Seed of Evil
"Whew… it's… over…"
James Van Fleet slowly drew in a long, satisfied drag from his victory cigarette.
After a series of brutal engagements, the 371st Regiment had effectively lost all of its combat capability.
But it had been worth it.
The first battlefield had been nothing short of hell.
A chaotic melee where even basic situational awareness was impossible.
Realizing the massive gap left by the 208th Division, the German 14th Bavarian Reserve Regiment of the 9th Bavarian Reserve Division had rushed in first—
and the proud 93rd Division's 371st Regiment had to buy time with their bare bodies.
They were still half a step away from becoming the final victors.
Time was needed for the 372nd Regiment to establish defensive positions.
And to buy that time—
blood had to be paid.
A savage brawl where neither side could afford even minimal defense.
Whether Yujin Kim's daring breakthrough would go down in history as a glorious victory—
or a textbook example of encirclement and counter-encirclement—
depended entirely on the 371st Regiment.
And Van Fleet, realizing that their close-range firepower—especially from grease guns—far outmatched the enemy armed mostly with bolt-action rifles, made his decision.
"My proud regiment! Die on your feet! For our sons—let us die here and open the future!"
"Open the future!!"
"Fix bayonets—charge!!"
With an order that would be unthinkable in calmer times, the 371st surged forward, driven only by their hunger for freedom, unleashing a storm of hot lead upon the Germans.
Startled, the 14th Bavarian Regiment attempted to fall back and reorganize—
only to be relentlessly pursued and beaten back again and again.
But eventually, exhaustion and ammunition depletion pushed the 371st to their limit.
Just as the enemy was about to recover from the shock—
"Tanks are disposable!"
"Hah! Tanks are disposable!"
"Out of ammo? Then ram them!"
"Out of ammo? Then ram them!"
People said it was all Patton's fault—
but that bastard was right there at the front, shouting the craziest nonsense louder than anyone.
The division commander himself had charged into the battlefield with barely ten tanks—
and finished off the already battered 14th Regiment, which had been waiting for the 371st to collapse from exhaustion.
Tanks were one thing—
but what kind of unit had a division commander riding along while his aide fired a machine gun from the staff car, and a one-star general personally feeding ammunition?
They were grateful to be saved—
but that man was undeniably insane.
Wasn't there supposed to be a psychological evaluation for West Point admissions?
How the hell had he passed?
"From where we're standing, you're just as crazy."
"Yeah. You've completely lost it. What was that bayonet charge back there?"
"Omar, you're not one to talk."
"Ahem!"
Bradley, the chief of staff and effectively acting division commander, quietly turned his head away, unable to argue.
At the worst possible moment, Bradley—considered the most rational among them—had ridden out on a motorcycle to observe the battlefield himself.
And at the most critical moment, he delivered artillery fire exactly where it was needed—
cutting off the Germans' last breath and sealing the battle.
Yujin, who roamed the battlefield like a madman, proving armored superiority firsthand.
Anastasio, who led a handful of Rangers to pin down the remnants of the 25th Regiment.
Ike, who crushed the enemy decisively in the Moherui forest.
Each of these comrades in the 93rd Division had played their roles perfectly.
"William, are you still mad about losing that poker game?"
"…Thanks to you guys, I ended up commanding a battle. Yeah, really appreciate it."
Cobell, who had been tricked by Yujin's rigged poker game into taking charge of the division engineers, grumbled nonstop.
Poor guy still didn't know the game had been rigged.
If he ever found out, Yujin would probably end up with a bullet in his head—so everyone kept quiet.
"So what now?"
"What else? We pull back to the rear."
"We're out of ammo, and barely anyone's still in good shape. You know what the tankers said? 'Tanks are disposable.' Like opening canned food—use and toss. Those lunatics burned through all the tanks again. I'm sick of it!"
As Omar muttered, Ike shut his eyes tightly, clearly reliving trauma from dealing with those insane tank crews.
