Pure gold.
After four years side-by-side, I knew his storm wasn't madness, but desperate leaps over the skin-color wall.
I cheered his acrobatics, whooped loudest at his wins, believed his rise lifted the nation.
So he crossed the Atlantic.
Help Blacks on the front? Play selfish all you want—he charges first for justice and honor. Classic Kim.
Who else aids his fight against Army and society for the American Dream? God? Maybe.
But doubt now gnawed to the bone.
At least the scenes here were too grotesque for the upright man to stomach.
"Remember! Colonel Kim decrees: Tanks are steel so you can crush foes and rinse 'em off with water!"
"Got it!!"
"What the hell kinda training is this?!"
Red-capped instructors replied nonchalantly to Bradley's screech.
"Passing on lessons from Cambrai."
"What kinda bullshit lesson is that?!"
"Cambrai's chaos demanded careful tank gun and MG use. Supply woes. Battalion CO Kim foresaw it: 'Weight, mobility, even that intimidating roar. Master every element as a weapon for true tanking.'"
So why's that morph into psycho gospel? You lunatics.
—Too gentlemanly to bellow that, Bradley sighed.
"...Tone down the phrasing, at least."
"Sir! Remember, troops! Thus, the tank is mankind's finest slaughter machine—"
Screw it. Miracle black-white unity in the tank battalion? Whatever.
Bradley bailed for the next spot.
"Whoa, Chief of Staff."
"Cut the flattery."
Major Anastacio Quevedo Ver commanded the 93rd's direct Rangers.
He got Kim's "Ranger" vision. But did this shock force fit here? Skeptical.
Kim, with his eerie foresight, insisted and pushed hard.
'Simple. Where's 93rd heading?'
'Where?'
'Dead quiet rear or meat-grinder hotspot. Pick one.'
'...'
'Rear? Fine. Grinder? Need elite close-quarters aces. Save more lives.'
Bradley couldn't deny.
Kim always layered politics atop military aims, meticulously.
Same academy, yet Kim's plans wove endless groups and tangled interests. Uncatchable.
Guy was born for politics.
Nah. Staying "true soldier" without politics honed skills to guard that uniform.
"Remember, you elite niggers! I'll lead you colored folk to paradise!"
"Yaaaaah!!"
"Kim promised! More pay! More glory! Bright futures! Rip and kill—you'll be rewarded!!"
"Kill Jerries!!"
"Kill whites!!!"
Yeah.
Think positive.
If West Point shunned Kim, he'd be a red rallying DC like Russia—or bandit chief.
For America's future, West Point bore the side effect: embracing overly fiery souls as soldiers.
Bradley decided that. Peace washed over him.