93rd Division, Ignition (3)
When MacArthur—the magician of the press—lifted the embargo, journalists began pouring out articles as if they had been waiting for this very moment, each stamped with sensational headlines.
[U.S. Tank Corps Becomes the Saviors of the Tommies!]
[Astonishing U.S. Strategy Rescues 1,400 Volunteers!]
[The Secret of Cambrai! The Kaiser Curses the American Army!]
[Russia Falls, America Rises! Fear, You Autocrats!]
[Kung Fu Master Kicks Hindenburg in the Balls!!]
[Patton & Kim, From Mexico to Cambrai!]
Like a conductor leading a grand orchestra, the narrative unfolded—from light gossip pieces to the full story of the event, and then to the backgrounds of the two commanders involved.
What had previously been known only as a failed British offensive at Cambrai was now revealed as the first victory(?) of the U.S. Army. Starved for good news, the American public devoured newspapers carrying these stories, and newsboys couldn't stop smiling as sales soared.
Naturally, MacArthur's circle steered the public's hunger for victory toward two figures: Yujin Kim and Patton.
And their next target was, of course, the 93rd Division.
[Kung Fu Master Reinvents the Negro Troops!]
[Turning Blacks into Warriors? Possible with Oriental Secrets!]
["I Will Turn Them into Killing Machines Within Three Months." — Colonel Kim Declares]
[The Speed of Genius Promotions! Pershing – MacArthur – Kim, the Miracle Generation!]
[Exclusive MacArthur Interview: "Kim Can Do It. He Always Has."]
Of course, there were no interviews or verification whatsoever.
Every article was 100% fabricated nonsense.
A pinch of "spice" MacArthur had provided turned into something like nuclear fire in the hands of the press, and Americans became intoxicated by the hype, setting public discourse ablaze.
With public opinion surging, Congressman Curtis seized the moment and stormed through Washington D.C., unleashing relentless political pressure.
"Our troops crossed the Atlantic only to find themselves without rifles or artillery—does that make any sense?!"
"Why must we beg the French for cannons? This is a disgrace!"
"Citizens! The British are eager to hand our soldiers over to that incompetent Haig! Without weapons, our sons will fall into his grasp!"
Even those congressmen—especially Republicans—who had previously resisted increasing military budgets suddenly acted like crusaders, fiercely criticizing the War Department for failing to supply adequate weapons.
The War Department, blindsided, was left dumbfounded—but when told they'd receive more funding instead of punishment, they immediately pledged loyalty to Congress with enthusiasm.
Meanwhile, in Chaumont…
"Colonel Kim, why are you organizing the 93rd Division in such an unusual structure?"
"Ah, that? Well, it's a Black division, isn't it? Naturally, it should differ from white units."
"You're planning to give all the soldiers those flamethrowers? Why?"
"Ah, that? Well, it's a Black division, isn't it? Naturally, it should differ from white units."
"Other units are desperate for tanks, and you want to take them all for yourself? Even with your ties to Ford, this is too much!"
"Ah, that? Well, it's a Black division, isn't it? Naturally, it should differ from white units."
I can't hear you, can't hear you—blah blah.
I had become a walking phonograph, trudging along a straight road paved with blood and tears.
Ike, Omar, James.
You have no idea what I'm going through.
But I'm enduring all of this to protect you. Ah… if only you could understand the heart of a mother who leaves her baby at home to go gather oysters alone.
Fending off greedy bastards trying to strip my precious 93rd Division of everything, while securing fresh units and equipment to put into my soldiers' hands—it was a constant battle.
But if you work hard enough, sometimes fortune smiles on you.
"My dear junior!!!"
That booming, cannon-like voice… Wait, weren't we supposed to have parted ways—
"Why! Why didn't you call for me?!"
"Well, you're supposed to become the father of the U.S. armored forces, aren't you?"
"What nonsense is that?! If you're the mother, how can you just give birth and run away?! You abandon our beloved armored force—still a baby—and now you're raising Black troops instead?! I refuse to raise that child!"
