Chapter 69
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 69
Chapter Title: Battle of the Hundred Days (5)
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The final military conference right before the battle.
By now, any competent commander had already familiarized themselves with the operation's outline, but this time, everyone had no choice but to feel the tension.
They had to be tense.
But something felt off.
Maybe it was because they were soldiers who'd crossed the line between life and death a few times, but my survival instincts were blaring alarms at the current atmosphere.
"We will break through the Meuse-Argonne sector in four phases and completely rout the enemy."
Pershing looked more imposing than ever.
As commander of the Expeditionary Force and also of the U.S. First Army, every available American life was in his hands.
As he opened with those resolute words, First Army Chief of Staff Colonel Hugh A. Drum took over the briefing.
"The enemy's defensive line hinges on this point: Montfaucon Hill."
A hellish terrain of tangled valleys, hills, and dense forests.
Montfaucon Hill was the key position that could cover most of the American advance routes—the very one being mentioned now.
"The first assault will involve nine divisions from three corps, and we plan to cover 30 kilometers at full speed on the first day alone, neutralizing the enemy's defenses."
"Hmm..."
Only a few, myself included, looked uneasy.
Even the great Patton wore a dissatisfied expression, but we were very much in the minority.
"Of course, we know. It's tough to smash Montfaucon head-on."
The left flank's First Corps.
The center's Fifth Corps.
The right flank's Third Corps.
V Corps Commander Major General George H. Cameron, who would have to throw himself at Montfaucon, was understandably lukewarm. And rightly so—the 37th, 79th, and 91st Divisions under him were all green units without real combat experience. Shouting boldly here would be the real problem.
"That's why the First and Third Corps will accelerate to seize the left and right flanks of Montfaucon, then all three corps will hit it simultaneously and take the hill."
"Isn't that too optimistic? Let me be frank. If we achieve the objectives with our current forces, fine—but if we fail even slightly, it could turn into a catastrophe."
Despite Cameron's sensible words, Drum and the staff were exuding an eerie level of confidence.
No, seriously—what the hell gave these guys the balls to treat the Germans like breakfast?
"Even the nigger division pulled it off. What's stopping us?"
"Germans are just starving lunatics who can't even eat properly. Toss 'em a can or two, and they'll surrender."
"The war's almost over anyway. Even bloodthirsty Jerries can't keep up morale with defeat staring them in the face!"
Their whispers reached my ears, and every word was a spectacle.
Have these bastards all gone collectively insane?
I'd held back on sounding like a Japanese soldier myself, but why were these rear-echelon staff pukes—who'd never fired a shot up front—spouting such deranged nonsense?
That's why they got their asses handed to them in the original history.
Or maybe I'd altered the future somehow.
The thought suddenly hit me, and unease welled up again.
What if the 93rd Division fought too well, making these idiots underestimate the Germans even more than in the original timeline?
What if the offensive turned even more disastrous because of it?
Screw it. Why should I care if these morons screw up? I'll just do my job right and harvest some Jerry heads.
Unrelated to my deep pondering, the meeting was escalating into a spat between Drum and Cameron.
"We've assigned Colonel Patton's light tank brigade—the spearhead of the 35th Division in First Corps. Plus, we'll throw in a massive air force that's proven itself at Saint-Mihiel. Still no confidence?"
"I'm not talking about those minor details! Our forces are still vastly inferior to the enemy's!!"
"That's exactly why we staff officers exist—to balance that inferiority. We're preparing massive deception ops near Saint-Mihiel and east of the Meuse."
"Deception?"
"We've diverted a separate tank unit for a small assault, and we'll open up heavy barrages east of the Meuse to make the Germans think our main push is at Metz!"
The French would've been floored by this blind optimism.
At least the French generals I'd met weren't idiots. They'd bled against the Germans for over four years, learning more about that war machine than anyone—hard-earned, blood-soaked knowledge from trying everything and paying the price.
Did our staff really think the British and French hadn't tried exactly this stuff?
Unfortunately, there weren't many Frenchmen around to shut down our staff's delusionary circuits.
And with Pershing and the top brass keeping mum, it sure looked like they all shared the vague hope that 1.2 million men couldn't possibly lose.
I don't know.
The 93rd isn't hitting first anyway.
I just hoped the offensive wrapped up without a hitch.
Who knows—maybe history twisted and the Germans are weaker than expected?
The Allied force of 600,000 American and French troops, backed by 2,711 guns, was finally ready for the assault.
