After the Storm
"Lieutenant Colonel Kim will be assigned to the Expeditionary Force Training Staff."
"...Could you repeat that?"
MacArthur's voice carried clear irritation.
But whether he noticed or not, Pershing replied calmly.
"Did you not hear me? To the training staff—"
"This is clearly the wrong decision!"
Bang!
"You're going to put the best field officer behind a desk?! I strongly request you reconsider!"
"I believe his true value is best demonstrated in training soldiers."
"This is… this is practically a demotion!"
"You seem quite dissatisfied, Colonel."
"Then at least—send him to the 1st Division! Wouldn't Chief of Staff be far better?"
"Training and education are among the most honorable duties. There's also an opening in Saint-Nazaire, but wouldn't the training staff be preferable?"
The atmosphere only worsened.
What am I supposed to do here?
Of course, I was sick to death of training. But a large part of my career had indeed been built on it—so I couldn't outright say Pershing was wrong.
Damn. This is why I'd been pushing so hard to stay in the field.
"I would also like to request reconsideration."
Marshall, who had been deep in thought, finally spoke.
"Considering the exceptional combat leadership he demonstrated at Cambrai, he is a man capable of commanding at least a regiment. Personally, I agree with Colonel MacArthur's opinion that his value is maximized in the 42nd Division."
…What is this?
Is this some kind of We Are the World moment?
Seeing Marshall and MacArthur actually agreeing felt rarer than watching Chairman Ford and my father-in-law holding hands and dancing the polka together.
"I see. So, if I summarize your opinions, he is an outstanding individual—capable of handling any assignment."
As Pershing nodded, both MacArthur and Marshall expressed their agreement.
As expected of General Pershing. With a single line—"You two keep arguing, so I'll use him myself"—he subdued those two natural enemies and practically turned them into allies.
At this point, no matter where I was sent, neither of them would openly complain. For me, this was the ideal outcome.
And judging by the situation, it didn't seem like Pershing truly intended to send me to the training staff in the first place.
So now comes the real decision.
I straightened up, adopting the solemn posture of a proper officer awaiting orders.
"Then I'll revise my decision."
Pershing lit a fresh cigarette.
"There seem to be many vacancies in the 93rd Division. Lieutenant Colonel Kim, you'll be assigned there."
"…?"
The 93rd Division?
Wait—my brain isn't processing this. The 93rd Division?
Was there even such a unit?
A brief silence.
Everyone mentally flipping through their knowledge, searching for "93rd Division"—
Boom!
"General, please reconsider!"
"Sir! Sir!"
"Why would you send Lieutenant Colonel Kim to the negro division?!"
Even the officers who had remained silent until now leapt to their feet, and the room descended into chaos.
The 93rd Division.
A unit composed entirely of people of color—more precisely, Black soldiers.
"They have no innate combat ability!"
"Lazy, incompetent, cowardly men—and you'd send Kim there? You'd be better off casting pearls before swine!"
"..."
While others erupted, MacArthur and Marshall remained silent.
And I, too, was furiously thinking, my head on the verge of exploding.
This is a poisoned chalice.
Drink it, and there's a 99% chance you die.
I'd worked so hard to build connections everywhere—but if I took command of a unit like this, I couldn't even imagine how many of those ties would survive.
I glanced sideways.
At MacArthur.
At Marshall.
They were already staring straight at me.
What did those looks mean?
Restraint?
Curiosity?
I didn't know. Right now, I couldn't think clearly.
Amid the overwhelming chaos and shouting, I slowly stood up.
"First, I would like to understand the exact intent behind assigning me to the 93rd Division."
"Do you want something?"
"Grant me full authority."
Everyone stared at me like I was insane—except for three men.
Pershing, looking as if to ask what will you do?
MacArthur, eyes full of expectation.
Marshall, pale as if he might collapse.
I ignored the others entirely and looked only at them.
"Lieutenant Colonel Kim, take a moment to cool your head. You'll rise regardless—you don't need to push yourself like this!"
"That's right. Even someone like you can't turn negroes into soldiers. A young man with a bright future doesn't need to suffer like this."
…How amusing.
The same people who once said, "A yellow monkey can't do it," were now simply swapping the subject—saying negroes can't do it.
…Ah, forget it.
As a rational and composed man, the logical choice would be to avoid something this dangerous.
But for some reason, my blood was boiling.
This isn't good. Not good at all.
"Full authority, you say. To what extent?"
"Personnel, administration, training, and combat deployment. Everything."
"You're asking for the position of division commander? Though I did step down from it…"
"I need not only the position, but authority beyond that."
"…Very well. I'll trust you."
"General!!"
"They say Black soldiers lack combat ability—but we've never given them a proper opportunity. If we assign them our best officer and still see no results, then we'll disband the unit and use them as non-combat labor."
Pershing stubbed out his cigarette on the desk.
"Anything more to say?"
"..."
"Yujin Kim."
"Yes, General."