We hadn't even been talking for a minute, and my mind was already going blank.
Still, I'm now fluent in "Patton-speak." This level of mental assault won't break me.
"Haha, aren't you about to make division commander? Shouldn't I congratulate you first?"
"Hmm! Fine. I'll let it slide this time. Just organizing armored units into each division is already killing me. I hear your division already has tanks? Private ones, at that? You must be pretty rich, huh?!"
What kind of nonsense is that—private tanks?
"N-no… They're not bought with my money. We're planning to test-run tanks currently being modified by Ford."
"Hahaha! No need to give me such ridiculous excuses! Anyway, since your unit already has tanks, what's left is organizing tank crews, right?"
"…That's right."
"Rejoice! There are some men who want to transfer to your unit! Colonel Rockenbach might try to kill me for this, but who cares—looks like I can send some troops your way!"
Despite the constant madness of this conversation, this might have been the craziest part.
There are lunatics who want to join the 93rd Division?
"Who are they?"
"Who else? The 326th Light Tank Battalion! Those little chicks who just left the hospital are naturally longing for their mother bird, aren't they? So—don't want them?"
"I'll gladly take them if you're sending them."
Heh. That settles the armored corps too. Sweet.
"Good. Don't go getting yourself killed trying to take care of those Black troops. You were born with the mission of rewriting the history of armored warfare. Your life isn't your own, understand?!"
"Thank you for the kind words. I'll come back with an incredible unit soon enough."
"Good! I'm looking forward to seeing how those Black soldiers turn into warriors starving for blood and flesh! Raise the strongest unit that this Patton can lead from the front!"
No wonder the troops he trained all turned out unhinged. Ike must've had a rough time.
I firmly resolved never to train my men like that as I returned to my unit.
***
"—Therefore, your blood and sweat will be rewarded. I wish you good fortune. That is all."
Clap clap clap clap!!
In a hall filled with officers, both Black and white, I finished my brief address and spoke again.
"For a moment… all officers of color, please remain. The rest may leave."
The room stirred in confusion, but soon they began filing out in orderly rows.
Only three people beside me remained.
"Colonel."
"Since when did you become Black? Why aren't you leaving?"
"You said I'm the chief of staff. Shouldn't at least one person stay?"
Bradley shook his head slightly and whispered.
"If you talk separately here with only Black officers, some idiots might think you're plotting something strange with them. I should stay."
"Suit yourself. And you?"
"I will remain by your side as your adjutant, sir."
Damn it.
Hodge looked like he had no intention of leaving my side.
I only made him my adjutant for symbolic reasons—but I didn't expect him to become this attached to me.
What a sinful man Yujin Kim is.
The way that guy looks at me… no matter how I see it, it's like someone who's fallen into a cult and abandoned both home and family. It's a little unsettling.
"Ver—"
"You said people of color should remain, didn't you?"
Anastasio, who had newly joined after receiving my message, said with a bright smile.
This guy really has it rough. A Filipino coming all the way to fight a war in this damn freezing French winter…
I'm grateful he came, but if he ends up like a Charmander with a dying tail flame again, that'll be a problem. I did warn him I'd send him straight to the rear if his condition worsens—he'll take care of himself, right?
"Don't regret this. I warned you."
Gripping the podium tightly with both hands, I raised my voice.
"Now listen up! Is there any idiot here who actually fell for that sweet talk I just gave about 'your efforts will be rewarded'?!"
"…?!"
The Black officers, caught completely off guard by my bombshell, looked confused—then their expressions slowly turned blank and hollow.
"My bad! I take it back! That will never happen! Do you think those white bastards are crazy enough to recognize you?!"
"Then—then what did we come here for?!"
A desperate shout came from the back. Good.
"Why? You idiot! You came here to kill Germans!! This is your first and last chance to legally kill white men!"
Bradley muttered something under his breath. No way kind, gentle Omar would say something like "That lunatic finally lost it…"—must've misheard. I should probably get my hearing checked.