September 26, 1918, 2:30 a.m.
While the Germans slumbered, the sea of artillery filling the rear opened fire in unison.
A barrage of death pounding the enemy with bundles of cash.
Even now, Congress in D.C. is probably grumbling that the money could've helped the poor or funded big projects—"productive uses."
But right this moment, those shells were the miracle vaccine that could save every drop of soldiers' blood.
A waste of money?
What good's saving it gonna do?
I guarantee it's cheaper than widows' pensions. Of course, 1918 America was a fine country with no such thing as pensions, but still—I'd bet Ike's balls that those shells cost less than funerals.
September 26, 5:30 a.m.
The first page of tragedy turned.
The veteran divisions the U.S. Army could confidently field against the Germans—like the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 26th, 42nd, and 93rd—had mostly been thrown at Saint-Mihiel, so they couldn't join the first wave.
As a result, five of the nine U.S. divisions hitting the line on day one were green outfits that had barely tasted real combat.
"Advance! Keep advancing! We gotta pick up the pace to hit our objectives!"
"Shouldn't we watch for German counterattacks?"
"Look around—where the hell are the Germans? We've done air recon and hammered 'em with prep fire. If we creep along paranoid, we'll be the ones left behind!"
Forests heavy with rain on the hilly terrain.
Unless you're a Korean from the North Face tribe who climbs backyard hills for fun on an empty stomach, not many humans charge through such spots without hesitation. Especially lugging dozens of kilos of gear plus a long, heavy rifle.
Hellish terrain blocking the advance.
A glaring lack of combat experience from privates to top brass.
Complacency toward the enemy.
The combo proved deadly: many assault units bravely formed tight two-rank marching columns and pushed forward.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!!
"Enemy! Eeeenemy!!"
"Uwaaaah! Mom!!"
"Don't fall back! Fight! Fiiight—"
"Incoming barrage! Get off the road now!"
The Germans wouldn't miss a feast like this.
Frontline Krauts, initially hesitant—"No way the Yanks are that dumb"—grasped the situation quick.
And their battalion commanders had wide latitude to improvise in the chaos.
"Doughboys are total greenhorns! Sweep 'em clean!"
"Long live the Kaiser! Long live the German Empire!"
Château-Thierry HQ had heard nothing but victory reports lately.
They'd forgotten the 1st and 42nd were freakishly elite.
They didn't know the 93rd was packed with commanders talented enough to become future marshals.
Their expectations of the enemy were only half right.
Troops stuck in western trenches for years, munching turnips and wasting away, were indeed low-morale.
But the Meuse-Argonne was crawling with Eastern Front veterans fresh from hard fights.
Conquerors who'd won everywhere, convinced Germany's future was all glory.
No way they'd cower before a horde of Yankee amateurs, no matter the numbers.
Small mercy: God hadn't abandoned the Americans entirely—the Germans had issues too.
Meuse-Argonne defenses split between General Karl von Einem's Third Army and Georg von der Marwitz's Fifth. Unified command might've multiplied U.S. suffering manyfold.
And Germany's eternal Achilles' heel—manpower shortages—tripped them up. Divisions were down to 3,000–5,000 men apiece.
"Goddamn Jerry bastards!"
"Every Jerry without a machine gun's got artillery. How the fuck do they have cannons to spare?!"
Screams.
"Disperse the troops now! Our guys are getting mowed down in neat rows by MGs!"
"The manual says massed rifle fire from tight infantry can suppress enemy heavies. Scattering just gets us picked off!"
"You're killing our boys with your moldy Civil War playbook! Disperse now!!"
Division.
"Tanks! Where the hell are the tanks?"
"No contact with the tank battalion."
"Enemy defenses too strong! Can't push!"
"It was a mistake sending one-month trainees to seize that damn hill! Those shitty staff weasels sent these poor grunts to the slaughter!"
Wailing.
The rookie-packed 79th Division failed to take Montfaucon.
Thus, not even 24 hours in, most of the front was filled with dying screams and howls.
"Independent action by subordinate corps is strictly forbidden."
"Given our troops' low training, worst-case friendly fire is a risk. Corps commanders, stay sharp on fire lanes—no crossing them or any unscripted maneuvers without explicit GHQ approval—"
Suffocating bureaucracy stabbed the troops in the back.
No one took responsibility for the soldiers turning into corpses.
Second-rate power's second-rate army.
Not snark—this was cold reality.