Chapter 53
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 53
Chapter Title: Devils of Amiens (1)
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“Colonel Eugene Kim.”
“Yes, sir.”
All eyes were on him.
This was the moment they had all endured that freezing winter for, choking on dust and mud.
“In recognition of your heroic command in the Battle of Cambrai, and the astonishing fighting spirit and dedication you showed in rescuing the volunteers and our Allied troops, I hereby award you the Distinguished Service Cross.”
Finally, it was official.
The reward for throwing myself into the jaws of battle was coming due.
Many received medals alongside me.
But strangely, when my moment came, there was no applause at all.
What a goddamn country—
Clap. Clap. Clap.
I flicked my eyes just slightly toward the sound of the applause.
Major Marshall, newly promoted, was clapping mechanically with a terrifying expression that said he could kill a man right there.
As if intimidated by the sight, scattered applause broke out here and there, soon swelling into a full ovation that filled the hall.
Pershing, watching it all, removed my old rank insignia and pinned a gleaming star in its place.
“I hereby appoint you as the official commander of the 93rd Division.”
“I will return with victories, sir.”
“Good. Good luck out there.”
In the original history, this war would end this year.
That meant I had about a year with this star—or realistically, just half that.
But it didn't matter.
How many people despaired over not getting a star like this for a year? How many colonels suffered without one?
I had pierced the thick wall of discrimination in the United States and finally pinned on my star.
It was temporary for now, but
there was no time for petulant complaints in front of everyone.
The battlefield was calling me.
The German onslaught continued relentlessly, leaving Britain and France aghast at the prospect of being split apart.
“They're coming for Paris! The moment we're separated from the British, the road to Paris opens up. Until our American friends arrive, we must stop the Germans at any cost!”
“Not one step back. Warriors of the Marne, the Aisne, and Verdun—your country needs you! The fate of the nation, flickering like a candle in the wind, rests in your hands alone!”
French Army Commander Pétain had to bellow like he was coughing up blood to rally his men.
British Field Marshal Haig, battered by the merciless assault, was in the same boat.
“—Imagine a wall at your backs. There is no retreat. Stand there and die.”
The British Fifth Army, shattered most catastrophically, had been absorbed into the Fourth Army, its commander sacked.
In this back-and-forth bloodbath of a battlefield, I was racing along in a car, mind racing even faster.
“How much longer?”
“Sorry, sir. I don't—”
I sighed at the driver's response.
Hodge, sitting beside me, kept stealing glances at my face, then seemed to hesitate before speaking.
“Congratulations on the promotion, General Kim.”
“What's to celebrate? This star won't last a year anyway.”
“A year?”
“This war ends this year. Obviously, I'll drop back to my old rank.”
Hodge's expression turned profoundly strange at my words.
People should rejoice at the end of a war, but when it means losing a rank insignia, any bureaucrat feels a pang of regret.
Yeah, fuck. How do you think I feel? From general to lieutenant? Just thinking about it makes me want to drown in the Hudson.
“More importantly, keeping this star through the rest of the war is what counts. You know how the high command is crawling with people who'd love to disband the 93rd and hand it over to the French.”
While I built up the 93rd Division, the Expeditionary Force HQ had spewed every kind of criticism imaginable.
Why no whites-only bathrooms?
Why are whites and blacks eating in the same mess hall?
Why give the same equipment to whites and blacks?
Why let black soldiers off base? They're just waiting to rape white women!
Why put black lieutenant colonels and colonels in command? Are our proud white American officers taking orders from niggers?
Every time, I used the magic words Pershing taught me.
'Fuck off.'
I couldn't persuade them one by one.
Didn't want to, either.
The attacks on the blacks were so vicious, brazen, and easily repurposed by swapping “nigger” for “yellow monkey.”
Patton, Marshall, and MacArthur were all tied up commanding their own units near Soissons, so I had to shoulder all that malice alone.
On the flip side, I'd tasted the sweetest honey confirming just how effective it all was, and some quietly offered encouragement away from prying eyes: “Hang in there.”
They weren't mainstream yet, but at least there were seeds of hope in the U.S. Army.
Even among the white officers who volunteered for the 93rd, some grumbled openly.
'Uh... you want us to eat together?'
'Ah, I get it—uncomfortable eating with a yellow monkey like me, right? Sorry. I'll eat in the bathroom over there by myself.'
'No, sir! My apologies!!'
Do these idiots not know who's in charge?
But once I threw them all equally into mock trenches and mud pits and drilled them for months, hatred for the Germans sprouted alongside a budding camaraderie—“Wait, these guys suffering less than us are the ones talking shit?”—regardless of color.
Nothing beats a common enemy.
Now it was time to forge them in the fires of battle.
The 93rd Division was urgently assigned under the French 36th Corps.
