Chapter 74
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 74
Chapter Title: The Sword of the United States (4)
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Finally, the dreadful Meuse-Argonne defensive line began to crumble, one section at a time.
Like a hole punched in a massive levee, the crack started small and subtle, but soon split wide open with a thunderous roar, leading to total devastation.
As the line guarding the road to Sedan collapsed amid deafening artillery fire, the few remaining Germans were reduced to pebbles and gravel, swept away helplessly by the tidal wave of a million American troops.
With that, momentum surged.
The U.S. forces, tormented for so long, pursued the enemy with venom in their eyes.
Sedan.
The land of longing.
It was only natural that fissures would immediately appear within the Allied command the moment it came into view.
"Sedan is a land of humiliation for us. Naturally, it must be reclaimed by French forces to wash away that shame."
Allied Supreme Commander Foch declared it without compromise.
Decades earlier, during the Franco-Prussian War, France's Emperor Napoleon III had surrendered miserably at the Sedan fortress.
Just as the Qing Dynasty had trapped King Injo at Namhansanseong Fortress to force his surrender and proclaimed their triumph, Germany had caged Napoleon III, extracted his capitulation, and declared the birth of the German Empire.
It wasn't hard to understand why the French were now foaming at the mouth to plant their first flag at Sedan.
"Regrettably, for the honor of the United States, we cannot yield Sedan."
The Americans had spilled rivers of blood in this godforsaken Meuse-Argonne while the British and French turned the Hindenburg Line into a wasteland.
The U.S. troops needed ironclad achievements.
They didn't care about how much blood had been shed.
Crying out about how many enemies they'd captured would ring hollow.
Only land mattered!
How far they'd advanced and how much territory they'd secured.
And how many valuable positions they'd seized to contribute to the war effort.
In that regard, Sedan—a place that could nearly paralyze rail transport across the German-occupied zone—was non-negotiable.
Besides, there were practical reasons too.
"Yield it to the French?"
"If the French in the rear advance, it'll be a catastrophe on these narrow roads."
Marshall, whose capabilities were already proven, stated it bluntly.
An army took up massive space.
Stuffing in a corps or even an army on these cramped, muddy unpaved roads could spell disaster.
"The combat zone boundary no longer exists."
In the end, after weighing honor and pragmatism, Pershing decided to unleash the leash rather than lose face.
"Use any means necessary, day or night. Do not hand Sedan to those French frogs."
The entire U.S. Army went berserk.
From 1st Army to 8th Army.
The grand race of the one-and-only 1.2 million-strong force was about to begin.
"Division Commander."
"Oh, please. Don't tell me there's more work."
"It's an order from headquarters."
"Hand it over."
I read through the brief directive, folded it roughly, and stuffed it into my pocket.
"Alright, staff officers. I know overtime's tough, but listen up."
"Yes, sir!"
"Looks like your hard work's been recognized up top."
As I started, my adorable meerkats fired off sparkling expectant gazes—Maybe? Promotion? Medal? A medal ceremony?
Sorry, kids. I built up your hopes too much.
"The 93rd Division halts its advance and shifts to army reserve."
"Pardon...?"
"Could you repeat that, sir?"
They couldn't process the sudden change.
"We're to skip Sedan and rest?"
"This can't be!"
"After all the blood we've shed! Planting the Stars and Stripes at Sedan is rightfully ours!"
"Disregard them, General! Order the advance now!"
Curses and outrage erupted everywhere. They'd turned feral, like protagonists in an action flick. War's horrors had twisted their hearts.
"Everyone, calm down. Chief of Staff Bradley."
"Yes, sir."
"What's your take?"
Bradley didn't hesitate a second.
"I believe higher command made a very timely decision."
"Hear that?"
The baffled staff alternated bewildered stares between me and Omar.
"We've been locked in frontline combat for quite a while now. We need to consider the troops' fatigue."
"But—"
I raised a hand to silence the objector.
"Who here knows how much food, ammo the frontline troops have left?"
"......"
"Fuel? Fatigue levels? Wounded?"
Silence.
Good. The anger and suspicion of being sidelined as the 'Nigger Division' was fading, reality sinking in.
"Maintain the line, check supplies, prep resupply. Especially ambulances. Clear the roads so medevac reaches the front first."
"Understood!"
"Dismissed."
Lingering would make them uncomfortable, so I slipped out.
Hodge and Omar tailed me like glue.
"Eugene."
"What."
"What's your real take?"
Damn, he reads me like a book.
"Obviously, we're being benched 'cause we're the darkies. Fucking hell."
