Chapter 52
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 52
Chapter Title: Empire's Counterattack
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Winter turning from 1917 to 1918.
The German Empire exploded onto the scene with ferocious momentum, showcasing its power across Europe.
In the void left by the fallen Russian Empire, the Baltic states and Ukraine—long chafed under the Tsar's yoke—saw German influence take root as the new law of the land.
Finland, similarly groaning under the Tsar's leash, saw communists begin to stir, but the emergence of the brilliant right-wing general Mannerheim sent those red bastards plummeting toward rapid downfall.
Now, only the final showdown remained.
The objective of this Spring Offensive of 1918, codenamed "Michael," was the Somme.
In 1916, the British launched a massive assault along the upper Somme, losing 60,000 men in a single day.
The hellish ground where Britain, France, and Germany together suffered 1.2 million casualties. The Germans decided to strike here and drive the British into the sea.
With the target set, the next step was picking the date. And for that, the German General Staff had a massive timer ticking in their minds.
The moment it hit zero, America would overwhelm them with sheer numbers, sweeping away everything—even the Empire itself. It was driving all the German generals half-mad.
Thus, the attack was set for as soon as possible: March.
All preparations were complete.
Now Germany had thousands of field guns, over a million shells, and hundreds of thousands of battle-hardened elite veterans from the Eastern Front.
The tactical concept that would go down in history as "Hutier tactics" had finally been solidified. With Germany's elite Stormtroopers and superior artillery, they could tear the British and French to shreds.
Meanwhile, the Allies weren't blind to Germany's intentions.
They weren't fools. Reality had just outpaced their expectations into utter madness.
While Germany scraped together every last able-bodied man and hurled them into the fray, had Britain and France done any different?
The two nations compromised with reality, shrinking divisions from 12 battalions to 9.
They dismounted all cavalry and turned them into infantry, disbanded healthy battalions to feed other units, and desperately reorganized again and again.
Still, they came up short on troops.
"This isn't about new formations. Just to bring depleted units back to full strength... we need another 600,000 men."
"600,000? 600,000?? Have you lost your mind? Even squeezing Britain dry to the last drop, we can only muster 100,000! Scraping every last man from Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the colonies, 600,000 is impossible!"
"Then tell the Americans straight up! Demand they send troops! The moment this winter ends, the Germans will come sweeping us into the sea. How long are those damn fools going to fiddle with training raw recruits?"
Desperate Brits hammered the doorbell in Washington D.C. nonstop, begging, threatening, pleading, and bluffing. Finally, War Secretary Baker caved and politely requested Pershing.
"150 battalions. The Brits are asking for exactly 150."
"No."
"They don't want everything. How about splitting some units and lending them to Britain and France?"
"America's sons fight only under the Stars and Stripes. Weren't they whining about shortages? Why do they have dozens of divisions stuck in the Balkans and Middle East? Tell them to pull those out first, Secretary."
"We're part of the Alliance, after all—"
"We'll consider it carefully, taking local conditions into account."
Under the relentless "requests," Pershing eventually relented and loaned some troops to Britain and France—but he gripped command authority tight to the end. That much, even he wouldn't yield.
Chaumont, Expeditionary Force HQ.
"Signs of an imminent German offensive are appearing everywhere."
Everyone nodded at Pershing's words.
"But our own state isn't great yet. I know how hard you've all worked, but—"
"No, sir. We recognize the reality too."
Even now, Americans were pouring in endlessly.
But strictly speaking, they weren't an "army" yet. Just civilians thrown into uniforms.
The U.S. Army still lacked the clout and initiative to dominate this war.
"We're still spectators in this war, for now. Let's speak freely. Where do you think the Germans' next offensive is headed?"
"Paris, obviously."
"They learned in 1914 that Paris is impossible the usual way. Second Verdun Offensive has the highest odds. Cripple the French, smash our still-forming divisions, and the road to Paris opens."
"Won't they hit the British and aim for Belgium's Channel ports?"
