Chapter 67
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 67
Chapter Title: Hundred Days Offensive (3)
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"Now that you've got your stars, are you suddenly precious about your life, junior?!"
"No. They said if I pull that frontline stunt again, they'll kill me."
The rain was pouring so hard that even my cigarette was soaked through. Damn thing wouldn't light, pissing me off to no end.
Whether I was pissed or not, Patton—who was grinning ear to ear at the thought of charging to the front lines in a tank again—burst out laughing at my crumpled expression.
"Who said that? Don't tell me General Pershing? He's not the type."
"His Majesty the Fleet Admiral in Washington D.C."
"Oh... Wait... Did Mrs. Kim reach out?"
"If even one more story hits the papers about me riding around the front lines firing my gun, she'll enlist in the women's flying corps. So handle it yourselves."
"...Rest in peace. You, me—seems like all the women around us are cut from extraordinary cloth. I'm starting to worry my little sister might shoot me when I get home."
A medieval madman like him feeling uneasy? That was unexpected.
"What'd you do to piss off your sister?"
"I sort of ended up playing matchmaker and introduced her to a guy. They even got engaged. But then trouble hit."
"There's a Korean proverb: 'Matchmake well, and it's three shots of liquor; matchmake poorly, and it's three slaps.' Why'd you pick such a dud?"
Patton's family, so naturally the guy ate three bullets. Never met the man, but the name Patton alone puts colored glasses on everything.
I could already picture the guy Patton set her up with. Had to be a screwball just like him, and his sister finally snapped.
"I thought he was a solid choice. I didn't even push it that hard... Anyway, the guy's here in France now and caught eyes with some other woman."
"You gonna let him live? Hold on. I'll turn that bastard's balls into a 'was' right—"
I owed Patton too many favors. Time to shoot the bald-headed prick who made his fiancée cry, hang him off my Black Lotus hood, and speed 69 klicks.
"Thing is, killing him would be a problem."
"How high up the chain is this guy that even you, Senior Patton, say it's trouble? Pershing or what?"
Patton sidled up beside me and lit a cigarette.
Then he nodded slowly... heavily.
World sure could be a real bitch sometimes.
We smoked and watched the moon for a while before parting.
Seeing that grumpy bastard make that face, I shelved the comment I'd been planning about the meeting.
"The enemy is coming from Saint-Mihiel!"
"Signs of American concentration everywhere."
"We've embedded eight divisions and two brigades in concrete bunkers all over these hills. No way some Doughboys take this place."
"Just hold till the monsoon hits. Lowlands turn to swamps—nightmare for them, perfect win for us."
The Germans weren't idiots.
U.S. movements were too straightforward for coalition forces. Any seasoned Prussian general could read the front lines and the Americans' impatience, seeing their next push plain as day.
But the Yanks had their side too—this Saint-Mihiel offensive was crucial for them.
"Why not stand down and hand over command? If we smash the Yanks, the fallout's too big—"
"I'd rather ship back to the homeland."
The U.S. Army—long dismissed as a second-rate power's second-rate force—needed Jerry scalps to claim its place as a full coalition pillar.
Foch, the coalition supreme commander, was itching to boot the U.S. First Army and slot the Yanks under Anglo-French command. If this op flopped, Foch would do it.
Cornered, Pershing growled and slapped down the gauntlet: "Not only Saint-Mihiel—we'll take the Meuse-Argonne Forest with American steel alone!"
Declaring to retake impregnable French strongholds lost since 1914? Bold.
But as always, if the brass says "I don't like that hill," the grunts have to take it.
Meanwhile, Private John Miller—the very guy tasked with taking it—was now a corporal.
The proud 93rd Division, 369th Regiment, got shiny new toys: the miraculous B.A.R. machine gun. Word was, the division commander led three cheers and raved about it till his mouth went dry.
"Machine guns are great, but is this thing that good?"
"Well... Y'know... Point is, we advance while hosing Jerry skulls! With this Jerry thresher, those bastards ain't twitching."
Like any army, by the time the tale reached Corporal Miller, it was twisted: "Division commander dubbed this wondrous Vulcan rifle the 'Jerry Thresher,' picked the squad's buffest arms to harvest Jerry heads."
Sadly, Miller—college grad turned lawyer—lacked the hulking upper body, so thresher duty went to Corporal Jones beside him.
First thing after Kim the division commander handed out B.A.R.s? Absurdly, he snatched them back.
"No bipod on this beast?!"
"It's meant to be fired hip-style like the Chauchat—"
"Always thought Chauchat tactics were bullshit. Never wanted that junk LMG in my unit, but using this as a Chauchat sub? Sin. Shut up and mod a bipod on."
Major Omar Bradley, chief of staff, grumbled as usual but slapped brutal field mods on the new guns. Crude and ugly, but the sorry machine gun now had a bipod. Troops buzzed it was "Kung Fu Master baptism."
And now, that "baptized" B.A.R. was threshing Jerry heads like a champ.
Brat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
"Jones! Fire! More fire!"
"Ammo's burning too fast!!"