Normally, I'd head straight to corps HQ to meet General Charles Nollet, but that wasn't my plan.
The battlefield came first.
The place where the 93rd would hold and bleed.
The Germans' goal was clear.
Amiens.
Seizing the rail hub of Amiens would all but achieve their strategic aim of splitting Britain and France.
The Germans pushed desperately for Amiens, while the British and French threw everything they had into stopping them.
After a long drive, we reached the outskirts of a chaotic town.
“See that small city over there, sir? If we go in, we'll be stuck in the refugee traffic.”
“Pull over into the fields.”
As expected, civilians packed with fear fled in droves.
This had been a rear area.
Soldiers on leave or rotating out would reclaim a slice of normalcy here, enjoy a brief respite, then return to the trenches.
But that wartime peace was over.
That town was just one piece of the game board I had to play.
Better if they all fled. I had no intention of throwing my men into the open, and if push came to shove, I'd lure the Germans right into that city.
“Hodge.”
“Yes, General?”
“We should plan a defensive line starting from that town. Prepare for evacuation.”
“Driving out foreign civilians—won't that put a burden on you, sir?”
“That's not for you to worry about. It's my problem.”
Let's be real: we're here helping their war. Like it or not, what are they gonna do? I want to keep my men alive.
“Further. Push more to the front.”
“Any further and we might run into Germans.”
“Gotta see a Jerry face or two. Recon's priority.”
Can't rely on maps alone.
How many times have maps screwed me over?
This was the heart of the offensive. Even the ROK Army dealt with ghost buildings, vinyl greenhouses sprouting where none were marked, roads vanishing, and hills supposed to be empty crawling with mushroom-picking ajummas and ajushis.
I won't believe it till I see it myself. After all the shelling here, it's probably worse than Korea.
“Everyone, gas masks on. Could go anytime.”
“Understood.”
We fumbled on our masks, and the car pressed deeper into the battlefield.
While Hodge cross-checked the terrain on his map, I scanned every inch for the lay of the land.
“That hill looks like a prime spot to hold.”
“On the map?”
“Looks good there too.”
“Mark it. Stick a battalion in and make it a stronghold.”
“There should be a farm there—”
“Not anymore.”
Hard to call a crater farm a farm. Bullet farm, maybe.
A horrific shell explosion echoed in the distance.
This was hell, no doubt.
Only when we spotted the French troops we were relieving in the distance did I turn the car around.
After the inspection, we headed straight to 36th Corps HQ.
“Brigadier General Eugene Kim, commanding the U.S. Army 93rd Infantry Division.”
“The hero of Cambrai! Welcome. I'm Charles Nollet, in charge of the 36th Corps.”
He looked like he hadn't sat down in days.
Against a massive map sprawled across the room's center, officers frantically shuffled pieces, scribbled notes, and barked orders.
“The situation board tells the tale—we're getting pushed back hard. We've abandoned huge swaths of trenches, and there's no more room to delay. Your arrival is like rain in a drought.”
“You've been briefed, but the 93rd is composed of black soldiers. Any issues?”
“Ha! If giant squids with rifles showed up to help, we'd welcome them. Who gives a damn about skin color with the enemy at Amiens' doorstep?”
It didn't sound like a joke. Maybe it wasn't.
“Understood. The 93rd numbers about 30,000—”
“Thirty thousand! Manpower we can only dream of. Damn. But green as they come, right?”
“We trained as best we could, but mocks and real war are worlds apart.”
“Can't be helped. Alright, you'll go in here—right here.”
He jabbed the map with his pointer.
“German 208th Infantry Division. Under Wilhelm von Groddeck. Somme, Aisne, Pas-de-Calais, and that goddamn Cambrai! Yeah, those bastards. Time to pay them back.”
Cambrai again, full circle.
Looked like Cambrai's shadow would haunt my career forever.
“Stop the 208th by any means necessary.”
“What's the corps and high command policy?”
“Hold the line. Got other ideas?”
“I'd love to snap their spine aggressively. Your thoughts?”
I grinned, and Nollet flashed a mischievous one back.
“Bold. But the Germans are elite. Can green troops handle it?”
“You might not know, but the 93rd's men volunteered solely for greater rights for blacks in the Union. Combat skill's unproven without battle, but their motivation? Top-notch.”
“Hmm.”
“We outnumber them anyway. Poke and prod lightly?”
“Approved. Limited attacks after the line's set. Expand if you gain ground, but always keep reserves for defense.”
“Got it. I'll join my men now.”
De facto green light. Done and dusted.
Limited attack, sure.
But if a light tap cracks their skull, that's on them, not me.
The Germans think infiltration and disruption are their specialty.
Let's see if they still do after a tank stabs their gut.