"I'll put you in charge of the 93rd Division, Colonel Kim. Ah—Colonel should suffice for now, correct?"
A hellish silence filled the room.
Within it, I gave a small nod.
"I will deliver results."
***
After everyone had left the meeting room,
Chief of Staff Harbord, who had been watching Pershing chain-smoke, spoke first, clearly frustrated.
"What exactly are you thinking?"
"..."
"You were the one who praised Lieutenant Colonel—no, Colonel Kim's future more than anyone. And yet you've placed… such a wall in front of him."
"A wall?"
"If this isn't a wall, then what is?"
Pershing remained silent for a moment before speaking bluntly.
"That man's wall is his skin color."
"…That's something everyone already knows. But after Cambrai, hardly anyone looks down on him or judges him by his skin anymore. With achievements like that, isn't he practically an honorary white?"
"How laughable."
Pershing cut him off sharply.
"During the Civil War, countless Black men enlisted in the Union Army, fighting to defeat the slaveholders and win their freedom."
"…That's true."
"But how many people today remember their struggle?"
Harbord found himself at a loss for words.
"They shed blood and contributed to the Union's victory. Yet a few decades later, this headquarters is once again filled with talk that 'Black men have no combat ability.' That's reality—and it's a truth Colonel Kim will have to face someday."
Take what's sweet, spit out what's bitter.
An eternal truth of human society.
"It's better this happens now. If he falls here, it can be dismissed as 'even the hero of Cambrai couldn't turn them into soldiers.'"
"That's an enormous burden. Won't he feel like he's been abandoned?"
"You were there. What are you even talking about?"
That look in Yujin Kim's eyes.
For a moment, Pershing was reminded of the time MacArthur had fired his pistol inside the meeting room not long ago.
Come to think of it, the bullet marks were still there.
"That man's practically overflowing with the intent to kill."
What if he actually comes back with the Kaiser's head?
Pershing pondered that for a brief moment.
***
"Hahahahaha!!"
MacArthur burst into loud laughter.
"Now you're my equal! A colonel!"
"Yujin… isn't this a bit too much?"
At Marshall's concerned words, I shook my head.
"No, well… everything in life has momentum, doesn't it? A certain flow."
"That's true. Hah… General Pershing's insight truly surpasses mine. The 93rd Division—never even crossed my mind. What a remarkable idea."
MacArthur looked nothing but delighted, but it did little to ease Marshall's worries.
"If you fail to produce results, you're finished. You understand that, right?"
"Let me ask you this instead. Has my military career ever been smooth to begin with?"
The calm I'd enjoyed recently was nothing more than a temporary side effect.
Overwhelming adaptability.
Or overwhelming achievement.
Without one of those, could I really keep wearing this uniform until 1941, when World War II would ignite?
At first, I thought I could survive by building connections everywhere.
But after seeing how these people treated Black soldiers, I began to think differently. After the war ends, how many will still consider me "useful"?
The influence of my reports? That won't last.
Humans are creatures of forgetfulness. Unless I keep delivering prophecies like the Oracle of Delphi, my achievements will fade, and only my skin color will remain. And if I do keep giving prophecies? Then I end up like Cassandra.
So I rolled the dice.
All or nothing.
"If anyone's interested, tell them to come to the 93rd Division. Officers are in short supply."
"Hmph. Honestly, I doubt anyone will go."
Marshall shook his head.
"Hm… how many do you need?"
But MacArthur gave an entirely unexpected response.
"…You'd be willing to send some?"
"There are a few who are desperate for promotion. In the end, it's a gamble, isn't it? Say it's a Black unit, and they'll all run—but if you say Yujin Kim is in command, some might think twice."
"I'm curious myself about their combat potential," he added casually.
I hadn't expected much, but I told him to send anyone interested. Then I immediately began preparing for what came next.
I made the rounds, offering polite, insincere greetings—but once word spread that I was heading to the 93rd Division, the looks people gave me turned noticeably cold.
The ones who pitied me were the better kind. The ones who looked at me like I was causing trouble were practically enemies.
"You want me to send these men?"
When I approached him, the personnel officer looked troubled.
I decided to ease his burden a bit.
"No. It's only a proposal. If they refuse, that's the end of it. But I'd like to ask them first."
"Eisenhower, Bradley, Van Fleet, Quevedo Ver, Benion, Lim… all West Point men. Planning to gather Black soldiers and hold a reunion with your classmates?"
"In times like this, who else can you rely on but your friends?"
"Fine. I'll send the requests. No idea how many will come—and it's uncertain whether the War Department will even approve it. Don't blame me if no one shows up."
"General Pershing said he'd back it. I'm counting on that."
Of course, Pershing wasn't the only one I was relying on.
I'd already sent telegrams to my father-in-law and the Chairman.
The War Department wouldn't be able to block my path—it would only determine how smooth it would be.
The personnel officer looked at me with pity, as if I were desperately begging my classmates to come because I had no one else to bring.
But he was mistaken.
If even half of them came—
it would be an Avengers assemble.
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