The Demons of Amiens (1)
"Colonel Yujin Kim."
"Yes, sir."
All eyes turned toward me.
For this very moment, I had endured a bitterly cold winter, swallowing dust and grit.
"For your heroic command in the battle of Cambrai, and in recognition of your extraordinary fighting spirit and devotion in rescuing volunteers and allied soldiers, you are hereby awarded the Distinguished Service Cross."
At last, I was recognized.
The price I paid—throwing my life onto the battlefield—was finally being returned.
There were many others who received medals alongside me.
But strangely, the moment I received mine, not a single round of applause followed.
What a damned country—truly disgusti—
Clap. Clap. Clap.
I shifted my eyes slightly toward the source of the sound.
Marshall, now promoted to lieutenant colonel, was clapping mechanically, his face so cold it looked like he might kill someone.
As if intimidated by him, scattered applause began to rise here and there, soon swelling into a full round of clapping that echoed through the hall.
Watching this, Pershing removed my insignia and affixed a new, shining star.
"I hereby appoint you as the official commanding general of the 93rd Division."
"I will return with results."
"Mm. See that you do."
In the original course of history, this war would end this year.
That meant I had only one year with this star—no, in reality, barely half a year.
But it didn't matter.
How many people despair because they can't earn even a single star? How many suffer because they can't even make colonel?
Breaking through the thick, suffocating wall of discrimination in the United States, I had finally earned my star.
Even if it was only temporary,
this was no time to indulge in such luxuries of complaint in front of everyone.
The battlefield was calling me.
***
The German offensive continued in relentless waves, and Britain and France were horrified at the looming prospect of separation.
"They're coming for Paris! The moment we are cut off from the British forces, the road to Paris will be wide open. Until our friends, the Americans, arrive, we must stop the Germans at any cost!
Not one step back. Soldiers of the Marne, the Yser, Verdun—your nation needs you! The fate of our country, flickering like a candle in the wind, rests solely in your hands!"
French Commander-in-Chief Pétain shouted until he was coughing blood, urging his troops on.
Marshal Haig of the British Army, who was being battered by the terrifying spring offensive, was no better off.
"—Imagine there is a wall behind you. There is no retreat. Stand there and die."
The British Fifth Army, which had collapsed most disastrously, was absorbed into the Fourth Army, and its commander was dismissed.
Amid a battlefield where advances and retreats were paid for in blood, I sped forward in a car.
"How much longer?"
"I'm sorry, sir… I'm not sure—"
At the driver's answer, I let out a sigh.
Hodge, sitting beside me, glanced at my expression and seemed to hesitate before speaking.
"Congratulations on your promotion, General Kim."
"It's a star that won't even last a year. What's there to congratulate?"
"A year?"
"This war ends within the year. Then I'll naturally return to my original rank, won't I?"
At my words, Hodge's expression became strangely complex.
It was only natural to rejoice at the end of the war, yet as a member of the bureaucracy, one couldn't help but feel regret at losing rank.
Yeah, damn it. What about me? From a general back down to a lieutenant. Just thinking about it makes me want to jump into the Hudson River.
"What matters more is holding onto this star throughout the war. You know it as well as I do. There are plenty in headquarters who would love to disband the 93rd Division and hand it over to the French."
While I was building up the 93rd Division, all sorts of criticism had poured out from the expeditionary headquarters.
Why weren't separate white-only restrooms installed?
Why were white and Black soldiers eating in the same mess hall?
Why were they being issued the same equipment?
Why were Black soldiers allowed to go on leave? Surely they were just waiting for a chance to assault white women!
How dare you appoint Black lieutenant colonels and colonels as commanders? Are proud white American officers now supposed to take orders from Negroes?
Every time, I used the magic words I had learned from Pershing.
"Fuck off."
I couldn't persuade them one by one.
I didn't even want to.
The attacks against Black soldiers were that malicious, that blatant—sentences that could just as easily swap in "yellow monkey" as the subject.
Patton, Marshall, MacArthur—none of them were in Chaumont much due to commanding their own units, so I had to bear all that malice alone.
It made me fully realize just how much privilege I had been enjoying, but there were also those who quietly approached me, offering words of encouragement when no one was watching.
They weren't the majority yet, but at least there were seeds of hope within the U.S. Army.
Of course, even among the white officers who volunteered for the 93rd Division, there were those who stuck out their lips in complaint.
"Uh… you want us to eat together?"
"Ah, I see. You're uncomfortable eating with a yellow monkey at the table, huh? My apologies. I'll just go eat alone in the restroom over there."
"I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry!!"
These bastards couldn't even tell who their superior was.
But after throwing everyone equally into training trenches and muddy pits and running them ragged for months, regardless of race, a budding sense of camaraderie began to grow—along with a shared hatred of the Germans and the thought, "Wait, those guys who suffer less than us are talking shit about us?"
Creating a common enemy was always effective.
Now it was time to temper them in the flames of the battlefield.
***
The 93rd Division was urgently deployed under the French 36th Corps.
Normally, I would have rushed to corps headquarters first to meet General Charles Marie Edouard Nollet.
But I had no intention of doing that.
The first thing I needed to see was the battlefield.
The place where the 93rd Division would stay—
and bleed.
The objective of the German army was clear.
Amiens.
If they could seize Amiens—a vital railway hub—their strategic goal of splitting Britain and France would effectively be achieved.
