Chapter 63
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 63
Chapter Title: White Knight (2)
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Spanish flu.
The deadly embodiment of humanity's relentless pursuit of slaughtering techniques—a pandemic that claimed more lives than the Great War itself.
I had called the meeting, but no one shared my anxiety yet.
"As you mentioned, the proportion of flu cases is indeed rising gradually, but it's not yet at a level where severe cases or fatalities are significantly higher than average."
Once the chief surgeon presented various statistics, the consensus was that my concerns were unfounded.
"In my view, the rise itself isn't a good sign."
"That's true."
"Frontline troops can't implement proper hygiene measures anyway, but we're in the rear with restrictions on receiving new recruits. Let's do everything we can."
Right now, I had no weapons to combat this massive disease. No, modern humanity didn't either.
Humanity had built a modern medical system, realized that germs—not ghosts or miasma—attacked people, and acquired statistics and scientific methodologies.
But they lacked weapons to fight those germs. I was already going mad thinking about it; the doctors' anguish must be far worse. Why else would the chief surgeon speak so mildly?
Penicillin hadn't even been invented yet.
I did have vague knowledge from what I'd heard—alcohol disinfectants were always distributed during outbreaks. But just dousing with booze or ethanol wouldn't cut it. I couldn't even produce disinfectants myself.
Sure, I knew that alcohol over 70% worked for disinfection. But if I supplied that to our boys, I could bet they'd turn it into moonshine before Jesus Christ rose from the dead.
Like cats craving fish, soldiers instinctively want to brew booze. They'd even distill methanol from torpedoes into liquor; 70% ethanol? No chance.
Masks.
The only existing measure. But not proper 21st-century ones—just cloth or gauze over the face. As a non-medical expert, I had no idea how effective they were.
At least with the 93rd Division in the rear, I could order masks. But the moment they hit the trenches, it was all pointless. Trenches were so filthy they made sewers look clean; you'd catch everything except AIDS.
In the end, my options were extremely limited, and most would pile up soldier resentment.
"If the division commander truly wants strict quarantine measures, a blanket ban on leave is the core option."
"Even if the men worship you like a god and old classmate, impose a total leave ban and they'll turn on you worse than Judas Iscariot."
Colonel Hayward elaborated with an "Ah, that's a bit..."
I knew. A commander banning leave? I'd have no defense if shot. But civilian contact made quarantine irrelevant from the start.
That was my biggest dilemma.
Given the era, quarantine operations wouldn't yield much realistically.
And the flu would only worsen, not improve. Controlling subordinates now might drive them insane by the peak, after months without fresh air.
"For now... let's monitor the trend. Isolate flu symptomatic patients separately, enforce personal hygiene per command directive, and ban overcrowding in confined spaces."
"Understood."
"Also, in my view, unsanitary battlefield conditions always risk epidemics. If one breaks out, we'll isolate units immediately—so future leave will be by unit."
"That shouldn't be a big issue."
"And let's procure masks division-wide."
No choice. Do what we can.
I wrote letters to home, Chaumont, and contacts, praying nothing happened.
Charging enemy lines in a car was easy, but this helplessness against nature was insurmountable.
By late April, American troops began appearing on the frontlines in earnest.
From the 93rd Division—which struck terror into the Germans like a whirlwind, only to vanish like one—to the 1st, 2nd, 26th, and 42nd Divisions.
Each U.S. unit arriving choked the Germans, but they couldn't halt their offensives.
Amiens offensive: failure.
Flanders offensive: failure.
Third strike: Operation Blücher, targeting the Aisne River and Chemin des Dames heights, then pushing to Paris.
If it worked, they'd reclaim positions lost in the Nivelle Offensive and threaten Paris, forcing Allies to rush north-to-south, opening angles at Flanders or Amiens again!
New intel boosted success odds: battered British units, withdrawn for rest after German assaults, were positioned at Chemin des Dames.
Beating a crippled foe again? Fail this, and Prussian pride weeps.
The Germans hunkered down, preparing the next push.
Another block, and gloom would set in.
The Allies weren't idle either.
Late March, as German momentum peaked, Pershing relented to Foch, Allied Supreme Commander, offering "some concessions."
The 93rd's stunning results amplified Foch's call for "tighter cooperation yields more victories."
Foch shifted from mediator to architect of Allied grand strategy, but faced battles with Pétain, French commander, and politicians ahead.
And blocking the German path: the U.S.-nurtured 1st Division.
Endless shelling continued.
Marshall rubbed his temples, alternating between ops maps and thick files.
The 1st Division's fight wasn't simple—it was deeply political.
After the 93rd's miracle victory and Paris march, absurdly, the 1st became "true Americans" or "white U.S. troops" poster child.
Marshall wanted to storm Chaumont, fix supplies, and snap at them to quit the nonsense—but it was solidifying as 93rd vs. 1st rivalry.
The initial rival vibe came from the Rainbow Division: 42nd, symbolic like the black 93rd, record-breakers, frontline lovers, led by MacArthur.
But MacArthur, post-gas hospitalization, cynically rebuffed "lead white units" pleas.
"Are you insane? White units? Spend that time volunteering frontline. Germans are breathing down our necks—White Power? I need Firepower. More artillery!"
Burned, they turned to 1st Division. Sadly, Bullard wasn't a loose cannon like MacArthur.
"Those fools won't quit till we siege once and steal their colors."
"General, ignore it."
"Obviously. But Pershing himself visits. What does that mean?"
Bullard sighed.
1st Division staff judged holding was enough.
Priority: accustom troops to war, Cantigny terrain, complex trenches.
Unlike vs. 93rd, Germans didn't underestimate Yanks—constant gas-mixed barrages tested reactions.
Damn Eugene, he spoiled them.
Trick suckers once, now they won't bet big without royal flush.
"Heard legendary 93rd commander wrote you?"
"Yes."
"Bragging much?"
"Worry, not brag. Division-level, so no issue sharing."
"Official matter?"
Bullard asked puzzled. What official business from rear 93rd to 1st staff?
"Flu signs in 93rd."
"Ah, that rumor. 93rd too means not just filthy trenches."
"Kim predicts worse ahead."
"Hm. Flu though. Hurts combat power, but no special measures. Can't evacuate coughers."
"That's the problem. Knowing but powerless sucks."
"Trench foot worries more than flu anyway. Ask troops who to evac first—same answer."
True. Flu passes; trench foot means crippled legs now.
"We'll stress hygiene more."
"I'll tell chief surgeon. Next item—"
Can we move on?
Marshall pondered inwardly, but no choice. Low priority.
Eugene Kim wasn't one for chit-chat.
Mentioning flu meant real signs—not pleasantry. To others, mild "be careful"; his unit? Chaos.
"Top priority: ample shells."
"Handled. Chaumont diverting some French-bound—"
Strictly, hygiene was overreach.
As division commander or even ops chief, more doable.
Marshall's position craving deepened like never before.