"Listen carefully! There are very, very few people in this world you can persuade with reason and logic! No matter how much courage, will, or loyalty you show—you're still Black! Former slaves!!"
"That's too harsh!!"
"That can't be true!!!"
"What do you mean it's not?! Listen up, you idiots. You can't just come here to be loyal to your country! Kill! Kill as many Germans as you can—pile up so many corpses that white men begin to fear you! Do you know the fastest way to persuade people? Fear! Become something they fear! If you can't do that, then just die here! If you can't take down at least three Germans each, then you might as well drop dead right now!!"
With my relentless barrage, the Black officers' faces began to pale.
Good. You're getting there. At this rate, you might even become honorary whites like me someday. A promising sign.
"Remember this. You are the hope of Black America. You must become the most savage, the most ruthless, the most thorough killing machines if you want to earn the rights you seek. Understood?"
"Understood!"
"Is that all the voice you've got? Shout loud enough for that crippled Kaiser to hear you!"
"YES, SIR!!!"
"Good! Now go back and drill it into your men! Dismissed!"
That should take care of their mental conditioning.
I retrieved Hodge's soul—he looked like he'd just mentally collapsed—and immediately moved on to the next meeting.
There was far too little time.
The winter of 1917 was brutally unforgiving.
***
"Everything we've learned so far—throw it all in the trash."
These days, every officer looks at me like I'm insane.
But what can I do? The doctrines taught at West Point really are garbage.
The U.S. Army's second-rate military doctrine was a complete mess.
It undervalued artillery and excessively glorified infantry. And was that infantry even well-armed? What kind of firepower does a bolt-action rifle really have?
If desk-trained officers followed this doctrine in real combat, they'd end up making soldiers stand and fire in front of enemy machine guns—like Marines getting wiped out by siege tanks on a hill. I had zero intention of teaching such outdated nonsense.
"Yujin… isn't this a bit extreme?"
"Extreme? Britain and France already proved through blood that outdated doctrine is trash. And they're still getting crushed by Germany, which has evolved even further. So obviously, we need to adopt modern methods."
"For example?"
"Ban long-range rifle fire. Especially in front of machine guns—absolutely forbidden. If they try it, just make them lie flat. Charging straight at machine gun nests? Even more forbidden. If anyone wants to try that, tell me—I'll personally kill them first."
Blind faith in rifle firepower.
If you want to suppress enemy machine guns, you need machine guns of your own, artillery, mortars—real firepower.
Because people ignored or didn't understand this simple rule, tens of thousands died in front of trenches.
"What else?"
"Train artillery liaison officers—and even regular soldiers—properly. If infantry can't communicate their needs to artillery, the ones advancing will all die."
"Isn't that obvious?"
"Obvious my ass. Want to bet?"
"…I've already lost too much money betting with you. I'll pass."
World War I is a very peculiar war.
Weapons—especially defensive ones—have advanced dramatically, but tools to help attackers are still severely lacking.
The most critical element: communication.
Until the miracle of radios becomes widespread on the battlefield, all we have are fragile wired lines, messengers, and carrier pigeons.
"Use motorcycles for messengers whenever possible. Horses are fine too. If it saves even a second, put them on anything—dogs, dolphins, whatever."
"It's bad enough that you're issuing orders like this… but it's even worse that I have to write them down."
Omar's sighs were becoming more frequent. At this rate, he'll have wrinkles before his time.
"And… could we try using stormtroopers too?"
"Come on! At least say something reasonable!"
"I think it could work. Let's recruit volunteers and give it a shot."
Even though I smiled confidently, Omar's forehead creased so deeply it looked like the Grand Canyon.
It'd be amazing if we pulled it off, though.
And so our winter passed like this—
Sharpening the crude iron club called the 93rd Division into something lethal.
When the German Empire launched its final offensive—
Whether this blade could pierce the empire's heart or not would decide all of our fates.
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