As everyone tossed out opinions, I stayed silent.
And apparently, that irked someone.
"Why's our expeditionary force's youngest colonel so quiet?"
"Hope those nigger brains aren't contagious."
"Told you not to push yourself. Heh."
Ah, the subtle digs were masterful. I wanted to flip the table on these bastards right here, but I held back.
Surely someone else wouldn't let this slide—
"How about we drop it there."
"MacArthur. You were keeping your mouth shut too—"
"Listening to your predictions left me speechless. I doubt Colonel Kim's take differs much from mine."
No, no. Don't drag me into this.
Saying it like that pulls all the aggro onto me too, you arrogant prick. You can handle it with your pedigree and talent— I can't!!
"Ho. Is that so? Then let's hear that precious prediction."
With the stage set like this, I couldn't stay quiet.
I cleared my throat lightly and slowly took control of the room.
"Not sure if I'm right, but first, I put myself in Hindenburg's shoes."
"Hm."
"From Germany's view, intel's limited, obviously. They'll spy and gather what they can, but they don't have our full picture."
My intro started hooking them— from impatient glares demanding the punchline to intrigued stares.
"Bottom line: I predict the Germans head back to the Somme."
"Hitting the British? Leaving France alone?"
"Yes."
"Let's hear why."
Pershing spoke low from the sidelines, silencing the peanut gallery.
"Ypres, Passchendaele, and Cambrai. The British Fifth Army stationed there fought in most of 1917's campaigns. To German brass, it's the softest, most vulnerable target."
"Hm. Prioritizing easy kills over valuable ground?"
"Land conquest doesn't matter to Germany now. It's about how many enemies they drop and how ruthlessly they shatter the enemy's core. That decides their fate."
"No other reasons?"
"Fifth Army's left flank is Third Army, right is French. It could split Britain from France.
Plus, terrain favors Germany. Assuming they attack post-thaw, most ground turns to mud. But Cambrai's firm—we saw it there, great for maneuvers."
"Hm..."
"But the Somme! You think the Germans would launch something that reckless?"
"Why'd Cambrai happen? Tanks love firm ground! You think they'll assault where tanks swarm?"
"Enough armchair theorizing."
Pershing seemed ready to wrap debate. He knew dragging it out would just breed jeers between commanders and staff.
"No matter where they come, remember we're Allies fighting for victory. Deployable units now—"
"1st Division's already relieved French and hit the trenches."
"42nd's prepping handover with French cooperation."
"Ours too—"
"93rd Division, ready."
My pebble dropped, jolting everyone.
"93rd?"
"Yes. Formation nearly complete, combat-ready immediately."
"Heh."
Disbelieving tongues clicked.
Yeah, unbelievable.
But it happened.
Most here saw the 93rd as "yellow monkey lightning promotion handing stripes to nigger buddies."
But just like no one imagined desk-jockey me and sworn brothers as future marshals, my crew were future field marshals. If they predicted it, they'd be regressors or possessors.
"So, throw the 93rd in too?"
"Niggers are a bit..."
"93rd's purpose was testing black combat power. Even if they're godawful, they can soak up German bullets."
"Haha! That's fair!"
"Why waste ammo killing niggers?"
Idiots.
Black combat power? Godawful? You'll see soon enough.
"93rd's under HQ direct control now."
"Yes."
No one wanted niggers in their commands.
Fine by me. Through tangled politics, the 93rd became something no corps could handle.
Pershing, who'd ordered me to take it, was likelier to send it to battle. If some denture-clacking racist fossil corps commander got it, it'd rot in the rear forgotten till war's end.
"We'll discuss 93rd later. Colonel Kim, stay behind."
"Yes, sir."
Post-meeting, I met Pershing alone.
"Colonel Kim, how's it going?"
"Very well, sir. Formation complete, troops brimming with morale."
"Impressive. A full division already."
Pershing's calm tone made it hard to tell sarcasm from genuine awe.
"...Are you considering non-division deployment?"
