Chapter 70
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 70
Chapter Title: Hundred Days Offensive (6)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Around this time, the German army's defensive strategy was meticulously crafted and crystal clear in its objectives.
The foremost defensive line was doomed to face a massive barrage the instant the enemy launched their assault.
Thus, there was no need to station heavy forces up front—just enough to slow them down, with even those troops primed to fall back to the second and third lines at a moment's notice.
By the time the enemy overran the front line, their infantry advance would outpace their artillery support.
Our forces would then escape the enemy's guns and hammer those "trenches that were once ours"—with coordinates already dialed in—concentrating fire right where it hurt.
And the battle was unfolding precisely as the Germans had planned.
I wasn't so lost in my studies that I could just shrug this off. After chain-smoking pack after pack, I finally gritted my teeth and marched into headquarters command.
Whether they listened or not—even if it meant blazing away with this ivory-gripped pistol—I was hell-bent on fixing this absurd offensive.
Trace the blame for this madness back far enough, and it all pointed to General Pershing.
Why were the staff officers so reckless? Because Pershing backed it, of course.
Sure, I owed him big time.
This flashy promotion never would've happened if he hadn't stashed a "yellow monkey" like me in some backwater corner. Personally, I had debts to settle—even if it meant wheeling him around later.
But deep down, he was just another 19th-century relic, wedded to outdated doctrine.
A U.S. division clocking in at 28,000 men? Blind faith in rifle fire? To me, it was straight-up madness, hurling soldiers into the inferno. With the top dog calling the shots, the staff fell in line.
In my second life, I'd seen countless real people shatter my vague book knowledge, so I'd half-assumed Pershing was some flawless war hero.
Big mistake.
Time to set it straight.
Sure, my mouth might spout that the prince must die for the nation to live—but as a goddamn kimchi Confucian at heart, true duty meant barking right alongside to shut down a superior's bullshit.
Unfortunately, someone beat me to the punch.
"I just can't comprehend what you're doing with all that pricey experience."
"Colonel MacArthur! Retract that insult at once!"
"Insult? Poll the dying soldiers' last words, and you'd hear the same. Been to the hospital wards? Oh, sorry. Wouldn't learn much anyway. In case you missed it, our boys are croaking in the gutters before they even make it there."
The staff room's vibe had frozen into Siberian tundra, thanks to this guy's razor-sharp cynicism.
"You know Metz sat empty right after Saint-Mihiel? Why charge that godforsaken hill instead?"
"Because no division commander gets to freestyle the Allied grand strategy."
"Freestyle? The Meuse-Argonne push was all about Sedan—for the rail hub! But Metz falls, and boom: enemy rails collapse anyway! Feast your eyes on the clusterfuck you desk jockeys cooked up!"
"I can't fathom your cocky assumption we'd take Metz—baseless, by the way. And don't act like you're the genius here. We're cogs in the Allied machine—"
"Hah. Spare me. No point jawing with paper-pushers. Where's General Pershing? I'm about to burst; gotta tell him straight."
"Not here. Tell me."
MacArthur scowled at Chief of Staff Drum's icy retort.
"You the commander now? Can't even grasp this is subordinate-to-superior talk?"
"Pershing's down in Chaumont. He's out, so chat with his chief of staff. No need for the theatrics. Craving his mug that bad? Trek to Chaumont."
No, don't poke the bear.
Riling Little Mac just made him fiercer.
Despite my quiet plea, MacArthur's face soured fast. Pride stung, plain as day.
"Hold up. Both of you, cool it—mind if I chime in?"
"You again—oh, Colonel Kim. You griping about the op too?"
What a prick.
"Plan's not Holy Scripture. Tweaks for max kills? Fair game, no?"
"Day one, and you're calling revisions? Front lines would riot. Can't snag Montfaucon? Flanks are cruising fine."
"My recon said otherwise—pretty hairy."
"Recon? Snooping other units' turf?"
Drum gawked.
Why the fuss? Curiosity killed the cat—or not. Like a retiree road-tripping to Masan for the game... casual spectating. Wasn't swinging for the fences; just peeped.