"Figured that wasn't the answer you wanted, so I spun it."
"Thanks, man. You saved my ass."
Hodge looked like he'd glitched twice over but played aide perfectly, flicking out his lighter.
Pro indeed. Lights my cig even in the midnight gale without flinching.
"Obviously benched. Ah, feels fucking great."
"If it bugs you that much, suggesting another push to higher-ups might not hurt."
"Nah. It's perfect. Cough! Hack!"
I exhaled dramatically, but the cursed wind shoved the smoke right back up my nose. Damn, ruining my war hero gravitas.
"Hah, hah. Anyway, planting our flag at Sedan would just rile up more rivals. It's not like Sedan's waiting politely with a 'welcome' sign."
"True enough."
"So play the magnanimous lord: 'We get it, no hard feelings.' Higher-ups have some shame."
No need to curse everyone out and send troops to die.
We'd done plenty; skipping Sedan wouldn't erase our feats. They gonna wave us off with "War's over, back to lieutenant!"? I'd turn full commie revolutionary.
My war was essentially done, but a twinge of worry lingered.
"They said ignore combat zones and race ahead."
"Huh? Yeah, that's the order."
"Recipe for disaster."
Even in original history's Korean War, similar chaos erupted over Pyongyang's first entry: 1st Cavalry Division, ROK 1st and 7th Divisions tangling.
Nothing said it wouldn't happen here.
"Hodge. Prep the car."
"On it."
As Hodge vanished, Omar—now with no onlookers—grabbed me.
"Hey! Where you off to without the kids?!"
"Just letting the troops rest deep. No biggie. I'll swing by the neighbor unit."
"Hey!! You bastard! I call you friend?! Heeeey!"
Sorry.
But it's a mom's love—wanting you to grip the baton while Dad's away.
I ditched the raging Omar and hopped into the backseat of Hodge's ride.
You snubbed me last time?
Now I ditched you.
Sweet.
Orders to ignore night assaults, combat zones—everything—and charge to Sedan turned units into one-way runaway trains barreling ahead.
And closest to Sedan? None other than the 42nd Division.
—Launch the attack on Sedan immediately.
"Sorry, but could we get a few hours' delay?"
Despite Division Commander Menoher's urging, MacArthur flat-out said no.
"Troops are exhausted. They ditched rations to travel light—tons of them."
—Damn it. But orders—
"Even a night assault's success is iffy, and casualties unpredictable. Give us till dawn tomorrow to start."
—Fine. 84th Brigade takes Sedan at first light.
"Thank you."
MacArthur hung up and geared up.
"Where to, sir?"
"Sedan."
"Too much gas? Need oxygen swapped for it now?"
He just chuckled at the jab.
"Has this MacArthur ever shrunk from recon facing the enemy?"
"That was pre-second gas hit."
"Exactly why I must go. Can't have tales of MacArthur cowering in his tent from mere gas."
Brushing off pleas, he fully kitted out in his signature 'uniform' and slipped toward Sedan quietly.
Then—
"General. Urgent report."
"Speak."
"Unknown forces moving toward our front."
"This late at night?"
He pondered.
German night raid?
He'd pulled plenty himself; given the troops' state, Germans could too.
"I'll recon it."
"General?"
"Sedan or there—same difference. No size estimate?"
"No, sir."
"Gotta go then. Ready the men, warm up the guns just in case."
He issued orders and headed to the enemy.
Faint shapes approaching from afar.
Shambling without a shred of discipline—total mess. Beaten senseless, Germans must be tapped out.
That instant—
"Halt! Move and we fire!"
"?!"
booming English.
As MacArthur froze, soldiers rushed up, rifles and submachine guns trained on him.
"On your knees! Now!"
"Troops, I'm Brigadier General MacArthur, 84th Brigade commander."
1st Division?
Why 1st Division ahead of us?
'Goddamn combat zone!'
It clicked.
No proper contact—they'd barged straight into 42nd turf.
"Brigadier? Yeah, right."
"You idiots! 42nd Division's right there! I'm their brigade commander!"
"If you're a general, I'm Pershing, asshole."
"Alright. Spill the details to our intel officers, 'General.'"
Head to toe.
Cap, scarf, sweater, riding pants, boots.
Nothing screamed U.S. on MacArthur.
Suspicious as hell.
They slammed him down, bound him pro-style, and frisked him.
"Got a U.S. ops map."
"Excellent. Captured a spy. Jerries clingy to the end. Back to base!"
"You... fucking...!"
Thus, 1st Division elites proudly hauled the wicked Imperial spy back to base.