The Heroes of Cambrai
"Colonel MacArthur! What—what on earth have you done!!"
"I rescued allied forces in danger."
"Hey!!!! That's not what I'm talking about!"
At last, Chief of Staff Harbord, who had finally blown his lid, shouted at the top of his lungs—but MacArthur remained completely unmoved, maintaining his rigid stance at attention.
Harbord had watched MacArthur ever since his days as a newly commissioned second and first lieutenant. That stubborn mule-headedness of his had never changed.
"Douglas. My friend Douglas. Why are you making my life so difficult?"
"…I did what I believed was right."
"That wasn't your place to go! Nor was it your unit's!"
MacArthur had clearly crossed the line.
Some units must remain in reserve. It just so happened that this time, the 42nd Division had been chosen.
But MacArthur hadn't come to headquarters to protest, debate, or persuade.
Instead, he had sent telegrams to the state legislators of the National Guard units that made up the 42nd Division. Since the U.S. military still had no legal concept of classified information, this alone wasn't illegal—only ethically questionable.
But the result was immediate.
Furious protests from the legislators poured directly into the expeditionary command.
[We cannot help but express grave concern that the proud sons of Connecticut have crossed the Atlantic only to serve as house guards—]
[Regarding your command's apparent judgment that the brave men of Massachusetts are weaker than other fools—]
[The young men of Rhode Island burn with fighting spirit, and their passion and vigor are second to none—]
Headquarters was thrown into chaos. If Harbord hadn't restrained them, several staff officers were ready to court-martial MacArthur on the spot.
Fine. That could be overlooked.
"But this—this time you've clearly gone too far!"
"No, I haven't."
"No? You're saying you haven't?!"
"Of course, there were elements of the 1st Division stationed closer, at Gondrecourt. However, they were not in a combat-ready state—they were still in training, and it was difficult to expect sufficient combat effectiveness from them.
In contrast, the 83rd Brigade of the 42nd Division was a rapid-response force. All ammunition had been issued, and there were no issues with immediate deployment. Comparing the two, I judged that the 83rd Brigade could be deployed approximately twelve hours sooner—and in fact, because of that, we were able to rescue the American forces at Cambrai."
Harbord was left speechless as MacArthur continued.
"…Yes. I know. You're not wrong. I understand that much."
Bang!!
"But why can't you understand that there are procedures for everything!!"
"If we had followed those procedures, the 326th Light Tank Battalion and the 11th Engineer Regiment would have been annihilated—why do you turn your eyes away from that fact?!"
"Twelve hours would've been enough time to send another unit!"
"No! That was only possible because of Major Kim's absurd capabilities! Don't ignore the fact that breaking through the German lines with that ragged unit was nothing short of a military miracle!"
At last, MacArthur began shouting as well.
"You know better than anyone that, under normal circumstances, we would have had to clash head-on with the Germans and rescue them from encirclement! Because of those procedures, should we have abandoned them inside that encirclement for at least twelve hours—perhaps even days? How many men would have had to die for the sake of those 'proper procedures'?!"
"Colonel."
As MacArthur's voice rose, the Chief of Staff's tone instead grew quieter.
"The army is a place where things must be done that way."
"..."
"If they had to die because of procedure, then they were soldiers who had to die. If military discipline wavers for the sake of a few thousand, millions could be put at risk."
"Could you say that in front of the soldiers who came back alive?"
This time, it was Harbord who fell silent.
"I do not regret my actions. If you wish to court-martial me, do so. But I ask that all the survivors of Cambrai be present in the gallery."
They—the soldiers, their parents, and the United States itself—would declare him not guilty.
MacArthur saluted, turned, and walked out with heavy steps.
"You stubborn fool… just how many more enemies do you plan to make before you're satisfied?"
Only Harbord's sigh filled the office.
***
Despite the barrage of reporters, MacArthur merely allowed a quick photograph, then coolly got back into his car and drove off.
I headed straight to the medical unit, and thanks to everyone's devoted care, I was soon able to get back on my feet.
