Chapter 64
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 64
Chapter Title: Pale Horseman (3)
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1918 May 27th.
As the German Spring Offensive's third wave, Operation Blücher, kicked off, the Allies predictably had to shed rivers of blood once more.
"We gave up Chemin des Dames?"
"They're insane! All of them! Why the hell would we give that up! Aaagh!"
Chemin des Dames was a natural fortress, impossible to assault due to its terrain.
France had lost it humiliatingly early in the war and only barely recaptured it last year after spilling oceans of blood.
And now?
Just handed it back after a few days?
French Army Commander Pétain had even suggested to the commander of the 6th Army defending it, Duchêne, that maybe they shouldn't cling to it desperately—better to pull back fluidly while fighting.
But Duchêne had stubbornly insisted he could hold it, leading to a disastrously pathetic defeat. It was only natural that the politicians erupted in fury.
"Those Jerries lack mobility! Blow away any arrogant bastard trying a pincer move!"
"We're not there yet! Straight on to the next operation—Gneisenau!"
Still, the Allies managed to pour in every available reserve force, preventing the massive breakthrough from turning into an encirclement.
While the German Empire burned through its last reserves in a desperate bid to advance even one more step,
the high-and-mighty leaders of the Allies were already squabbling over postwar spoils.
Whether the ordinary folk below were driven into the trenches to die mattered little.
In fact, quite the opposite.
The terror that if they didn't extract sufficient compensation after losing an entire generation to unimaginable bloodshed, the nation itself might collapse.
Red agitators stoking anti-war sentiment and strikes were rampant everywhere, and with the world's first communist state—the Soviet Union—now established, that fear was tightening around their throats.
Britain and France could never escape it.
The U.S. Army's 1st Division claimed victory in a series of battles around Cantigny at the end of May.
But it wasn't enough to shift the overall war, and the Germans were still charging relentlessly toward Paris.
That was precisely what irked certain figures.
"Why can't we rack up achievements surpassing the Nigger Division? What the hell is Bullard doing!"
"Come on, pushing the Germans back and seizing Cantigny is a huge win."
"Even if the Nigger Division won, they gave up a ton of ground—it's like sacrificing flesh to nick a bit of muscle. How's that a real victory? The 1st Division liberated French soil from the Germans—that's the proper achievement. You've all got your math wrong."
Of course, not everyone in Chaumont was unhinged, so some looked at those malcontents with their own disgust.
"Paris is in Jerry artillery range now, and you're fussing over those damn Nigger achievements?"
"Even if we lose the war, those bastards will blame the Niggers."
"We need to deploy Eugene Kim right now!"
"But the 93rd Division hasn't recovered from Amiens—"
"British and French units aren't at full strength either. Face facts. Among our forces, the one that can rattle the Germans psychologically the most is the 93rd Division!"
In the end, the debate circled back to the core conflict: use the 93rd or not.
Pershing's blade, honed over years against endless political and external pressure—the U.S. First Army of 500,000 men.
Setting aside crude racial views, even British and French generals in Chaumont argued fiercely over whether including the 93rd would be the finishing touch or spark racial strife that fractures the U.S. Army.
"General Pershing! When the hell is the 93rd returning to the front?"
"We're considering using the 93rd as reserves, but—"
"Bullshit! Jerries are at Paris's doorstep. Where's the need for 'reserves'? If you hate and can't handle the Niggers that much, just hand them to our French forces like last time!"
"We can't do that. This is a U.S. internal matter."
"You frustrating bastard!"
Storming back to Chaumont HQ amid the shouting, Pershing faced the inevitable politicking from his staff.
"Sir, our trench and road construction is too slow."
"Is it?"
"Yes. With non-combat labor needs at an all-time high, we should trim excess reserves to fill the gap—"
"No need for fancy words. You're saying disband the 93rd and make the Niggers dig ditches."
"Ahem!"
"As I said before, I won't tolerate overreach in any form."
In this demon's lair of tangled intentions, schemes, and hidden motives,
I was handling a gravely important task.
"Hands like this! Soap between the fingers! Scrub-a-dub! Got it, you maggots? Any unit with even one speck of dirt under the nails—no passes!"
"SIR, YES SIR!"
Proper handwashing instruction is crucial. Damn right.
Let them kick up all the fuss they want.
In the end, they'll have to call us.
All I need to do is keep combat effectiveness maxed until then.
So wash your damn hands, you plague rats.
This mom's heart is breaking.
The offensive that seized Chemin des Dames and raced toward Paris stalled due to the Germans' chronic issue: their shoddy logistics.
No matter how bravely the frontline troops fought, without instant delivery of food and ammo to the advancing soldiers, the Germans ground to a halt as always.
The U.S. 2nd and 3rd Divisions shattered the German spearhead toward Paris in bloody combat, proving the U.S. Army was no weak third-rate force.
But the Germans didn't quit. The runaway locomotive had come too far to stop.
And then,
"Deputy Chief of Staff."
"Please don't say defeat. The operation? Was the operation a success?"
Ludendorff received the report compressing countless deaths into a single line of numbers.
