Chapter 66
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 66
Chapter Title: Hundred Days Offensive (2)
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By mid-July, the Second Battle of the Marne, launched by the Germans with supreme confidence, ended in a humiliating defeat that would forever stain their history.
In that battle, the Allies recaptured the entire Marne salient, forcing the Germans to flee in panic just short of encirclement and annihilation. The shock was so profound that they even had to pull reserves from the north that were preparing an offensive of their own. It wasn't a minor setback by any means.
But the Allies had no intention of giving the Germans time to catch their breath.
August 6th.
The Anglo-French forces began moving again.
"Sergeant?"
"What is it? If you're calling me over some damn ghost again, you'll get the mess kit upside your head for real."
"Over there, sir. See for yourself. My eyes aren't the greatest..."
The sergeant sighed and pulled out his binoculars.
The war was now raging near distant Paris, far from their position—
"What the hell is that."
Dust.
An enormous cloud of dust.
And once he recognized 'it,' he could faintly feel the ground trembling as if the earth itself was shaking from afar.
"Sound the alarm! Do it now!"
"Huh? What??"
"You staff officer bastard! Sound the alarm right now! Enemy tank force, large numbers! Offensive launched!"
"L-L-Large numbers? I'll get chewed out if I say that—how many exactly—"
"The horizon's full of tanks! Can't even count 'em! Run, now!!"
The endless steel horde, backed by America's superior industrial might.
The Anglo-French forces deployed a staggering 1,200 M1918 tanks and about 400 Mark heavy tanks in this battle. They aimed to push the Germans—who had been shelling the rail lines around Amiens like it was breakfast—back to their pre-spring offensive lines once and for all.
"Should've ordered more tanks sooner. Bunch of idiots."
"They blow up easy? Inefficient? Who cares! Just throw more at 'em!"
"No need for preliminary barrages. Crush 'em all."
"Tanks, advance!"
No matter how prone the tanks were to breakdowns or how vulnerable to well-prepared antitank tactics, no traditional trench line could hold against such overwhelming numbers.
To make matters worse, the Germans had sent their meager reserves to the Somme, leaving them to watch helplessly as their defensive lines crumbled before their eyes.
The fact that only about thirty tanks were still operational by the fourth day of the offensive out of 1,600 barely mattered anymore. The tanks had successfully turned the German defenses to shreds, sealing the battle's outcome.
In the Second Battle of Amiens, the Germans chose retreat once more.
And just as they paused to catch their breath and stabilize the front as usual, the French launched another offensive along the Aisne River.
Even the Germans no longer knew how far they had to fall back.
Lately, Lieutenant Colonel George Marshall was gaining a new realization.
'Who am I? Where am I?'
It started with frustration boiling over.
The 1st Division, to which he had devoted body and soul, had been arbitrarily branded the "unit to show white power" by the loudmouths at Chaumont. Despite shedding rivers of blood for their achievements, they were dismissed as having fewer kills than the "niggers."
In this absurd situation, there was little a mere division staff officer like Marshall could do.
He had been deeply involved in operations, but that was it. He wanted to intervene in everything happening in the division, but as just a staffer, it would be overstepping his bounds.
Worn down by endless desk work and shady politicking, Marshall finally threw in a petition.
[To the Deputy Chief of Staff at Chaumont.
I have been in staff roles for years. I am exhausted by desk work and request assignment to a combat unit.]
And not long after, Chaumont sent a shocking reply.
[Oh dear, after all your accomplishments, you're still just a division staff officer? How about Expeditionary Force staff instead?]
Thus, Marshall, assigned as operations staff for the AEF, cursed the world with all his might as he headed to Chaumont.
Surprisingly, the world seemed to answer his curses: the vehicle to Chaumont got stuck waiting forever behind endless supply trains, then had a tire blowout, followed by the spare also bursting, stranding him on the road for hours.
Of course, wasting time roadside didn't cancel the orders.
Marshall had to take up his new AEF staff duties with rotten fish eyes, and in the process, became a key figure in planning the historic independent American offensive.
Which was why he was now receiving this not-quite-a-request request.
"Long time no see. Haha. Doing well?"
"Ah, yes, quite well. You always have that bright smile."
"If I don't smile, they bitch about my sour face; if I do, they bitch about my smug grin. So I just smile. Ha. Ha. Ha."
Eugene Kim.
The epitome of meteoric rise.
A guy on an unbelievable promotion track straight out of the Civil War.
Lots of people inside Chaumont hated Kim. If anything, it was safe to say hardly anyone viewed him favorably.
Because a damn Oriental was getting cocky.
Because he only sucked up to people with pull.
Because he played with the niggers just to snag a division command.
Because he chased his own ambition at other units' expense.
Because he was glory-hungry and didn't know how to share.
The first time he came to Chaumont and casually brought up Eugene Kim in a positive light, he'd nearly suffocated under the backlash.
"You... alright?"
"What do you mean?"
"Rising so fast, you must be under all sorts of pressure, seen and unseen."
"Lieutenant Colonel Marshall himself worrying about me? I'm touched. I figured you'd be disappointed you couldn't work me like a slave anymore—"
"When did I ever treat you like a slave! Anyone hears that, they'll misunderstand!"