"Annihilated… huh."
"…It's devastating, junior."
And the returned 326th Light Tank Battalion had become one vast ward.
Ninety percent casualties.
No surviving tanks.
In every sense of the word, the 326th Battalion had ceased to exist.
Of course, the number of dead was not that high.
But after ten days of fighting—especially during the final breakout—most of the casualties had been concentrated. After repeated clashes with stormtroopers and ending in trench close-quarters combat, it was inevitable that most soldiers were wounded, even if only lightly.
And the tanks.
They had broken out before being completely encircled, so by the time they joined up with the 24th Division, they had abandoned every single tank and fled with everything they had.
Naturally, not a single tank was recovered.
But in exchange for the destruction of this unit, we had saved lives.
It was tragic—but the soldiers lying in the field hospital were all smiling.
"Battalion commander?"
"Stay lying down, all of you."
As Patton and I stepped into the ward, the men who had been chatting fell silent all at once and looked at us with bright, eager eyes.
"Well done. Truly well done. At this point, we might as well rename the 326th Tank Battalion to the 326th 'Soon-to-be Invalids.' I see every familiar face is here. Not a single tank recovered, either."
At my joke, the soldiers burst into laughter.
"For our comrades who did not return—for those who will be wrapped in the Stars and Stripes and sent home—let us pray first."
A shadow fell over everyone's faces. Even Patton bowed his head solemnly.
A brief silence.
Just as tears began to well in their eyes as they raised their heads again, I struck the floor firmly.
"But be proud! We saved lives! Those who volunteered with nothing but the conviction to defend freedom and democracy on this land—and the British, who needed our help more desperately than anyone! Not others—only us! We alone were able to rescue them safely, exchanging our own bodies for our comrades!
Those who are badly wounded will return home, and the rest will join new units and carry out their duties. But I swear on my honor—each of us can now proudly say, to anyone we meet: 'I fought as a member of the 326th Tank Battalion!'"
"326!! 326!!"
"And."
I took a deep breath again.
"Even if it was only for a short while, it was an honor to be with you, you damn magnificent bastards!"
"Yujin Kim! Yujin Kim!"
"Kung Fu Master Yujin Kim smashed Hindenburg's balls! Oh, he is the hero of Cambrai—"
"What the hell is that shitty song?!"
"Oh, that? I composed it. Got a problem?"
"…Senior."
So while I was groaning on a hospital bed, you were off doing that instead of your duties?
Ha… he did save my life, so I'll let it slide this once. Seriously.
The day I was discharged, the Battle of Cambrai officially came to an end.
And on that same day, the 326th Light Tank Battalion was disbanded.
But this disbandment was by no means a punishment for defeat.
Among the survivors, those capable of returning to the battlefield would be assigned to the countless tank units and training camps that were to be established, becoming the backbone of the newly forming U.S. armored forces.
The first battle of a United States tank battalion—indeed, of the U.S. Army itself—had delivered many lessons.
And the giant was now ready to grow stronger upon those lessons.
***
Having lost our unit and become wandering strays, we returned to the expeditionary headquarters in Chaumont, trading jokes along the way.
Of course, if we wanted, we could talk endlessly about battlefield lessons or future improvements—but what good was that for a bunch of nobodies who didn't even know their next assignment yet?
"You're back!!"
"Welcome!"
Even the guards snapped to attention and saluted as if greeting celebrities. Once we entered headquarters, everyone burst into applause and salutes—it was complete chaos.
We pushed through a flood of handshakes and made our way to General Pershing's office.
"Good to see you, gentlemen. I'm very glad you followed orders."
"Thank you, sir."
By "orders," he must have meant the one telling us to come back alive.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"Yes, I'll go get it—ah."
Senior… sit down. This is embarrassing. You're not an aide anymore.
After drinking a glass of cold water, we got down to business.
"First, return to the Tank Corps and prepare a report on this battle. Any after-action reviews will be conducted once the official report is submitted."
