Chapter 60
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 60
Chapter Title: Seed of Evil
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“Hoo... it's... finally over...”
James Van Fleet took a long, satisfying drag from his victory cigarette.
After a relentless series of brutal fights, the 371st Regiment had effectively lost all its combat strength.
But it had been worth it.
The first battlefield had been nothing short of hell.
A chaotic melee where even grasping the situation was impossible.
The proud 371st of the 93rd Division had spotted the massive gap left by the 208th Division and charged in ahead of everyone else, forcing them to buy time against the 14th Bavarian Reserve Regiment—bare-handed, no less.
They were still half a step short of total victory.
The 372nd needed time to establish defensive positions.
And to buy that time, blood had to be spilled, naturally.
A ferocious slugfest where both sides ignored even the barest defenses.
Whether Eugene Kim's daring breakthrough would go down in history as a glorious triumph or a textbook case of encirclement and annihilation rested solely in the hands of the 371st Regiment.
And Van Fleet, realizing their superior close-quarters firepower—the Grease Guns far outclassing the enemy's bolt-action rifles—made his decision.
“My proud soldiers! Die on your feet! For our sons, die here and open our future!”
“Open the future!!”
“Fix bayonets! Charge!”
With a charge order no one would have dreamed of issuing now, the 371st Regiment unleashed a hail of hot lead on the Germans, fueled solely by their thirst for freedom.
The startled 14th Bavarian Reserve Regiment tried to fall back and reorganize, only for the 371st to pursue relentlessly, pounding them without mercy.
But eventually, exhaustion and ammo depletion caught up with the 371st, just as the enemy was shaking off the initial shock.
‘Tanks are disposable!’
‘Ha! Tanks are disposable!’
‘No ammo? Ram 'em!’
‘No ammo? Ram 'em!’
They'd blamed it all on Patton, but the bastard himself had led the charge, spouting the most insane nonsense.
The division commander—driving a mere dozen tanks straight into the fray—had crashed the party just as the 371st's blood-soaked carpet was wearing thin, waiting for the 14th to tire themselves out. He'd cut their last lifeline.
Fine, the tanks made sense. But what kind of rotten outfit has their full-time adjutant manning the machine gun from the division commander's tank while a one-star general reloads the ammo?
He was grateful to be alive, but that guy was stark-raving mad. West Point's admissions had to include a psych eval, right? How the hell did he get in?
“To us, you looked plenty crazy too.”
“Yeah. You're just as far gone. What was that bayonet charge about?”
“Omar. That's not for you to say.”
“Ahem!”
Bradley—chief of staff and de facto acting division commander—couldn't bring himself to argue with Van Fleet and just looked away awkwardly.
In their darkest hour, they'd counted on Bradley, the most level-headed of their class, and he'd delivered: roaring in on a motorcycle to survey the field personally, then slamming artillery fire into the perfect spot at the perfect time to choke off the Germans' final breath and cap the battle.
Eugene rampaging like a maniac to prove armor's supremacy firsthand.
Anastacio leading a handful of Rangers to sideline the 25th Regiment—the last remnants of the 208th Division—turning them into mere spectators.
Ike crushing the enemy for good in the Moher Wood.
Every classmate in the 93rd had played their part to perfection.
“William. Still sore about losing that poker game?”
“Hoo... Thanks to you assholes, I've commanded every damn fight. Yeah, real grateful.”
William Cabel, suckered by Eugene's rigged poker game into taking over the 93rd's engineers, grumbled nonstop.
The poor guy still had no idea it was a scam. Knowing the truth might make him put a bullet in Eugene's head, so everyone in the know kept their mouths shut.
“What happens next?”
“What else? Pull back to the rear.”
“Ammo's critically low, and no one's unscathed. Know what the tankers said? ‘Tanks are disposable anyway. Like cracking open a can—you crack open the tank.’ Those bastards blew every last tank again. Unbelievable!”
As Omar muttered, Ike—who'd suffered enough from those lunatics—winced as old traumas resurfaced.
Eugene had nurtured those psychos well; their mania was only going to get worse. Not that Ike could complain, having used those ‘disposable’ tanks as handy pillboxes.
“Eugene's at corps HQ, so he'll sort it. Just keep the men calm.”
“You bet.”
“They're all riding high. Morale's solid.”
The 93rd had gotten their fill of Jerries.
With achievements like these, they really might open the future!
No one in the ranks wasn't buzzing with anticipation. Having bathed in blood together, the entire 93rd—skin color be damned—believed they'd earned their rewards for such feats.
Even the white soldiers in the 93rd saw it: this wasn't about race. How could the U.S. claim superiority over those hypocrite Brits if it didn't reward men who'd fought so bravely and fulfilled their duty in blood?
From division HQ down to the lowliest private.
Even the wounded wore unbroken smiles.
A bright future awaited.
We fought and opened the future.
America will repay our blood.
They all believed it.
Mid-April.
The German Imperial Army had to face the grim interim results of their spirited Spring Offensive.
“Defeat.”
“A total rout.”
“That bastard Ludendorff's finally...!”
The Michael Offensive—Germany's all-in gamble—had slipped on the barest pressure.
The evaporation of the 208th Division might not seem like much amid 70 divisions thrown at it.
But the reinforcements to plug the gap, the creaking front, frontline chaos, leaked secrets and maps—it all piled up, letting the Allies blunt the German spear.
