Chapter 62
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 62
Chapter Title: White Knight
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[Hero of Cambrai, Guardian of Amiens!]
[The Might of the United States! The Great Ally of France Defends Freedom!]
[Germany's Monstrous Force Crushed in Just 48 Hours?!]
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
Every step perfectly in sync.
No orders needed—the discipline shone through on its own.
The U.S. Army's 93rd Division marched proudly through the streets of Paris.
Their division commander, as always, rode in the 'Black Lotus,' waving to the Parisian crowd.
The miraculous man who became a division commander at twenty-five.
From Cambrai to Amiens. Always boldly leading at the front of the parade.
The 93rd Division had more educated soldiers than most units, which meant some inevitably resented their Asian commander.
'That guy's an honorary white anyway. Probably just wanted the promotion, even if it meant leading guys like us.'
'Only trust your fellow blacks, you idiots. White Yankee bastards or slant-eyed Asians—they're all the same.'
'Must've been hungry for glory badges. Jeez.'
And in Amiens, he proved himself by letting that car get riddled with bullets.
And in Chaumont, he shook off the whites' grubby hands and showed once more who he was by staying with his men.
Even those who clung to doubt and suspicion until the end fell silent after hearing the story from the driver.
Of course, the future ahead was still blocked by a solid wall.
But their division commander kept hammering away at it without rest.
"Waaaaah!!!"
"I have no regrets now..."
"Thank you! Thank you!"
Every Parisian—from babies in strollers to old folks in wheelchairs—rushed out to give these valiant guardians a roaring welcome.
The ever-fiery Parisians had decided to make this triumph a day to remember.
The soldiers, stunned at first by the unprecedented sight of "white cheers," soon began sobbing one by one.
U.S. medals? Who cared.
Their commander had gloomily said, "Just wait a bit. It's not the right time yet." But this scene unfolding before their eyes was the future the young general had promised.
"Come here!"
"Huh? Mmph, mmph!!"
One marching soldier couldn't withstand a young woman's fierce embrace and fell out of line. Parisians wouldn't miss such prime entertainment—they whistled wildly, cheering "What a handsome couple!" and fanning the flames instead of intervening.
The explosive atmosphere peaked in the city center with the awarding of medals.
Not just officers—even the lowliest privates received honors fitting their deeds amid endless cheers, every one of them gritting their teeth.
After the glorious parade ended,
I received a secret invitation from General Nollet.
"Kim Eugene."
"Come in! Let's have a drink!"
There was a reason he'd told me to dress casually for this unofficial meeting.
Guided by a French soldier through the labyrinthine back alleys, I arrived at what could have been any dingy bar.
Next to Colonel Nollet sat two older men reeking of military bearing. You could spot that stern-faced type a mile away—army brass through and through.
I sat cautiously beside them and accepted a glass.
"This is Eugene Kim. A guy with a bright future ahead."
"Tall and commanding—looks the part of a general. We owe you a lot."
"Pleasure."
Nollet began introducing them one by one.
"This is Lieutenant General Debeney, commander of First Army—our corps' higher command."
Whoa, big shot.
From what I knew, he'd been Pétain's chief of staff, France's top commander. Serious clout.
"And this is... do you recognize her?"
"...?"
I eyed the taciturn old man up and down.
If he was asking like that, it had to be someone famous—someone I'd know—
"No way. Could it be."
"Hm."
"The one I think it is...?"
"It is. Heh heh. This is General Pétain, current commander-in-chief of the French Army. Oh, no need for salutes."
Damn.
Damn.
Why the hell was Pétain slumming it in a rotting dive like this?
Pétain was more infamous today as head of Vichy France than as France's wartime supreme commander.
But right now, he was at the pinnacle of a soldier's glory—defending his nation against invading Germany with everything on the line. Peak career, peak uniform.
Knowing full well he'd soon be branded a traitor, tried, and dragged through the mud for decades... it was an indescribable feeling.
"What an honor to meet pillars of France like you. Thank you."
"No need for that. We're the ones curious about you... and we owe you an apology."
General Nollet fiddled with his glass, pondering how to broach the subject.
"You know why we're treating you like this, right?"
"Because you're desperate."
"Exactly. Pétain and Foch here have been getting hell from the politicians. Sent them to save the country, and they come back battered."
Couldn't be helped.
To civilians who knew squat about the military, the Germans looked like they'd thrashed Russia and Italy, and now they were shoving back Britain and France with glee.
The French Army had mutinied en masse just a year ago. The public was war-weary.
In that mess, a battle-hardened unit shows up? Every propagandist would salivate.
And I felt no displeasure about it.
"I know you have 'reasons' for this. But whether it helps me and my men? That's a separate matter entirely."
Some might call France's actions hypocritical.
But from my position, pockets full of medals, my first thought was "Hypocrisy? Who gives a damn."
Some billionaire donates a billion to an orphanage for tax breaks.
