Chapter 72
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 72
Chapter Title: Sword of the United States (2)
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Boom! Kwaaang! Boom!
"Fire! Keep firing! Don't let those Jerry bastards take off their gas masks!"
Was it because the division commander had chewed them out personally? The soldiers of the 93rd Division's artillery brigade had finally set up their batteries on the newly captured hill.
But despair washed over them at the next order. Their limbs trembled with exhaustion, yet they had to fire the shells right now.
"Everyone's on the verge of collapse. If you could just give us a little more time—"
"And? You tired? Try whining that to those guys over there!"
The commander spoke with cold ruthlessness, but the artillerymen shut their mouths the moment they glanced at "those guys."
The pitiful corpses of American infantrymen, not yet fully tended to, were scattered everywhere.
"If we slack off even one shot because we're tired, another comrade dies by Jerry's hand. No whining. You might feel like you're dying from exhaustion, but you're not actually gonna drop dead! Reload now! To open the future, we have to give it everything we've got!!"
Their teeth ground so hard that blood trickled from their gums, but they didn't care.
The batteries roared back to life.
It was time for the Germans, who had thrashed about to the bitter end, to face reality.
If that realization came too late, more soldiers would have to die.
He wanted to hound the signal corps even harder to lay phone lines faster, but it was unreasonable to keep demanding the impossible. Besides, his men were plentiful, but the signal corps were all older guys.
"Prepare a runner."
"Yes, sir."
As always, artillery had to lob shells at an unseen enemy from the rear.
That meant either wasting ammo on strategically meaningless empty air in a split-second blunder or, conversely, raining hellfire on friendly heads and earning curses.
Firing on friendlies at this point would be disastrous. It wasn't just about casualties—units hit by their own artillery would have their morale cratered, rendering them unfit for combat.
They'd done well so far; he couldn't risk being branded a traitor in this pivotal battle that would decide the tiresome Meuse-Argonne stalemate. So, he decided to finish the pre-designated barrage on certain coordinates and then go silent.
Besides, ordering more fire might get him fragged by his own men.
But before he could dispatch the runner, a division courier roared up on a motorcycle.
"New orders."
"Got it."
His face twisted as he scanned the orders.
"Screwed."
They'd seized another hill, so shift a whole regiment there?
Whoever he sent would drown in resentment. They'd just poured everything into the barrage.
At least they'd given a generous timeframe out of some mercy, but it was still a headache.
"Understood. The 372nd will take over this hill and move out immediately as ordered. Relay that."
"Yes, sir!"
With a roar, the courier vanished like the wind.
War was truly a horrific thing.
While the 93rd Division threw everything it had into a breakthrough attempt...
The neighboring Rainbow Division, the 42nd, was shedding rivers of blood as well.
"The 83rd Brigade... wiped out."
"What kind of nonsense is that?!"
Major General Menoher's eyes whipped around full circle before he snatched the phone in irritation.
"Brigade commander! What the hell is this?!"
- I'm sorry, sir. The enemy's counterattack is too fierce. The front's collapsing, and I can't control our troops anymore.
"Hold the line with whatever you've got. That's your final order."
Bang!!
Declaring the brigade commander relieved, Menoher slammed the receiver down in a fury, muttered curses for a moment, then called the switchboard again.
- Yes, General?
"Patch me to the 84th Brigade. Priority one!"
Moments later, a reliable voice tickled his ear.
- 84th Brigade Commander MacArthur speaking.
"The 83rd is done."
- Didn't I tell you? We need more support. Even shoving the 84th in now won't push the Germans back.
MacArthur had handled all the division's major and minor affairs as chief of staff until recently. As far as he recalled, this was the first time that mouth had admitted impossibility.
"That bad, huh."
- Sorry, sir, but order me to die and I will. Order me to win, and I request more firepower.
"I'll request additional artillery from corps."
- We need more air support too. The Germans own the skies over us right now. We have to sweep them clean.
"Fine. You'll get it all. I promise. So by 1800 tomorrow, no matter what, plant the Stars and Stripes on that devil's maw of a hill. That's an order."
- Didn't Colonel Kim request 28,000 body bags? Order 6,000 more for us. The flag goes on that hill—or wrapped around me in a body bag.
With that report to the division commander, MacArthur hung up and summoned his staff.