"French want regiments attached to their units."
Feared as much. Fucking baguettes, useless.
I wanted to foam at the mouth, but kept cool and reasonable before Pershing.
"We've formed as HQ division, trained for max efficiency as one unit—not individual regiments. Splitting now wastes all prep."
"Hm."
"Please, sir. Attaching to French command's inevitable, but spare us regiment chops."
Fuck. Fuck. No way. These kids I babied—shatter them for French handouts?
Unlike Anglo-Americans, France shoved blacks frontline hard.
Not from liberty or equality—months ago, their troops struck refusing trenches.
Brits/Yanks: "Fight with niggers? Insane?" French: "Can't watch our boys die anymore! Let niggers bleed instead!"
So they'd all die. French wouldn't spare black troops. Not till dirt's in my eyes—
"If it couldn't function as a division, different story. But no need splitting a solid one for France."
Whew, saved.
God Pershing's the only reliable one. Common sense from a sensible man.
"So, keep division intact under a French corps?"
"That's why I'm asking. Your division's so unique, I haven't caught up."
His words had bite.
Standard U.S. division: 28,000.
93rd neared 30,000—volunteers, etc. Can't help it; anything dark-skinned got shoved here.
That excess let me experiment. Pershing was poking at it.
"HQ direct control allows quirks. Tricky for French to handle now."
"But final training's needed, right?"
1st Division already frontline relieving French. 26th/42nd prepped or in. French desperate to boost U.S. combat power. For real battle taste, grab baguette hand.
"I see pros/cons there."
"...Fine. Heard you out, I'll weigh concerns. Dismissed."
Days later.
Pershing's final word: "93rd Division held in reserve for emergencies."
Perfect.
Greenhorns missing frontline trenches vs. not—huge gap. But WWI officers wouldn't grasp my unit anyway: race, formation, training.
Better under Pershing.
Time till Germans hit: not much.
March 21, 1918.
The day arrived.
"Commence Operation Michael! Sons of the Empire, end this war!"
Ignoring the Empire's last peaceniks' squirms, Germany launched its Spring Offensive.
First target: as predicted—historically—the British Fifth Army.
Ypres, Passchendaele, Cambrai. Battle-worn units, brutally attrited, had few ways to resist the sudden German onslaught.
Cambrai came to mind again.
We felt it then: Germans exploited weaknesses more aggressively than any army on Earth, pressed relentlessly, fearless of isolation deep in enemy lines.
Result: British command shattered, lines torn to shreds, collapsing absurdly easily.
Tasting success, they'd adapt those lessons.
History's knowledge, but also my blood-earned lesson.
Fifth Army was prime real estate.
1917's brutal fights left battalions under half strength from 1,000. Replacements mismatched, no unit cohesion, plus taking French sectors—expanded ops!
Factoring French shitty trenches? Fifth Army's crisis was predestined doom.
4:40 AM.
German barrage engulfed unlucky Fifth Army.
Every inch of 60km front blasted. Front trenches got the horror cocktail: tear gas, chlorine, mustard, phosgene. Rear roads/comms obliterated by overwhelming fire.
9:40 AM.
As shell-shocked Brits reeled from 5-hour hell, Germans surged from trenches.
Morning fog, gas, smoke blanketed the field—perfect German cover. Frontmost assault teams—Stormtroopers—charged, burrowing into enemy lines unchecked.
One day: Fifth Army front collapsed.
Brits swept away like autumn leaves. Germans hit pockets of fierce resistance but no organized counterattack.
Fifth Army down, Third Army clipped—Germany's aim crystalized.
Split British from French, shove Brits to the coast.
All I'd argued was coming true.
"Germans advancing daily. French losing it over Amiens."
"Reinforcements needed, then."
Pershing nodded.
"When's 93rd deployable?"
"Ready now."
"Good. Effective immediately, finalize 93rd formation. Gear up to aid French."
I snapped a heavy salute.
1918.
The guns heralding this mad war's curtain call rang in my ears.