Germany advanced toward Amiens with desperate determination, and Britain and France were forced to throw nearly everything they had into stopping that advance.
After driving for quite some time, I arrived near a city that was utterly chaotic.
"Do you see that town over there? If we go in, we'll probably get stuck among the refugees and won't be able to move at all."
"Pull off and head into the open fields."
As expected, civilians, filled with fear and terror, were busy packing their belongings and fleeing.
Until now, this place had been a rear area.
Soldiers on leave or rotated out of the front would have come to towns like this, reclaiming a sense of normal life, enjoying a brief respite before returning to the trenches.
But that fragile peace in the midst of war was now over.
That city was nothing more than a piece on the board I would have to play.
Frankly, it was better for me if they all fled. I had no intention of throwing my soldiers into bare ground, and if it came to it, I was even willing to lure the Germans into that city.
"Hodge."
"Yes, General."
"We may have to consider establishing a defensive line using that city as a base. We should prepare for evacuation."
"Wouldn't forcing foreign civilians out place a burden on you, sir?"
"That's not something you need to worry about. It's my problem."
To put it bluntly, we were here to help fight someone else's war. Whether they liked it or not—what of it? I intended to keep my soldiers alive.
"Let's go further… further forward."
"If we go any farther, we might run into the Germans."
"I should at least take a look at Jerry's face. Understanding the battlefield comes first."
I couldn't rely on flimsy maps.
How many times had trusting a map screwed me over?
This was the heart of an offensive. Even in the Korean Army, I'd seen makeshift buildings and greenhouses appear out of nowhere, roads vanish overnight, and hills supposedly empty turn out to be crawling with civilians picking mushrooms.
I wouldn't trust anything until I saw it with my own eyes. A place that had been bombarded from all directions would be even worse than Korea, if anything.
"Everyone, gas masks on. You never know when you might drop dead."
"Understood."
After we all fumbled briefly to put on our gas masks, the vehicle pushed further toward the battlefield.
While Hodge spread out a military map and compared terrain features, I carefully scanned the surroundings, focusing on understanding the lay of the land.
"That high ground over there looks like a good observation point."
"What does the map say?"
"No major issues on the map either."
"Then mark it. Let's stash about a battalion there and make them climb."
"There's supposed to be a farm there—"
"Not anymore."
It would be hard to call that place a farm now, with a massive crater blooming there. Unless you called it a farm for bullets.
In the distance, the horrifying sound of shells landing echoed.
This was undoubtedly hell.
***
Only when I spotted the French troops we were to relieve in the distance did I turn the car around.
After completing the inspection, we headed straight for the headquarters of the 36th Corps.
"I am Brigadier General Yujin Kim, commanding the 93rd Infantry Division of the United States Army."
"The hero of Cambrai! Welcome. I am Charles Nollet, commanding the 36th Corps."
At a glance, he looked like he didn't even have time to sit down.
Against the backdrop of a massive map spread across the center of the room, officers were frantically moving markers, writing notes, and shouting over one another.
"As you can see from the situation board, we're being pushed back steadily. We've already abandoned large portions of the trench lines, and there's no space left to hold. At a time like this, the arrival of American forces is like rain after a drought."
"As you may have been informed, the 93rd Division is composed of Black troops. Will that pose any issue?"
"Ha! Even if a giant squid picked up a rifle and came to help, we'd welcome it. With the enemy rushing to the doorstep of Amiens, who has the luxury of worrying about skin color?"
It didn't sound like a joke at all. Perhaps it wasn't one.
"Understood. The 93rd Division consists of approximately 30,000 men—"
"Thirty thousand! That's an unimaginable number of troops for us. Damn. But they're still green when it comes to the battlefield, aren't they?"
"We've done our best in training, but there's always a world of difference between drills and real combat."
"That can't be helped. Good. You'll be deployed here—right here."
He tapped a point on the map with his baton.
"The German 208th Infantry Division. Commanded by Wilhelm von Groddeck. They've been at the Somme, the Yser, Passchendaele—and that damned Cambrai! Yes, those bastards. I'd very much like to smash them at least once this time."
Back to Cambrai again.
At this rate, it felt like Cambrai would never leave my military career.
"The 93rd Division will stop the 208th Division by any means necessary."
"What are the corps and higher command's intentions?"
"Static defense. Do you have another idea?"
"I'd prefer to break the spine of the 208th Division aggressively. What do you think?"
As I spoke with a faint grin, General Nollet returned a mischievous smile.
"Bold. But the Germans are elite troops. Can a green unit handle that?"
"You may or may not know this, but every man in the 93rd Division volunteered with a single purpose—to secure greater rights for Black people in the United States. Their combat ability… is still unproven in real battle, but their motivation is exceptional."
"Hm."
"Since we have the advantage in numbers anyway, I was thinking of probing them lightly."
"Very well. After establishing your defensive line, I'll authorize limited attacks. If an opportunity arises to expand your gains, further offensives will be permitted—but always leave enough strength to maintain your defensive line."
"Understood. I'll proceed to join my troops immediately."
With what was essentially approval secured, everything was set.
He called it a limited attack.
But if I gave them a light tap and their heads cracked open, that would be their weakness—not my fault.
The Germans might pride themselves on infiltration and disruption tactics—
but let's see if they still feel that way after a tank drives straight into their guts.
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