Chapter 57
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 57
Chapter Title: Devils of Amiens (5)
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The wee hours when everyone was asleep.
Rumble!!
Before the sun had even risen, a massive roar echoed through the air, startling wild beasts and mountain birds into fleeing in panic.
"326! 326!"
"KILL! KILL!"
The M1917 tanks of the 93rd Division's 331st Light Tank Battalion charged forward relentlessly, with Rangers following close behind.
"Too slow."
"Pardon?"
Watching the scene, frustration boiled up inside me.
Yeah, I get it. This is the limit of this era. But couldn't there have been some way to go just a bit faster?
If I'd had a little more authority, I could've requisitioned a ton of taxis like in the dry battle and used them to haul ass. But right now, after already pulling the front line as far as possible while getting called crazy, I had no troops to spare.
"Too slow, too slow. They need to maneuver faster."
"How exactly, sir?"
"That's why I'm burning up inside right now."
Hodge gave me a strange look, but there was nothing for it.
What was I supposed to do? Someone from a country where you could pile people into cars the moment you decided to move was watching this sluggish crawl, and it was making my gut churn with frustration.
"...Maybe you should head back now, sir."
After hemming and hawing for a while, Hodge said it with utmost seriousness.
"Why?"
"Why? The top commander naturally belongs at division HQ, where all communications converge. There's no gain in coming out here!"
"What do you mean no gain? Can't you see those soldiers' morale piercing the heavens right now?"
"If the division commander gets himself killed unluckily, their morale will crash to the ground."
Look at this guy, his silver tongue getting sharper. Fresh out of teacher training college, and he's already trying to educate me logically.
"Chief of Staff Bradley can handle it. He'll probably do even better without me there."
"You're joking, right? How could you know the capabilities of someone who's never commanded so much as a regiment, let alone a division?"
"I'm pretty damn good at judging people, aren't I?"
"Pardon? ...Ah, yes. You are, sir."
"Great people recognize other great people."
I miss you, Colonel MacArthur... The man who lived off his own greatness...
Of course, to outsiders, my infinite trust in my friends might just look like cronyism.
But my judgment was purely rational. Me rushing to the front could groom Omar to grow, and it also let the division commander respond directly to the fluid battlefield situation.
It absolutely wasn't because my blood was boiling like Patton's or because I was itching for a kill. I'm always rational. I had to get home to see Henry and Dorothy—
"Hodge."
"Shall I turn the car around?"
"If my wife finds out what I'm doing right now, you think she'll let me live?"
"Hard to say. But she'll probably launch a fiercer offensive than the Germans."
In the distant eastern sky, red hues were slowly spreading like ink in water.
A fine day to die.
"Out there! Niggers are swarming outside the city!"
"Of course they are. Haven't we been dealing with those niggers all this time?"
The commander of the German 185th Regiment, jolted awake from deep sleep, spoke soothingly instead of flying into a rage.
But the shout that countered his words snapped him fully awake.
"No, sir. I'm not talking about the enemy that had fortified and waited at the 11 o'clock position from the city. Another unit is maneuvering to encircle us right now!"
"To the command post."
Even so, they were just niggers.
A bold idea, given their numbers.
But they were mistaken. A unit with low individual combat prowess attempting encirclement meant nothing.
"Green Americans lacking experience, as expected. Inner-line operations are a specialty of the German Imperial Army."
Americans who couldn't hold a single trench line under one assault and fled in panic.
If they'd concentrated those forces to bolster defenses, the road to Amiens might have been tougher. Encirclement now? Laughable.
"What about the Stormtroopers?"
"They're fully prepared to charge out of the city. Awaiting orders from you, sir, the senior officer in the city."
"Then no worries. 1st Battalion provides cover, 2nd Battalion stays in the city and blocks the enemy at 11 o'clock if they move."
But upon entering the command post and checking the situation map, the regimental commander could only sigh.
"The forest?"
"Yes, sir."
Méhérin Forest.
The road linking to main headquarters ran through it.
Securing that forest was an obvious necessity, but because those damn Stormtroopers had stubbornly stayed in the city, ignoring orders, this had happened.
"The enemy is dug in at the forest, you say. How did we fail to detect them pouring in until now?"
"Well..."
Hesitant subordinates.
He could guess. Classic "someone else will do it, not me."
No one had stood watch.
Food and booze in the city were limited. If I go out on mission, the others will hog it all, and there'll be none left. Who'd volunteer for recon?
Was military discipline this broken?
Instead of lamenting, the regimental commander chose rage.
"The enemy has far more troops than us! Of course they'd want that forest! Damn it!"
"Sorry, sir!"
"Sorry doesn't cut it! Fine. You've gorged yourselves, now time to fight! 1st Battalion CO!"
"Yes, sir!"
"With the Stormtroopers, clear those niggers from the forest by any means!"
"Understood."
His next outburst targeted the artillery.
"Artillery, how much fire support can you provide?"
"Difficult, sir."
The curt reply soured his mood, but he held back. Mutual cooperation and all.
"Fine. Then support 2nd Battalion if the niggers at the front attack."
Anxiety gnawed at him.
What if they couldn't push the niggers out?
What if this semi-encirclement held and the road to main HQ got cut?
Abandon the city?
If the enemy were proper Americans—or better, Brits or French with real combat power—he'd abandon the city without hesitation and link up with the division.