"This battle's fate rests on us. The 83rd collapsed, and the enemy retook that godforsaken hill. We either drive out Jerry or die. Nothing else left."
"The Germans prepared that one massive counterattack while lying low. You think we'll come out unscathed charging head-on?"
"I've requested everything I can. If even one gets denied, I'm out too."
No sooner had he spoken than corps called back. They'd approved every request.
Menoher, you magnificent bastard. He griped sometimes, but he delivered.
"Alright. Here's the plan."
He slashed a bold straight line across the map.
Corps-level fire would incinerate everything along those points. Armageddon for the Jerries below—but necessary to hammer reality into them.
"That won't just hit us, sir."
"Exactly. Solo advances get us nowhere. And the boys next door get it perfectly."
This time, MacArthur grabbed the phone.
"Connect me to 93rd Division HQ."
- Yes, sir. Eugene here.
"You know the sitrep? Perfect day to die. The 84th will punch through to Sedan today, come hell or high water."
- Music to my ears. I ordered a ton of body bags myself.
"Hahaha!!!"
- Hahahaha! Things are prime here. Enemies left, right, front—blind man couldn't miss. Dying to hit the front myself.
"Value your life, kid. Division commander's no place for reckless stunts. If you'd rushed the front, you wouldn't have picked up."
- True, but no word from up there. Radio's useless. Frustrating as hell.
The staff listening in stared like he was talking to lunatics, but it didn't matter. Mortals warily eyeing geniuses was natural.
"Pulled every ounce of corps fire support. Listen up—here's the coordinates."
- Perfect. Exactly where we need it. One lap from the Chariots of Fire, and Jerries'll be crispy.
"Poetic. I'll steal that for my memoirs. With this firepower, 93rd's path clears, right?"
- Fail to break through? I'd strip my eagles myself. Orders going out now. Good hunting, sir!
Click.
Flames ignited in MacArthur's eyes.
With his trusty junior clearing the flank, enemy pressure would ease.
If the 42nd, 93rd, and 1st formed a wedge and broke through, Jerry's grand counteroffensive dreams would turn to comedy.
And he knew his junior as the most aggressive attacker—reasonable, perfect at carving enemy lines.
That damn attack spirit talk.
Dwelling on it, MacArthur lit his pipe.
Easier fighting alongside the French. This Meuse-Argonne mess had shown him how ossified higher-ups were. Teeth-chatteringly so.
He'd gaped at the Chaumont pamphlet of "combat lessons."
[Line officers fear enemy machine guns too much—over-fearing casualties. American commanders shouldn't wait for artillery; push forward aggressively with infantry rifle fire. Maneuver and offense are mostly right.]
What era was this? Still spouting such madness.
Units heeding that "wisdom," charging machine-gun nests with bolt-actions? Mostly annihilated, tragic ends.
Others waited for barrage, then charged—without enough fire to shred the enemy, mowed down by lively MGs, same fate.
Commanders sparing lives amid this mess? Most sacked for "lack of offensive spirit."
Might as well bag myself.
MacArthur swallowed surging irritation.
"I'll lead this attack."
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Last time you got gassed leading from the front. Please restrain yourself."
"Troops need me. Huddling with a phone amid endless barrages? We'd all be dead before orders go out. I'm going personally."
Ignoring objections, he boarded his vehicle.
"Waaaah!!"
"MacArthur! MacArthur!!"
Helmet swapped for a cap cocked at 45 degrees.
A dashing deep-purple scarf.
Gilded gold cigarette case, pipe clenched tight.
Uniform traded for West Point baseball sweater, riding pants, boots. Pistol holstered as a crop in hand.
This young brigade commander, flipping the bird at soldierly norms, always drew roaring cheers.
"168th Regiment! My proud regiment!"
"MacArthur! MacArthur! MacArthur!"
"Yes! Our fathers, MacArthur Sr., and I—we're all MacArthurs! As my father fought for freedom and justice in the Philippines with you, I entrust my life to you! Ready, comrades?!"
"YES, SIR!"
"Charge! Let's show Jerry we're the best—the unit embodying the United States!"
The climax of the 42nd Division's three-day bloodbath.
That day, MacArthur and the 84th seized the hill.
MacArthur suffered his second gas poisoning; the 42nd wrote 3,000 KIA notices over three days and earned three Medals of Honor.
The Sedan road, paved in blood and bodies, finally opened.