Chapter 68
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 68
Chapter Title: Hundred Days Offensive (4)
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Shortly after the Battle of Saint-Mihiel ended.
On a day when the rain was still drizzling down relentlessly, I visited the 42nd Division for a strategy meeting.
"Ah, Eugene. You've come."
"What brings you here? You look like you haven't a shred of energy left."
"We're screwed. We're all gonna die on those damn hills."
Douglas MacArthur of all people reacting like this. From Patton moping around like a lovesick calf to this—what the hell was going on lately?
"Weren't you the one whose fighting spirit surged at the sight of those fortresses? Why the groaning?"
"Our 84th Brigade soldiers are training down there right now."
"The battle's about to kick off, and you're doing training?"
"Yeah."
He fell silent, fiddling with his pipe for a moment before grabbing a bottle of liquor instead.
"Care for a drink?"
"Uh... well... sure, if you're offering, I'd be grateful."
Judging by MacArthur's glare, refusing might bring consequences. Better to drink and drop dead.
We downed our glasses side by side in one long swig, and he let out a sigh.
"Gotta train 'em. Of course. Training."
"Mountain terrain adaptation drill or something?"
"No. Shooting."
"Shooting?"
"Damn rookies can't even fire a gun! All the veterans got hauled off to the hospital from Saint-Mihiel, and these new replacements don't even know how to shoot! Useless bastards! What the hell do they teach recruits back home? How to tie bootlaces? How to surrender without getting shot?"
Seeing the mighty MacArthur so utterly humiliated was a spectacle in its own right.
No wonder he was pissed—the soldiers of his precious 42nd Division were in that state, and he had to throw them into battle soon. Even I'd lose my mind.
This wasn't someone else's problem.
Sure, commanders had to view casualties as numbers, but shouldn't you at least send out troops who could fight, in the best conditions possible?
Truth be told, I was still anxious.
In my Korean military service, soldier deaths were mostly from mishandling tools or those damn tropical diseases like tsutsugamushi fever. Screw-ups from shooting were rare.
But now, nearly 30,000 soldiers looked to me alone.
Every battle left empty spots from those who didn't return.
I came back alive, but they became corpses. My breath caught in my throat.
Being up front firing away had been easier on the mind. The white guys watching from afar were busy giving thumbs-ups about bravery, and the troops were pumped with their sky-high commander by their side—everyone was happy.
The 93rd Division was better off, at least. I'd raised them tough enough to twist a demon's jaw even in hell. With their mental fortitude drilled in tight, as long as the officers like me did their jobs right, no pointless deaths.
But even now, my nerves were fraying, and sending guys who couldn't even hold a rifle into that hellhole? I wasn't confident.
That day, MacArthur and I got royally drunk, ripping into the D.C. and Chaumont assholes with glee.
The Germans had burned with zeal at Saint-Mihiel too, and they weren't slacking now.
They'd be better off admitting they had heart but no skill—it'd make things easier. But their will to fight lingered.
Since the war began in 1914, the Meuse-Argonne had been horrifically fortified for four years. It was the starting point of the infamous Verdun Offensive and now the core of the Hindenburg Line, a key rail hub.
Forests, hills, valleys, and Jerries everywhere.
Trench networks like spiderwebs: pillboxes, trench lines, artillery batteries, bunkers, fortified sectors. And smack in the center of that grand fortress line stood Montfaucon.
Like a nation twisted by BDSM fetishes, it was the pinnacle of German perversion—designed to savor maximum agony from Allied assaults. Ludendorff had poured everything into sucking Allied blood dry, and we had to smash headfirst into it.
I wanted to scream, "Please don't send kids to this godforsaken place." But as a rail hub, seizing Meuse-Argonne could flip the war entirely—no way we could skip it.
The Meuse-Argonne offensive was a tall order for the U.S. Army's capabilities.
First, our elite divisions had mostly been thrown into Saint-Mihiel. Reorganizing and redeploying them left precious little time.
It wasn't just us attacking solo; it was part of Foch's grand strategy, so we had to stick to the timetable. Come hell or high water, the offensive launched on September 26.
1.2 million troops.
Vast food for three squares a day.
Massive ammo rushing to the front.
Countless tanks and guns.
Units escorting supply convoys.
All funneled through scant roads, turning them into seas of trucks, wagons, and hollow-eyed soldiers.
This traffic jam—worse than holiday rush hour by miles, suffocating— was everyday life in the unique hell of World War I.
"What the hell? Why can't we get this to the front? You kidding me?"
Oh, the woes.
Chaumont Expeditionary HQ had a monster who could handle millions-strong armies.
A man promoted to colonel but stuck as staff instead of the command role he craved.