"Cut the noise. Situation's got me with requests."
"...Shoot."
"Enemy arty's still kicking. Planes maxed out—priority those cursed hill guns."
I lobbed a few hooks. Drum grumbled but heard me out. Smartly, I skipped fuel for MacArthur's fire.
Rifle zealots or not, another division's CO couldn't micromanage.
Strategic tweaks? Fair play.
Drum mulled his reply—
"Report!"
"Speak."
"Our light tank brigade under heavy counterattack! Patton—KIA!"
What?
Say again?
"Patton's dead? That berserker?"
MacArthur's shock mirrored mine.
Patton dying? No way.
Decades till his WWII glory.
Misinfo, obviously.
Unless... my butterfly flapped him into the grave?
What now?
"Brigade holding? Op scrapped?"
"Awaiting details—"
"Bogus report. Guaranteed."
I steadied my breath.
"Patton's no corpse."
"Colonel Kim. Easy. Your bromance is noted, but war's war—"
Like I'm the nutcase.
Logically? B.S. Man's Hitler-headhunting material; croaks now?
"Eugene. I get the shock."
"He ain't dead! Why would that medieval lunatic buy it?"
Frustrating as hell!
Spill the future tea here? Padded room express.
Choking on it.
I kept it rational, but ears shut tight.
Fresh report saved the day.
"Correction: Patton alive. Critical—rear-bound."
"Told you! Bulletproof bastard!"
Staff eyed me like yesterday's pity case.
Bet they pegged me for "bestie bereavement breakdown."
"Easy now. Hot tea—settle those nerves."
Drum flipped from drill-sergeant to doting uncle, shoved a cup my way, then booted me out.
No op debate. MacArthur's my bet.
He and Drum dove back into epic spat—no me-shaped hole.
Sigh. That fake-out report...
Patton: dandelion of disruption, shedding chaos alive or dead. Rib him rotten at bedside.
Chaumont staff, Pershing at helm, stuck to the script.
Squeezed failing units harder instead. Ghastly.
At least my Argonne gun pitch landed. U.S. troops broke free of the barrage hell, ramped attacks, claimed the blood-drenched Montfaucon.
Rain cranked from drizzle to "torrential apocalypse—save us!" Muddy dirt roads strangled the push worse. Superhuman Marshall or not, overnight swamp logistics? Nightmare.
Inevitable: Pershing battered all September.
French pols lost it over U.S. stall—whipped Foch raw. Clemenceau openly hawked axing Pershing for fresh blood. Foch unloaded on Pershing: "Can't hack it? Cough up command."
Pershing's call:
"Saint-Mihiel vets to front. Rotate beat-up units rear for refit."
93rd? Sidelined.
Race crap again? Or me?
While I bottled fury, U.S. bled out. Pershing's encore:
"Stepping down as First Army CO."
"General!!"
"Chaumont AEF focus for me. Liggett takes First Army."
Personnel purge followed.
"First Army bloated—ops lagged. New Second Army: Bullard commanding."
"Understood."
"Cameron, V Corps—you're out."
"Why! Why heed that staff snake alone? Higher-ups botched it!"
"Your gutless attacks? Bigger sin."
Division heads tumbled like dominoes. Pershing's blade, post his own demotion? Untouchable.
"Colonel Eugene Kim."
"Yes, sir."
"Staff uneasy on 93rd commitment."
"Beyond tallies. Black troops? Discipline dips, morale tanks—"
"Your take?"
Pershing sliced Drum's drivel, locked eyes on me.
What now?
"Don't strut after butchering kids?"
"I've been gagging on frustration?"
"Drop dead, assholes."
I yanked my notepad, ripped a sheet, bit my finger hard.
"Colonel Kim!"
"What the—?!"
"East has this heartwarming blood-oath custom."
Fuck, agony. Three Kingdoms? Pure horseshit. Luo Guanzhong, rot.
"Prep 28,000 body bags. Or victory dispatch. One's locked in."