"Right. They're just niggers."
Vermin who didn't know the terror of the battlefield yet.
The invincible German army couldn't lose to Yanks.
Retreating here would earn them the unprecedented shame in German Imperial history: "unit that showed its back to Americans," "braves who fled in fear from niggers."
Retreat was impossible.
He soothed himself like that and uncorked a fresh bottle of wine.
"So, we sweep the niggers out, come back, and eat!"
"Come on. Didn't they say 2nd Battalion's still there? What if those bastards finish it all? Suck our thumbs? Or hunt for leftover turnips here?"
"Keep yapping, and I'll court-martial you. No, summary execution."
Somehow coaxing, soothing, and in bad cases bellowing at the troops, they finally prepared for battle.
They packed their well-worn gear, familiar from years of war.
Grenades stuffed into special pouches.
No tanks sighted, but just in case, anti-tank weapons too.
Newly issued MP18 submachine guns and rifles checked, final function tests.
"Forest means mortars first! Who knows what'll happen!"
"We've done this before. Why fuss?"
"Sigh... Back then, your mouths weren't slick with grease. Anyway, ready? Move out!"
But by the time the unit was battle-ready, it was lunchtime, and after feeding the protruding mouths, they finally could fight.
"Alright, let's go! To that damned forest!"
"No worries!"
With boastful bravado, the Stormtroopers headed for the forest where the enemy waited.
To slaughter the incompetent, unmotivated idiots who didn't even know what war was.
But this naively optimistic thought vanished the moment they neared the forest.
Bang!!
Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat-tang!
"Fire! What are you doing?!"
"Can't secure the clock!"
"Where's our machine gun?! Mount it!"
"Aaaagh!"
The forest entrance.
This was a slaughterhouse embodying every human malice.
Verdun flashed in mind.
Humanity's worst slaughterhouse.
Compared to that, this was at least nature-friendly.
"Mortars! Tell our mortars to hurry!"
"Can't see inside the forest—what the hell mortars?! Machine guns aren't hitting either! We have to keep advancing!"
"Then fire at will!"
A horrific advance, grinding men into meat.
Even Stormtroopers weren't machines of oil and steel instead of blood and flesh.
Their assaults always followed overwhelming barrage that neutralized the enemy—not this 1914-style brute rush.
What were the brass thinking sending them out? Assuming "they couldn't have prepared yet"?
They'd long forgotten securing the forest was their Stormtrooper job. No comfort that the niggers dug in while they grilled meat.
Still, spilling massive casualties, the Stormtroopers barely entered the forest.
Thanks to late support from 185th's 1st Battalion. Solo, it'd be disbandment day.
Was the entered forest a paradise?
No.
Deeper in the thick woods, niggers popped out everywhere, blasting away.
Any decent-sized tree hid dog-like niggers. So black they blended with the bark!
"Kee-yooot!!"
"Wheek-wheek, kee-yooot!"
"DIE!!"
Bang!
Perfectly camouflaged blacks sprang out, spraying bullets.
Few with rifles. Most had that devilish fuel pump, some pistols, rarely shovels or bayonets at throats and heads.
Strike and withdraw.
Volley, then withdraw.
Burst from bush piles, shoot, withdraw!
"Aaaah!! You damned nigger bastards! If you have guts, come out and fight!"
"Suck my dick, you retard Jerries!"
"Wahahahaha!!"
And they didn't stay grounded meekly either.
Unlike trenches, visibility was abysmal.
Not enough to watch 360 degrees—tree tops too.
Any lapse, and grenade-tossers struck.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!!
Entering a slightly sparse spot, machine guns erupted on cue.
"Down! Hit the dirt!!"
"Kaaagh!!"
"Max! Maaax!"
Damn. Kill zone!
Stepping into pre-cleared fire lanes for shooting—deserved death.
But they were Stormtroopers.
Elite survivors of hellish trenches.
"Hans! Grenades! Lob grenades!"
Boom silenced the machine gun.
Now shower those nigger vermin heads with bullets, and Max smiles in heaven.
Roll-roll-roll—
But that was it.
Staring at the rolling American grenade, one second stretched eternally.
Time for last words. A sigh escaped.
"At least I ate meat, damn it."
Boom!!
Private John Miller of the 369th Regiment, sending two Jerries to heaven with one grenade, immediately advanced with his squad, hosing Grease Guns.
"Cut Jerry throats! Seize pardons!!"
"KILL THEM ALL!"
"Freedom! Freeeeedom!!"
Troops burst out everywhere, slitting unpitiable Jerry throats.
Everything flowed as preset by their regimental commander, Major Eisenhower.
Pure brawl: smash enemies one by one with blood, steel, fists!
"Die! Die!"
"Guh, guh—"
With all strength, dagger into the German soldier's neck.
Ammo-empty Grease Gun discarded long ago.
All enemies looked the same up close—pure knife work left.
"2nd Platoon! 2nd Platoon assemble! Who's got ammo left?!"
"None!"
"Dropped rifles!"
"Fuck! This way... Fall back! We pull further!"
Calm.
Find calm.
Face, clothes soaked in blood everywhere, but suppress excitement to survive long.
Those who lost to battlefield frenzy all turned their backs to German bullets.
He couldn't die here.
Had to live, enjoy freedom.
That was for his dying comrades.