Cambrai – After-Action Review
December 1917 was utter chaos for the American Expeditionary Forces.
General Siebert of the 1st Division received transfer orders.
The stated reason: preparation for future chemical warfare.
The 1st Division, already struggling to contain its anger, erupted into complete turmoil.
"What the hell! What did General Siebert do wrong?!"
"He has to go back home to teach chemical warfare? Sure, of course! Must be such an important mission that we send someone away from the front lines! Absolutely!"
"MacArthur! That bastard must've run his mouth and gotten General Siebert removed!"
That last claim was, admittedly, a bit unfair to MacArthur—but by this point, the 1st Division staff were so worked up they'd probably blame him even if their morning piss split into two streams.
The chaos only subsided when the brigade commander of the 2nd Brigade—under the 1st Division—was announced as Siebert's successor, and Pershing himself visited the division.
Meanwhile, the eye of the storm—the 42nd Division—was just as hectic.
The division commander, already in poor health, finally collapsed into bed, leaving MacArthur—who had long been acting as the de facto commander—to step fully into the spotlight.
"The division commander is unwell? Then, regrettably, I'll handle all decisions until he recovers."
"Understood, sir!"
With a bedridden commander replaced by a workaholic acting commander, the 42nd Division's efficiency multiplied almost instantly.
Moreover, the officers MacArthur had once raged about losing to other units began singing his praises in their new postings.
"Sigh… things ran much more smoothly when we worked under Colonel MacArthur…"
"What was the 42nd Division like? The chief of staff was insane. No, seriously—he's a god."
"You just stick to MacArthur's back, and everything gets handled on its own."
Though entirely unintended, something resembling a "MacArthur faction" began forming throughout the American Expeditionary Forces.
But just as many people disliked him—especially within the 1st Division and headquarters.
The 1st Division had been blindsided, suddenly labeled an incompetent unit that was "unprepared and too slow."
And headquarters had been shocked by his actions—manipulating politicians to interfere with higher command decisions and carrying out military operations without a word of notice.
The hostility from these two fronts cast dark clouds over MacArthur's future.
"They don't like Douglas MacArthur? How petty do you have to be to say something like that?"
The embodiment of self-confidence and self-absorption tossed out that remark coolly, then returned to his work.
And as the year drew to a close, an even greater storm awaited the expeditionary force.
***
After receiving the results of the Battle of Cambrai, the British Army could only respond with bitter self-reflection.
"Why! Why do we always end up getting beaten by the Germans?! Are those damned militarists some kind of devils?!"
"The tanks were helpful, sure—but weren't they neutralized far too easily?"
A perfect surprise attack.
Powerful new weapons.
Cutting-edge combined arms tactics.
They had played every card they had—and still, the result was a disastrous failure.
Of course, they had managed to repel the German counterattack. The Germans, startled, had hastily committed reserves, and the British countered that counterattack, leading the situation—as always—back into stalemate.
Field Marshal Haig declared confidently to the furious cabinet:
"We did not lose. We struck fear into the enemy, and even against their counterattack, our final defensive line held. Considering that our previous offensives often ended in German counterattacks and the collapse of our lines, there is no longer any reason for us to hesitate in launching further offensives."
Naturally, the cabinet—tasked with sending out death notifications—responded with furious outrage. But the lack of a viable replacement kept Haig in his position.
Meanwhile, the Germans saw things very differently.
"We're finished now!"
"The Entente can now strike anywhere with solid ground at will… and us?"
Until now, German defensive lines had been considered nearly impregnable.
To breach them, the enemy had almost always required massive preparatory bombardments. While the front-line trenches endured shelling, German forces simply prepared their defenses.
But with the advent of tanks, all of those assumptions collapsed.
The enemy no longer needed prolonged bombardments. After a brief barrage, they could simply drive tanks forward—and even the mighty Hindenburg Line would crumble with alarming ease.
Though the Germans had once again emerged victorious at Cambrai, what awaited them was a devastated Hindenburg Line. How much time and resources would it take to repair and rebuild it?
And the very existence of tanks now threatened the German Empire's economy.
"We must develop tanks of our own!"
"With what budget? With what resources?!"
"Then at least develop anti-tank weapons! Without something to counter enemy tanks, we will lose this war!"
"I told you—the treasury is already on the brink of collapse!"
Already stretched to its limits, the German Empire now had to shoulder the enormous additional burden of anti-tank warfare.
Anyone with foresight had, at least once, considered the possibility of the empire's downfall.
But even in the midst of impending collapse, some still sought a way out.
"If we completely crush Russia, we can reset the situation."
***
No matter how much they inwardly panicked, the Germans loudly proclaimed their victory at Cambrai.
And there they were—
marching proudly, with abandoned and burning M1917s and Mark tanks in the background.
The outcome was obvious to anyone.
No matter how much they struggled with their "new weapons," Britain had lost—and the United States, a second-rate power that had come poking its nose across the Atlantic, had been thoroughly battered by the Germans.
To escape the shock of defeat, they needed a hero. It was the simplest, most convenient idea any statesman could come up with.
But…
"So—you're saying you want to use my face for this?"