Like evolving from MetalGreymon to SkullGreymon, Marshall had turned ferociously efficient. Traffic jams were child's play.
"This goes here! That there! Hold that one! Accident? Clear it first, then free the road! Lay phone lines first—that's priority. Recheck train schedules. What? Why? Are you insane?! There's a crossing near the wreck—obviously adjust trains! Can't even think of that, you idiots! Next—"
Masterfully juggling the lifeline for a million-man expeditionary force never before seen in U.S. history, Marshall proved he was America's top logistics genius to the world.
A true wizard.
Making impossible troops and supplies appear where they shouldn't—that's magic. We watchers were baffled; imagine the Germans. Even if Ludendorff wept blood cursing cheats, I'd agree.
"Can't even handle this and call yourselves staff? Gonna do your jobs like that?!"
"Sorry, sir!"
"Assign priorities first! Time's critical!"
A reliable officer giving his all, regardless of personal feelings.
But still.
To me, it looked like he was suicide-goaling himself a billion light-years from the command path he wanted.
Did he think spewing competence would get him a baton? I'd glue him to HQ forever too.
Marshall's massive supply op wrapped not on the 25th as planned, but a day early on the 24th.
That precious extra day? He spent it checking frontline units and personally presenting on advance routes.
"Colonel Kim!"
"Congrats on colonel."
"Save it till we crack that hellish fortress. Let's discuss your 93rd Division's plans quick."
What a boring guy. We could've swapped nice words and warmed up.
Of course, I knew full well how much blood Meuse-Argonne would suck from U.S. troops, so I quietly listened and prepped ops.
"Listen up. You'll secure this axis and—"
"Battle starts tomorrow. Our jump-in's a bit later."
My heavy words made everyone suck in breath.
"185th and 186th Brigades, plus artillery. Status?"
"185th's fine."
"No issues with 186th."
"Artillery's in position."
"Troop hygiene?"
"All good."
Bradley, my chief of staff, answered promptly.
Stuck next to me, he had it worst—poor guy. Felt a tad guilty. But he got fat combat evals from Amiens thanks to it, so call it even.
"Issued masks as ordered. But I doubt they'll wear 'em in the chaos."
"What can we do? That's the best we got. If we could shoot the flu dead, we'd have by now."
"Spare socks plentiful, gas masks and gear too—"
Quick briefing.
Only the fight left now.
"Before the new battle, something to tell all troops."
My out-of-left-field remark made folks heading back to units sit again.
"I think this battle might be the last."
"Bit reckless a guess?"
"Here. Then Metz or Sedan. We won't push further—the Argonne forest defenses crumbling ends the Hindenburg Line."
Hindenburg Line's end.
Practically Germany's defeat.
They could drag out ugly resistance like Axis in WWII original history.
But in WWI original, Germany chose talks over "wretched prolongation."
"Tell the troops the war's end is near. But make clear the enemy's full prep blocking our path—no empty hope."
"Got it."
"Don't expect miracles. No genius stratagems or heroic stands. Step by step. War ends soon, but their black lives are endless battles."
I said it as calmly as possible.
Yeah, nice and gentle.
So why?
Why why why?
"Our great division commander decrees: 'Even after chopping Jerry heads, plenty more necks to sever!' Why? 'Cause whites won't hand over first-class seats easy!"
"Waaaaaah!!"
"So don't relax after slaughtering Jerries gleefully, or despair if kills are low. Endless foes on we blacks' path!!"
Why did my mild, caring speech twist like that?
"Omar."
"Yeah?"
"Why'd our proud 93rd Division troops turn into... lunatics?"
"What? They learned from you."
What false accusation!
I'm wronged. Learned from me? No way they'd be like that.
"Hey, I'm Asian—easy to underestimate, right?"
"So?"
Why's he so prickly?
"So... if anything, it was acting—like a performer. Gotta show tough leader vibe, give vision. Sprinkled some macho image."
"Wow. Gotcha. Classic Eugene."
Omar patted my shoulder flatly, no emotion.
"Say... all your antics are 'acting'."
"It ain't antics—it's true."
"Sure sure. So what your troops saw—is that real you? Or the psycho playing?"
"Uh..."
"You raised 'em. They saw your psycho show and turned out like that—no backing out now."
Omar's words made me dizzy.
I didn't want it that extreme? That's just Patton and his fanclub?
"Just think of it as getting 30,000 top psycho fighters. 93rd Division and Commander Eugene Kim get immortal fame. Wild unit and boss etched in U.S. history."
"What about you! You're what?"
"Innocent bystander dragged in."
Omar, chief of staff be damned, ditched me for his room.
Abandoned. Jerk...
That dawn,
the Meuse-Argonne Offensive began.