Undeterred by Amiens, Ludendorff launched the Georgette Offensive toward Belgium, assaulting Flanders.
But as Passchendaele and Ypres had shown, attackers were at a hopeless disadvantage here.
Ludendorff's grand plan to sweep the British into the sea crashed again.
The death notice of the famous ‘Red Baron’ Richthofen only proved the Germans'miserable' defeat.
But they couldn't stop.
The German Empire was a runaway train.
Everyone knew the engine stalling meant derailment and doom.
So the war council focused not on halting the next push, but directing it.
“What was our offensive's goal from the start? The British! We have to sweep them into the sea before the Americans dig in!”
“And those Americans—even their nigger units beat us. That's reality, isn't it?”
“You picking a fight?”
“No, just facing facts. We need to pull back to the Hindenburg Line now. We've got crops to plant next year!”
“Michael got us within sight of Paris. Instead of bleeding the Brits again, why not march on Paris—?”
“Paris? Paaaaris? You mad? Take these turnip-starved kids to Paris—the same place we just gawked at in 1914?! Go yourself if you want!”
“Stoooop!!”
Ludendorff's thunderous roar silenced the room.
“We go to Paris.”
“Deputy Chief of Staff!!”
“Snap out of it! Operations achieve goals, not recite wishes!”
But Ludendorff was adamant.
He'd crushed domestic pacifists and negotiators to force this offensive. Backing off now meant his downfall.
“Paris... Seize Paris, and it's over. The enemy's clearly weakening. The French rioted last year over hating the war—if we crush them with overwhelming force, they'll collapse on their own.”
Some German generals were stunned.
How had Ludendorff, hero of Tannenberg, fallen into such delusion?
Since when did Prussia's generals wage war on vague hopes?
“This war was always about Paris from the start! I'm not overreaching—I'm returning to our original intent!”
Disheveled hair, untrimmed beard, bloodshot eyes. A fine madman by any measure. Rumors of his insanity blanketed HQ; this look just confirmed them.
“On April 25th, we launch Blücher-Yorck! Objective: Paris! Conquer Paris and reclaim the German Empire's glory!”
“End times. True end times.”
“Commoners without noble Junker blood just lack the vessel.”
The runaway train sped toward its terminus.
The wise knew no one survived the end.
But they couldn't jump off.
They sensed the fall.
“Pardon the intrusion. From the 16th Bavarian Reserve Regiment.”
“Ah, you're here. Hand it over quick.”
The courier pulled the papers from his bag and passed them to the officer.
He knew the contents cold.
Enemy pressure too strong.
Can't hold here.
Requesting withdrawal and reorganization. Awaiting orders. Something like that.
The grand offensive's outcome was catastrophic.
Even a mere courier like him could see it.
And usually, bad news meant the messenger caught hell.
“Hoo... Yeah, makes sense. Hang on a sec? Division orders are coming soon—I'll have you deliver them.”
“Yes, sir!”
Luckily, no outburst this time. Was the officer just nice, or numb from too many such reports?
The officer took the papers next door. Thin plywood walls didn't muffle the shouts.
“Damn it! I knew it!”
“That fool Grodek ruined everything! The division's tapped out now!”
“One division. One damn division. You think Frederick the Great could've plugged a hole ripped open overnight? Ordinary men can't!”
“Calm down, everyone. The front's stabilized, and higher-ups aren't ordering more attacks. We just do our jobs.”
“Sure, we plugged it. But this offensive wasn't for ‘stability,’ was it? We needed momentum. Everything crumbles fast once it slips. We can't hold forever.”
“The 16th Bavarian Reserves just notified us—they're pulling back. Not asking permission, just doing it!”
He heard it all.
The 208th Division—those idiots—wiped out entirely.
Not the familiar Brits or French, but new foes: Americans.
And absurdly, made up of niggers.
How had the mighty German Empire come to this?
While those Junker lords preened with medals and crisp uniforms, what had they done?
Had victory ever been possible from the start?
Was this offensive even sane?
Brass were all the same.
From the grunt's view—eating garbage daily—this war, this push, was all armchair bullshit.
They were Germany's pests.
Self-proclaimed leaders, really just rot.
Why give them power? To win wars. Yet their wars killed German sons and fed them trash in trenches.
This wasn't right.
Something had to change.
“New orders. Deliver to the regiment.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Yeah. You've had a rough go. Here, snack on this on the way.”
The officer smiled and slipped him something small.
Bread.
Not turnip or sawdust loaf. Hard black bread, but bread.
“Thank you— ”
“Shh. Keep it quiet. Eat when no one's looking.”
“Truly grateful, sir. I'll repay you someday.”
“Huh? Just keep at your duties like now. That's repayment—and patriotism.”
He stashed the orders and bread, mounted his bike, and pedaled back.
After a while, the corpse stench faded. He slumped by the road and opened his bag.
“Guh... guh...!”
Delicious.
Who knew such a treat existed?
Black bread he'd have ignored years ago was sweet, soft—irresistible.
His eyes warmed; tears streamed down.
War was always thus.
The good and conscientious died first in the trenches, rat food.
Those who'd abandoned humanity for monstrosity got medals, postings to plush HQs, sucking young blood greedily.
Change it.
This country needs change.
But the bread was delicious.
Courier Adolf Hitler devoured the tear-soaked bread.
For this moment, at least, he was happy.