I must not be exposed yet.
More precisely, once I'm exposed and gain public recognition, I stand to lose more than I gain. For example… there are plenty of people in this world who will burn with hatred simply because someone's skin is yellow.
The higher-ups already know about me and acknowledge me to some extent. I'm not running for office—what would I even do with public support? At best, I'd end up with some "young hero! Please attend this war bond rally!" kind of Captain America ending.
"But they said no."
"…What do you mean, no?"
My temporary superior, Colonel Rockenbach, let out a hearty laugh.
"You're from… where was it—Korea? Korean descent, right?"
"That's correct."
"And that country is currently under the rule of the Japanese Empire."
"Well… that's true."
"So that's the issue. Britain and Japan are allies, after all. Somehow, the Japanese embassy caught wind of it and raised quite a fuss. They're insisting you be listed as Japanese."
Wow. That's… beyond anything I expected.
Well, from Japan's perspective, it's not entirely incomprehensible. Even in later history, didn't countries throw fits over labels like "Tibetan" or "Uyghur"?
And in just a few years, the March 1st Movement will erupt. If even one Korean with a notable name appears, the flames will only burn brighter.
"So what happened?"
"As expected of a nation of eccentricity, they made a strange request. To avoid the headache, they suggested promoting Major Patton instead of you."
"Those damned bastards repay kindness with betrayal! As expected, every rotten thing in this world is the British' doing! How dare they treat the man who saved their soldiers like this!"
I calmed the growling Patton and waited for the colonel to continue.
"General Pershing sent a simple reply to the British War Cabinet's request."
"What did he say?"
"He told them to get lost."
"…Pfft—!"
In any case, the Battle of Cambrai was tangled in all sorts of messy circumstances. Sensible adults don't jump headfirst into such a den of vipers.
The commendation would come eventually anyway. Did MacArthur look like a madman who'd drag reporters into the middle of a battlefield for nothing?
The fact that nothing had been announced yet meant he was waiting for the perfect timing. At the very least, when it came to handling the press, he was probably the greatest in U.S. military history—so there was no need for me to worry.
"So, want a medal that tastes like black tea? General Pershing thinks you'll probably refuse, but if you want it, of course—"
"I don't really feel the need. You just know they'll hand it over while spouting all sorts of ridiculous nonsense."
The moment some newspaper like The Times runs a headline like "Slant-Eyed Last Samurai Saves British Soldiers!", I might just cross the English Channel and burn London down myself. Yeah, no thanks.
Until I received my next assignment, my duty in the Tank Corps was, of course, writing the battle report.
There was an overwhelming amount to write.
Just organizing everything took ages, and I also visited the soldiers still in the wards to hear their accounts.
The lessons of the Battle of Cambrai were not something to be taken lightly.
The few officers in the Tank Corps all felt it—every word written here would become a guiding principle for future U.S. armored forces, passed down for years to come.
"Mounting infantry on top of tanks seems like a pretty good idea."
"For now, it's impractical. Perhaps in the future, when performance improves, it could be used tactically—but with the current M1917, it was something we did simply because we didn't want to die."
"Then we'll shelve it. It can be considered as an emergency measure, but in normal circumstances, it should be avoided due to maintenance concerns."
Bit by bit, the report took shape, and eventually, we reached one of the more controversial topics.
"As for that submachine gun you developed, Lieutenant Colonel Kim… the soldiers practically worship it. I've never seen troops revere a weapon like this."
"It was exactly what they needed in the trenches. Especially for tank crews, who had to fight in close quarters rather than long-range engagements—it's only natural they'd favor it."
Yushin, you should be happy. Looks like they might order a hundred thousand of these things! Just don't die of joy—get those factories running and start supplying like a workhorse!
Of course, that was an exaggeration. Realistically, it'd be far more profitable to collect royalties and outsource production to a larger company.
The war wouldn't even last two more years. Expand the factory now? That's just asking to go under.
My factory's goal had always been modest prosperity and employment for Koreans. The worst thing in the world is hiring people only to fire them later. Better not to hire at all than to do that.
Barbed wire could still be sold commercially without issue—but firearms? That was a different story. How would I even sell a grease gun on the civilian market? To the mafia?
…Come to think of it, Prohibition and the age of the mafia were just around the corner.
After work, in a cheerful mood, I carefully wrote a letter to my younger sibling.
[My dear younger sibling,
From now on, hold ancestral rites to honor our forebears.
"What kind of Christian holds ancestral rites?" Don't talk nonsense—just do it. From now on, we must make it a tradition that all Koreans perform ancestral rites. And make sure—absolutely, without fail—that alcohol is an essential part of those rites.
If you can't do it, you're dead.
From your loving brother, in some baguette-eating backwater.]
If this works, it'll be a jackpot.
Prohibition had one obvious exception: sacramental wine.
So let's push it as a minority cultural practice—ancestral ritual alcohol. If it passes, Boardwalk Empire won't just be someone else's story.
A grease gun in one hand, legal alcohol in the other.
Now that's a beautiful picture.
My body was still on the battlefield—but my mind had already returned to San Francisco.
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