Chapter 71
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 71
Chapter Title: The Sword of the United States (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The rain was still drizzling down relentlessly.
This horrific battle in the Meuse-Argonne felt just as sticky and clinging as the rain trickling down his spine right now.
The Doughboys swarmed like cockroaches—kill them all you want, and they just kept coming.
Ever since 1914, the great German Imperial Army had forged its legendary saga: from Tannenberg, across the vast Polish plains, and finally crushing the Russian Empire on the Eastern Front. Now, they faced a new foe—the Doughboys.
These weren't even serfs who had suffered under the Tsar's autocracy, yet they charged with more fervor than anyone.
Even in the face of our clearly formidable defensive lines.
Even under the endless barrage of devastating artillery.
They rushed forward as if charging like wolves was a divine mission, meeting their deaths head-on.
At first, he sneered at the sight.
It was pathetic, the way they struggled futilely against impossible odds.
But at some point...
A day passed, then a week.
A month slipped by, and still the Doughboys kept pouring in relentlessly.
And our own forces, no matter how many we killed, were forced to fall back bit by bit.
Why must we keep advancing when we've repelled countless enemies before?
Why are our defensive lines running so thin?
And once we retreat to the final line... where the hell do we go next?
Pity for them gradually faded.
In its place lingered only fear.
The commander's latest briefing did nothing to quell that fear—instead, it fanned the flames.
“The newly deployed enemy is America's 93rd Division. Even the Americans are so short on troops they're resorting to niggers. They're an inherently inferior race, lacking fighting spirit and proper language—savages! The Deutsch master race knows no defeat. All troops, hold your positions and devote yourselves to battle until the day of victory!”
“93rd Division?”
“Heard of 'em. The Devils of Amiens. What the hell do they mean by inferior...”
'Devils of Amiens.'
Even if these were guys who'd wasted away in trenches on the Western Front, they were monsters who'd devoured an entire division in a single day.
This wasn't their first rodeo after a day or two of war—they knew it all by now. Commanders had a habit of downplaying the enemy.
But this was a bit much.
Talking like that and underestimating them? Might as well be no different from that idiot 208th Division.
Before long, legends of the 93rd Division—the Devils of Amiens—spread through the trench like the flu, mouth to mouth.
“I heard the 93rd are called 'Attila's Whip.'”
“Oh yeah, I've heard that too. They're led by the last descendant of blind Genghis Khan.”
“They behead soldiers and civilians alike wherever they go, stacking heads into towers. Instead of praying to some evil Eastern god, they get flesh that won't die even from bullets.”
“You there! Spreading rumors in the ranks is punishable! Shut your mouth right now!”
“Hey, Sergeant. Come join us. Got a bit of Lucky Strike left from the Doughboys.”
“Ahem, ahem. Just hand over one.”
The sergeant who'd just been ranting about rumors plopped down naturally by the trench wall and launched into his own tales with gusto. No awkwardness at all—he'd been a lowly grunt not long ago.
“Platoon leader told me—their commander's a descendant of the Chinese imperial family. Apparently, 'Kim' was a surname used by the Chinese royals.”
“No kidding? Then why's he in America?”
“Who knows. Anyway, the Chinese imperial line originally came from Tatars, so he's a master of cavalry tactics. Heard of Cambrai? Word is he rampaged with a tank unit there, driving the brass up the wall.”
“Makes sense if he's Tatar. Bet he handles tanks like a pro.”
“Right? Just like us Germanics with our order, discipline, and reason—he crushes those savage niggers in one hand, leaving piles of corpses and ruins everywhere. Tatar specialty.”
Rumble!
Everyone leaped up at the familiar sound, plastering themselves against the trench wall.
It sure as hell wasn't thunder.
This sound they knew all too well was...
“Artillery! Incoming!!”
“Everyone down! Get anyone outside into the trench!”
The horrific impacts hammered the trench.
As always, no getting used to this barrage.
Ears plugged tight, yet the deafening roar and shockwaves drilled into the skull like it would split.
One minute.
Ten minutes.
One hour.
Time dragged on, and some of the less rattled ones even started munching on food stashed in their kits.
“Hey, where'd you get that chocolate bar?”
“Doughboys.”
“Crazy bastard.”
“You stole smokes from corpses too. Pot calling the kettle.”
“Just one bite.”
These guys really had it all.
Russian Slavs? Officers always had gold, but grunts yielded zilch.
Doughboys, though? Walking treasure troves. Pockets stuffed with food, smokes, ammo everywhere.
Could they really beat guys like this?
Nah—maybe all that gear made them soft.
He tried shaking off the defeatist thoughts, but with the pounding artillery messing his head, he let his mind wander back to the Yankees instead.
Two hours.
Three hours.
Four hours.
When the barrage hit this hard, you knew.
The enemy was coming.
Time to face those spine-chilling devils, Attila's horde.
Finally, the shelling stopped, but the ringing pain in his ears wouldn't quit. Probably echo in his skull all night.
“Enemy! Air raid!!!”
Shouts and roars echoed everywhere.
And from the distant sky, black dots began appearing one by one.
“Anti-air prep!”
“Rifles up! Fire on my mark when they're close!”
Huddled in the trench, he clutched his rifle tight.
Magazine. Where's the damn magazine? Ah, here.
He shoved the dropped mag back in his pocket roughly and took careful aim over the parapet.
Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Fierce machine-gun fire from the air.
Then the bombing.
A rain of death plummeting from above—something he'd rather pass on than artillery.
Like popping off a few rifle shots would bring any down?
He desperately wanted to just hunker down, but orders were orders.
Mosquitoes today were out in force.
As their numbers swelled to dozens, hundreds, platoon leaders gave up. “Rifles down! Everyone hide! Don't get picked off!” came the sighing command.
Then the bombing run.
Fruits of frantic digging vanished one by one.
Trenches.
Barbed wire.
Comrades.
Officers.
Bunkers.
Things that really shouldn't disappear went with them, but what could you do? Suck it up.
What chilled him more was wondering just how hard they planned to hit if they dumped this much firepower on a speck like this.
After the bombing neatly pulverized everything, the enemy finally showed themselves.
“Niggers.”
“Damn. Real niggers?”
From afar, song lyrics drifted on the wind.
Couldn't make out the words, but the confidence and passion oozed through.
Didn't even care about us glaring daggers from here?
“Machine guns! Prep to fire!”
“Already blown to bits! None left!”
“Goddamn it. No MGs here—how the hell are we supposed to hold?”
“Fall back to the secondary line?”
“Look behind you.”
The sergeant jerked his thumb rearward. Thick black smoke billowed there too—no better off.
“Those planes hammered our rear even harder. Won't be rolling out the red carpet back there.”
“We're screwed.”
“Aim! Aaaaaim!!”
He poked just his head and rifle out.
But that instant—
Crack! Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat!
“They're firing!”
“No way to return fire!”
“They're charging! The niggers are charging!!”
“Waaaaah!!!”
“Shoot! Just shoot already!!”
Shouts and scattered orders rang out deafeningly.
He fired aimed shots desperately, but bolt-action rifles popped off leisurely despite his panic.
No need to aim perfectly—bound to hit the surging black wave somewhere. Emptying one mag in a flash, he swapped and prepped for more.
“Bayonets! Fix bayonets!”
“Doughboys incoming!!”
And the breach.
Finally, the first American nigger set foot in the sacred Deutsch trench.
Bang!
“Gah—”
“Dead! He's dead!!”
Bang! Bang!
The bold intruder sprayed blood from multiple wounds and crumpled.
But next?
“KILLLL!”
“Uwaaaah!”
Pitch-black savages filled his vision.
He pulled the trigger sooner than expected. Bang!
“Gurk, gurgle... L... Liber...”
“What the hell are you babbling, you goddamn nigger!”
Irritated, he booted the dying foe and aimed at the next—
Rrrat-tat-tat!! Rrrat-tat-tat-tat!!
“Flame thrower!”
“Submachine gun! Everyone, conserve fire—Guhk!”
His arms went limp, rifle dangling.
No winning this.
Maybe elsewhere, but not here under this overwhelming hail—no way.
Abandoning all, he crawled out of the trench mindlessly, onto open ground.
At last, away from the suffocating trench, the vast battlefield greeted him.
“Ah...!”
A wave of steel.
Dozens, hundreds of tanks thundered proudly down the road.
Behind them, endless lines of trucks snaked after, too many to count.
Hills choked with nigger troops.
Now he got it.
Doughboys weren't just throwing bodies at them.
Endless supplies.
Endless numbers.
Even if the mighty Deutsch slew 100,000, they'd scoff and roll in 100,000 more tanks.
“Heh, heh heh, heh heh heh heh.”
“SURRENDER!”
“Fuck off, you niggers.”
Bang!
Even as he closed his eyes forever...
The steel column refused to fade from view.
“Observer confirms red smoke rising from the enemy front lines.”
“First line breached. The 369th Regiment delivers, as expected.”
I fidgeted, itching to rush the front myself, but Omar's sharp glare pinned me back to my chair obediently.
“Tank battalion?”
“Advancing smoothly. All obstacles cleared from path.”
“Contact Cabel. Engineers secure the route no matter what—push the tanks as deep as possible.”
“Cabel's gonna curse you out nonstop.”
“Tell him if he grumbles, I'll spread rumors the breakthrough distance matches his dick length. If armor fails... you know.”
I pinched my fingers teasingly, and stern-faced Omar ground his teeth hard.
“Can't breach what we're punching through this easily, and he throws that fit.”
“Who couldn't with division-level arty focused on one battalion?”
“And who's been not doing that, turning our boys into Heinz ketchup?”
Idiots.
No way I'm wasting firepower like blood on pavement. Point concentration and sure kills—basic after a few canyon runs, or StarCraft games.
“Jerries probably think point concentration and infiltration are their trademark.”
But Jerries, you're my copycats.
So forgive me borrowing Hutier tactics. Payment's your heads.
“Push armor deepest, and keep egging Anastacio on—like I told him, go wild.”
“Arty?”
“Forward deploy. Haul every damn gun up that hill, even if we lose men doing it.”
West Point flashed in mind. Miss those cannon pranks.
“Omar.”
“Why the sappy tone again.”
“When we stole their field guns and aimed at the plebes, they flipped out hard.”
“Ancient history... yeah, they did.”
“Gift the Jerries ten times that foul mood. Tell 'em shut up and climb.”
I didn't say I hate that hill.
Just wanna place arty freely—grant me that much.
“Blast the second line before dinner rations.”
At this rate, we can push.
The road to Sedan was opening.