"Understood."
"The reason I called you here… is about commendations."
I figured as much.
At this time, the U.S. military's awards system was absurdly simple.
There was the famous Medal of Honor.
And… that was it.
No Silver Star, no Distinguished Service Cross, no Purple Heart—nothing. Either you got the Medal of Honor, or you got nothing.
"Of course, the final decision lies with Congress, but in my view, the Medal of Honor will be difficult."
If Pershing said that, then it truly was unlikely. Disappointing, but unavoidable.
"…Why is that? Are you saying Major Kim's achievements are not worthy of the Medal of Honor?"
"It's not about merit—it's a political issue, Captain Patton. As you may know, Colonel MacArthur of the 42nd Division took considerable liberties to rescue you. If we award the Medal of Honor, it would set a dangerous precedent: that improper actions are acceptable as long as the results are good."
"How does the 42nd Division's conduct have anything to do with us?!"
"It inevitably does. Use your head a little—you'll understand."
The runaway locomotive named Patton slowly began to cool down.
A bad precedent would indeed be troublesome for the U.S. Army.
Just look at the Imperial Japanese Army—its "results justify everything" mindset had led to reckless actions like the Manchurian Incident and the Second Sino-Japanese War.
It was unfortunate, but unavoidable. If MacArthur hadn't caused that uproar and come for us, we might all have died anyway. As far as the price of survival went, I couldn't complain.
"Of course, separate from that, your promotions are confirmed. Congratulations in advance, Lieutenant Colonel Kim—and Major Patton."
"Well, but still, the Medal of Honor—"
"Stop embarrassing yourself, senior."
"Doesn't it bother you at all?! It's the Medal of Honor!"
"Well, there'll be another opportunity someday."
"Ahem! Well, with you and me, a Medal of Honor is only a matter of time! Hahaha!"
Of course, there were things we all knew but didn't say.
That damned racial issue, Congressman Curtis backing me, and all sorts of other complications.
But from my perspective?
Honestly, this was better.
If I accepted something like the Medal of Honor now, Chairman Ford and my father-in-law might very well say, "Hohoho, you've already achieved everything possible as a field officer! Time to work in Washington!" and drag me away like some old bogeyman.
Suppressing my disappointment, I spoke with a carefully composed expression.
"I have no regrets. I did not act for the sake of a medal. If I continue to fulfill my duty as a soldier, I believe another opportunity will come someday."
"I understand your sentiment. While the Medal of Honor may be out of reach, I will ensure you receive everything else possible. Let's leave it at that."
With that, I had even placed Pershing in my debt.
That made my next assignment something to look forward to.
Putting the commander of the expeditionary force in my debt—now that was a profitable deal.
***
United States Army 1st Infantry Division.
The atmosphere at divisional headquarters was extremely tense.
Rumors that General Siebert had failed to meet Pershing's expectations during a recent training exercise had spread so widely that even the lowest private knew about them.
And another rumor—that Pershing would send General Siebert back to the mainland—only added fuel to the fire.
Then came news that poured gasoline onto the already blazing mood.
"Th-this… what kind of bastard is this…!"
"Twelve hours? Twelve hours?! This is insane. Since when do a bunch of National Guard nobodies get to insult the elite 1st Division?"
"We could've done it in three hours—what nonsense is this?!"
"They call it the Rainbow Division, but did they leave their sanity hanging on a rainbow too?! How can they pull something like this without shame?!"
The pride of the 1st Division had been deeply wounded by MacArthur's reckless actions. The atmosphere was so volatile that it wouldn't have been surprising if they stormed the 42nd Division and shot MacArthur on the spot.
As the staff collectively cursed MacArthur, one man crumpled the paper containing his "explanation" into a tight ball.
"So he thinks he's the smartest, his unit the best, and everyone else a bunch of fools. Sounds like Napoleon himself."
Major George Marshall, operations officer of the 1st Division, muttered as he struggled to suppress his anger.
"Let's see how this plays out… Colonel MacArthur."
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