"Reported flu cases have surpassed 500,000."
"500,000...?"
"The offensive is impossible. We must withdraw."
"Nonsense. Utter... nonsense! What the hell were the medics doing? The aid stations! The Empire! The Empire felled by mere... mere flu—"
"We need to censor the press immediately. No articles that could let them infer our situation."
"Right, yes... Conceal it as best we can. They must believe we still have plenty of strength."
June.
At last, the Pale Horseman of pestilence swung its sharp scythe at the Europeans.
And the long-starved Germans lost far more soldiers than the Allies, who had Atlantic food supplies.
The German Empire's final bastion—the German Army—was finally crumbling to pieces.
The Empire had endured the Red Horseman of war and the Black Horseman of famine for years, but with the Pale Horseman arrived, only one thing remained.
As the situation worsened, the Empire's leadership had no choice but to convene.
"Your Majesty. We must abandon what we can, even now."
"What nonsense is this, Foreign Minister?"
"We need to head to the negotiating table. The Deputy Chief dismissed it as 'just a cold,' but our sons are dying from even that!"
"Cease defeatist talk! You know negotiation now means surrender!"
Ludendorff slammed the table, making the minister flinch.
"Surrender now, and we'll vomit up not just vast Russian conquests, but at least Alsace-Lorraine! We can't!"
"We're already worrying about the Empire's survival. Give what we must and plan for later—"
"Deputy Chief."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Kaiser Wilhelm spoke, and all awaited his words.
"Can the army still fight?"
"Yes, Your Majesty! Victory will be ours!"
"I ask little. Alsace-Lorraine, the new eastern territories, and... Luxembourg. If those frog-eaters and island pirates recognize that much as Empire soil."
The Foreign Minister blacked out at the absurd exchange between the Kaiser and military brass.
Did they truly believe they could wring concessions from Britain and France?
When they'd have to disgorge everything and barely save the homeland?
Impossible without conquering Paris. Back to square one.
"Your Majesty, the Empire lacks funds to sustain the army."
"One last push. Have the Reichstag pass bonds to replenish war funds immediately."
"...Understood, Your Majesty."
"If we don't trust our army, who will? Soothe the foolish masses until victory, gentlemen."
It was over.
Civilian officials despaired at the toothless Kaiser and military clinging to the end.
"Fear not, Your Majesty. Your army will cross the Marne once more, and this time claim Paris as spoils."
"I trust in you alone."
Immediately after, the Foreign Minister submitted his resignation under the pressure.
July.
"What's this? Dust on the windowsill??"
"Sorry, sir!"
"Nah, dust happens. Inhale it, catch the flu, start hacking—and turn the whole unit into coughers."
"We'll fix it!!"
"Hey, ease up. But I said keep those masks washed and dried diligently—where are they?"
At the garrison, I was inevitably playing nag... working tirelessly for the troops' health when lightning struck from a clear sky.
"General?"
"What? Omar send you to tell me not to hassle the kids?"
"No, sir. You need to come out right now."
"What is it? Please don't say the chow truck flipped."
Haji approached quietly and whispered.
"General Pershing's coming here."
"Shit! Inspection and you didn't warn me?! "
"The 42nd Division just got hammered. He's coming straight from there."
Fuck. The 42nd got smashed? How brutal was that inspection?
Should've skipped sewing and had them polish boots instead. Screwed.
"Get all parade-ready troops in A-grade uniforms. Spotless ones. Anyone without—stay in barracks, don't show."
"Yes, sir."
"And—"
Far off, vehicles swarmed in.
Already here?
"Ha. Haha. Fuck, we're toast. What now."
No briefing prep at all.
Trusting my cadets, I rushed out barefoot to greet Pershing.
"Ah, there you are. Long time, Colonel Kim."
"Y-yes, sir."
"No time—straight to inspection."
Like a thunderbolt, his staff swarmed from the vehicles.
The world's second-worst thing is a higher echelon inspection; the worst is a surprise one.
I endured the blade stripping me to my skivvies helplessly... but
"Unit management is thorough."
"We run it with the mindset we could get nitpicked anytime."
"Good. Impressively few patients."
Obviously. I'd raised hell to cut even one case—matching other units would make me eat a bullet in shame.
"You know the front situation?"
"Second Battle of the Marne is underway."
"In my view, the Germans are at their limit. Foch eyes next year, but our army's ready to strike."
If not for one variable. Pershing grumbled inwardly.
The flu was surging. Allies threw everything into media control, suppressing even the "f" in flu.
Only I knew the Germans were in similar—or worse—shape. Allied brass speculated, "If we're hit, surely Germany is too," but had no clue on the damage.
The man who built something from nothing.
Who overcame every trial to erect the U.S. Army's massive pillar—smiled faintly.
"You foresaw it? The disease spreading?"
"...Vague hope, maybe."
"Ha. Now I get why talented subordinates are exhausting. Smoke?"
We lit up and fell silent.
After a long wait, he notified me.
"The well-managed 93rd Division needs to play firefighter."
"We'll extinguish every ember. Just give the word."
"Perfect. Now go topple the Empire."