Vomit rose.
Jerries hunkered in hilltop trenches, joyfully mortaring down.
Normally, you'd belly-crawl, praying trees held and our mortars swept them. But Jones's merry counterfire made Jerries flinch a bit.
"Squad, advance! Prep wire cutters!"
"Kill Jerries!"
"Chaaarge!!"
Five days of rain turned the ground to mush, but they stamped forward.
Mud splashed bodies and faces—no mind.
Clean freaks died first, overthinkers second.
Blank-minded squads of blood and flesh surged ahead.
Riflemen covered from range as Grease Gun troops dashed past MG arcs to grenade the Jerries—
"Down! Hit the dirt!!"
"Wha—?!"
"Mortars!"
BOOM!!
Miller's spot cratered, massive geyser erupting beside him.
Spine chilled.
Courage vanished; near-death terror seized him.
Drier ground, and splinters might've shredded him.
But puke fear now, and he'd never rise again.
Still terrifying.
Limbs quaking. Crotch soaked.
Then, boot camp platters droned in his ears like a scratched record.
'Courage ain't charging machine guns like a lunatic.'
'Humans got reason! That's why we're scared shitless! Fuck, I pissed myself in Cambrai who knows how many times—what're you on about?!'
'Remember: Embrace fear! Fearless guys die first. Will to face fear that's courage! Only the courageous rise to pluck freedom's fruit!'
Embrace courage. Rise.
Rise to return to dead buddies' families.
Not a casualty telegram—him, who saw their last moments.
"Can you stand?"
"I'm alive! Still kicking!"
"Good. That's enough. Long as your limbs are attached."
Squad leader smacked his cheeks a few times, then returned to post. Tally it on the bill, asshole.
"Where the hell are our tanks?!"
"Fuck if I know! Forget tanks—deal with that shit MG!"
Right then—whiiiine—sky thundered.
"Planes, planes fuuuck—"
"Please hit here just once! Pleeease!!"
Sky tourists.
Bastards cruised lazy, dropping bomb "tips" when they felt like it.
Always bombed other units, just peeked at ours.
"Fuck, should've enlisted with that pilot."
"Nigger pilot? Dream big."
Hopper, caught up behind, belly-laughed at him.
"Why couldn't I? Kim says he'll open doors someday."
"Yeah right. Believe bitches fly planes first."
"They do for real—"
KABOOM!!
"Yaaaay!!"
"Fuck yes! Thanks! So much!!"
"Love ya!! One more, babe!!"
"Sorry for white-boy jabs! You're the best!"
The MG nest hosing them? Airplane'd to oblivion.
They hurled fiery prayers skyward; pilot got it, wagged wings, dropped another hot gift. BOOM!!
"Front MG nest gone! Press on!"
"Chaaaarge! We need more scalps!"
"Freedom!! FREEDOMMM!!"
Miller and Hopper leaped up, rushed the ex-nest.
Limbs, guts strewn; survivors quaked like aspens.
"Surrender! Surrender!!"
"Drop weapons!"
"U-uh, surren-surrender."
A Jerry, rifle MIA, stammered English.
"Speak English?"
"English... teacher."
"Tell 'em in German: All surrender. Now."
"O-okay."
He yelled shaky; troops tossed rifles, emerged two by two. Some from impossible hides—GIs startled.
"...This easy to surrender? Germans do that?"
"How old?"
"Tw-twenty-five."
"My eldest's twenty-four. Drag you to eat foreign dirt at that age—ain't thinking surrender?"
Miller eyed the surrendees: all uncle-to-dad age.
"@^@#$^@"
"#@&%*!!"
"What're they yapping? Tell 'em funny business means instant lead."
The translator smirked, relayed.
"Fuck, should've voted Social Democrats. Other guy's telling him to shut it."
"Social Democrats?"
"Commie's that one. Watch the red taint. He'll whip out Communist Manifesto from his pocket to preach—dump him in POW camp quick."
If Germans had voted commie, would war even start?
Corporal Miller didn't know. Had to vote to know.
But from division commander's quotes—second-most "motherless bastards" after Japs were commies. Germans voted 'em or not, war was on.
Still, envied their right to vote commie.
September 11th.
Unlike battles I'd seen, Jerries got a special gift this time.
The Air Force.
We'd snatched the skies from Germany.
Our balloons fed steady recon; artillery rained shells on Jerry heads.
1,500 planes—no German riposte. Like WWII, how often did they hold air over Western Allies? Racial trait, maybe.
Jerry airfields, bridges, HQs, bunkers, rail stations, crossings, depots, dumps, ammo holds—every visible Jerry asset bombed to hell.
Bet they fortified heavy, itching for a go. Yanks no militia; reset the board first, then attack.
Date flipped to the 12th.
Relentless drizzle sapped body heat.
Finally, thousands of guns roared—the Saint-Mihiel battle curtain rose. Germans checkmated.
Four days later, over. Yanks scored total strategic win.
Momentum carried them to next: Argonne Forest.
And if memory served, 1.2 million stormed in; 120,000 casualties.