Was he sulking now over a bit of tight scheduling back then? This little punk! It wasn't like he'd dumped the work on him alone; they did it together!
Damn kid. If he were my nephew, I'd tan his hide till it rang like a drum—but what could he do? Rank was law in the army.
But that rank itself was a medal proving what kind of man Brigadier General Kim was.
The idiots only cared about the division command and star, but commanding the 93rd was a poisoned chalice everyone avoided like the plague. Now that he'd succeeded and racked up victories, the morons were shaking with rage—"Should've been me! That yellow monkey!"—and Marshall hoped they'd all die in the trenches for the good of the U.S. Army.
"I'm just jealous, that's all."
"Jealous of getting shit on from my parents all the way to my grandparents? Lately, even the niggers are following me around so much I can't think straight—"
"Not that! You're acting tough, but it's eating at you!"
"No way anyone could live getting hated on like this without it bothering them..."
He trailed off, as if a few names came to mind. The sadder part was, Marshall could guess exactly who.
"Anyway. Your position right now has everyone grinding their teeth in envy. Look at me—I petitioned for a field command, and ended up dragged to this Sodom and Gomorrah called Chaumont."
"Chaumont's eyes aren't just for show, huh. Honestly, you should be AEF Chief of Staff—"
"Don't joke."
"I'm serious."
When the division commander himself—drawing all eyes—personally visited an old acquaintance on ops staff, the purpose was obvious.
"You want to talk about the next offensive?"
"Of course. How's the planning shaping up?"
"You know there's massive pushback from staff on putting the 93rd up front. I'm truly sorry—"
"Expected that. No need to worry. If the place weren't crawling with guys clutching their stomachs over nigger unit kills, it wouldn't be Chaumont—it'd be a monastery."
Eugene said with a cynical smirk.
"St. Mihiel. Or the Argonne Forest. One or the other."
"...Yeah. You know your stuff. Hear it from someone?"
"Pershing obviously wants a pure American show. What else is left but those?"
The real answer was 'both,' but Marshall clamped his mouth shut before it slipped.
This guy always hit the nail on the head so casually; couldn't let his guard down.
One day he'd break him of that habit. All that showboating was why he had so many enemies.
What if he shipped him to D.C., made him button his lip, and just ping-pong boring paperwork with bureaucrats endlessly? That'd fix his mouth for sure. A few years grinding like a machine, and he'd come back bawling, 'I never knew talking to people could be this happy!' reborn as a proper adult.
As Marshall unconsciously resolved this, Eugene beamed and rattled off 93rd Division praises.
"Honestly, considering the achievements the 'nigger unit' could rack up, I think we should put them up front."
"What do you mean?"
"If we're rear reserves, it's obvious, right? Other units bash their heads into the German front, bleed out massively, wear down and rotate out—then the 93rd swoops in for the kill, retaking lost ground. The rotated commanders get chewed out for lacking grit at the end—"
"I get it."
So, if someone had to be cannon fodder, better they lead the charge.
Eugene hadn't mentioned it—deliberately or not—but even without glory, shedding blood alone would give blacks postwar leverage.
But they'd already proven themselves at Amiens, and now trying to sideline them as noncombat would only fuel demands—
Marshall shook off the thought; it wasn't his problem.
"I understand your view. So you want them up front."
"I know I'll get hate either way. Might as well go for the option with less. Please, have mercy."
"I'll push it with staff."
This guy's got a headache coming.
Even now it's like this—what happens when the war ends and he reverts to his old rank?
Wartime let talent shine through, but postwar? How long and lonely a fight awaited.
For now, all he could do was set the stage for one more show of ability.
"Sigh."
He'd rather be at the front.
This was why he hated staff work.
Marshall hung his head and trudged back to that hellish staff office.
Despite busting my ass talking my way around, it was a pipe dream after all.
After Amiens, I'd poured everything into unit management, convinced that any rational assessment would put the 93rd up front.
The problem was whether Chaumont would make a 'rational' call.
In the end, all I had left was prayer.
In that uneasy state, I attended the ops meeting—and sure enough, my worst expectations hit.
"Can we really say the 93rd's achievements prove superior combat power?"
"Based on battle reports and POW testimonies, much of the 93rd's success stemmed from German complacency. Any U.S. unit there would've seen similar results—"
Here we go, the bullshit machine.
White divisions' records were meh, so out comes this logic?
Even Marshall, whom I'd trusted, was gritting his teeth in the corner—guess he couldn't help it either.
As the saying goes: schemers in the temple, saints in the streets. Time to prep for the interwar period—no need to force glory in the Great War.
I emptied my mind, pondering how to convince the 93rd troops to head home quietly without losing morale. A headline like [93rd Riot] in the papers, and I'd be a dead man.
That is, until that man showed up.
"What the Sam Hill is this horseshit!!"
That locomotive roar of a voice.
A barbarian bursting through the door with gusto.
The halo practically glowing behind him.
Whip in hand like Jesus Christ himself, ready to cleanse the Temple of Jerusalem.
Unaware or uncaring of my blasphemous thoughts, the medieval knight born a millennium too late finally bellowed.
"You know-nothing fucks flapping your limp tongues about the battlefield! Wanna die?!"
Tone it down a bit, sir.
You're dragging a refined everyman like me into the mess.