Does the orphanage care about his motives? They got the cash, end of story.
France wins. 93rd Division wins.
Cool trade. Yeah, totally.
"Grateful for your understanding."
"Not at all. I'll never forget France's kindness."
After that, no more war talk.
Mostly Nollet and I chattered, Debeney chimed in occasionally, and Pétain stayed quiet throughout.
We laughed and bantered, but no one really got drunk.
The German offensive wasn't over.
Blocking the next one wasn't the issue—whether France even had the will to fight was.
Look at these old-timers go.
Nursing my hangover, I could only stick out my tongue at the morning papers.
"This. This?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is this some custom print just for me?"
"Didn't you drink too much?"
"Yeah?"
How desperate was their propaganda need?
The French press was belting out epic odes like their lives depended on it.
[Great France Fishes a Pearl from the Mud!]
[Heroes Abandoned by Their Country Find True Freedom's Embrace]
[No Freedom for Freedom's Fighters: The Tragedy of America's Abandoned 93rd Division]
Damn it, what does this make me?!
These folks must've been starving for national pride. They were thrashing about, screaming "France is so great! We can't quit just because war's tough—squeee!" to fill their ego tank.
Ugh, blood boiling.
According to the articles, the 93rd Division racked up epic feats, but narrow-minded, selfish Yankees couldn't stomach praising "niggers," so they tried to bury all the achievements.
But righteous, free, black-rights-respecting super-cool France couldn't ignore heroes, even black ones. Despite sneaky, petty, underhanded Yankee opposition, they pushed through the parade! Oh, France is amazing! How dare anyone spread defeatism when our great nation is in peril?!
"We look like total clowns."
"Won't you say something about Chaumont?"
"What's the point? With the story this big, even Chaumont can't touch us."
We couldn't let it look like France and America were brawling ugly. They went that far—we had to take the L gracefully.
But that narrow-minded selfishness... y'all do the same thirty years from now?
Grumbling like that, I happily returned to Chaumont. Waiting for me: a summons from General Pershing.
"Brigadier General Kim."
"Sorry! Spare me!"
"...Don't kneel. Where's your dignity as a U.S. general?"
I could roll on the floor barking if you ordered it, sir.
"No court-martial."
"Pardon?"
"I smoothed things over with the victims myself. Just apologize later and shake hands."
Pershing spat it out.
"You're off the hook too. Admit it?"
"I admit it."
"Rank or no rank, beating them like that—feels damn good—"
"Koff kaff!"
"—Confined to quarters for now."
Chief of Staff Harbord coughed like he choked, muffling Pershing. Probably not important.
"Want it sugarcoated or straight?"
"No point hiding it. Tell me plainly—I'll be grateful."
"Can't send the 93rd to the front for a while."
"What?! "
I raised my voice; the chief of staff frowned. Hold it in. Hold it.
"Your amazing feats are recognized, but reorganization will take time."
"Because they're black."
"Not discrimination. Reality."
It all stemmed from the 93rd's nature: a black unit.
Unlike other units stuffing in fresh Atlantic-crossers, we drafted black rookies, trained them, then waited for them to cross—only then reinforcements.
War'd be over by then!
"Need more explanation?"
"Disband the 372nd and two brigades, reorganize to three regiments—we'd have full division strength. Just need wounded back."
"Sure. That's why 'for now.' Reorganize first, then 93rd under AEF HQ as originally planned."
Whew. Exile avoided—small mercy.
But I wasn't dumb enough to miss the nuance in Pershing's words.
Movement in AEF: no more black glory tolerated.
So, wait for some "white unit" to match our feats.
France's endless media play bruised American pride, especially AEF HQ. Articles painted them as third-rate villains.
So now, the pathetic excuse: "That level of feat? Any mutt in our invincible U.S. Army could do it." Invincible U.S. Army, huh. Rolls off the tongue. Reminds me of some twins—
"Also, no promotion for you."
"Understood."
Expected.
Payback for the brawl, no trial—just a slap on the wrist.
"Your star was prepaid. Not 'earn promotion with feats'—lose it if you failed. Remember that."
"I will."
Harbord's eyes... like a kid who broke a window playing ball, under mom's glare. Hey, it wasn't that big a deal.
"Good. Manage your unit well. Come to Chaumont often. You being gone so long caused half this mess, in my eyes."
"Yes, sir!"
Alright. Wrapped up.
Reorganize, endure next German push and Hundred Days Offensive—then war's end.
Unmatched feats secured—smooth sailing ahead.
Grinning, I headed back to base.
"Eugene. Need a word."
"Urgent?"
"Nah, not that urgent. Just FYI."
Bradley, as usual, shoved papers at me.
"Lots of troops catching colds lately. I ordered strict hygiene—"
"Colds?"
"Yeah. Colds. Or flu? Docs say—"
"Summon all commanders NOW!"
My thunderclap shout widened Omar's eyes, but I had no time to explain.
Oh, hell no.