Yujin had raised a pack of absolute maniacs—and it was obvious they were only going to get worse.
"Yujin's at corps HQ, so he'll figure something out. Just keep the men in line."
"Got it."
"Morale's sky-high. That's not the problem."
The 93rd Division had driven the Germans back without restraint.
With such overwhelming achievements, they might truly have opened the future.
Not a single soldier lacked hope.
Having bathed together in blood, the division—regardless of race—shared one belief:
After such valor, reward must follow.
Even the white soldiers of the 93rd saw it clearly—
this wasn't about race.
If those who had fought so bravely and paid in blood were not rewarded,
then how would the United States be any different from the hypocritical British?
From the high command to the lowest private—
even the wounded—
no one stopped smiling.
A bright future awaited them.
We fought, and we opened the future.
The United States will repay our blood.
All of them believed it.
***
Mid-April.
The German Empire was forced to accept the interim results of its boldly launched Spring Offensive.
"Defeat."
"No—this is a rout."
"That idiot Ludendorff finally did it…"
Operation Michael, upon which Germany had staked its national fate, required only a small disruption to begin collapsing.
The disappearance of a single division—the 208th—might not have seemed significant in an operation involving over seventy divisions.
But the cumulative effects—
reinforcements diverted to fill the gap, a faltering front, confusion at the line, and the leakage of countless maps and military secrets—
allowed the Allies to successfully blunt the German spearhead.
Undeterred by failure at Amiens, Ludendorff launched another offensive—Operation Georgette—in Flanders.
But as Passchendaele and Ypres had already proven,
this terrain overwhelmingly favored the defender.
His grand ambition to sweep the British into the sea once again ran aground.
Even the death notice of the famed "Red Baron," Richthofen, testified to how badly the Germans had failed.
And yet—they could not stop.
The German Empire had become a runaway train.
The moment its engine stopped, derailment and destruction would follow.
So the war council inevitably turned not to halting offensives—
but to deciding where to strike next.
"What was the original goal of our offensive? The British! We must drive them into the sea before the Americans fully establish themselves!"
"And yet we couldn't even defeat an American unit of Black troops, could we?"
"Are you picking a fight right now?"
"No—just facing reality. We need to fall back behind the Hindenburg Line while we still can. We have to think about next year!"
"Paris is already within reach after Operation Michael! Rather than fighting the enraged British again, wouldn't it be better to march on Paris—"
"Paris? PARIS?! Are you insane?! With troops who can't even get turnips, you want to march on a city we couldn't take even in 1914?! If you want to go, go by yourself!"
"Enough!!"
At Ludendorff's thunderous roar, everyone in the room fell silent.
"We march on Paris."
"First Quartermaster General!!"
"Pull yourself together! Military operations exist to achieve objectives—not to chase fantasies!"
But Ludendorff remained unyielding.
This offensive had already been forced through by crushing the pacifists and negotiation factions at home. If he retreated now, he would lose everything.
"If we just… just take Paris, it will all be over. The enemy is clearly weakened. The French—just last year they were mutinying because they were tired of war. If we crush them with overwhelming force, they'll collapse on their own."
Some of the German generals were stunned into silence.
Ludendorff—the hero of Tannenberg—how had he fallen into such delusion?
Since when had a Prussian general waged war based on vague hopes?
"This war began for the sake of Paris! I am not making unreasonable demands! We are simply returning to our original purpose!"
Disheveled hair, untrimmed beard, bloodshot eyes—
anyone could see he had become a madman.
Rumors of his instability had already spread throughout headquarters. His appearance only confirmed them.
"On April 25, we launch Operation Blücher–Yorck! The objective—Paris! We will conquer Paris and restore the glory of the German Empire!"
"…The end times."
"Those not born of noble Junker blood truly lack the capacity."
The runaway train had begun its final rush toward the terminus.
The wise already knew—
no one would survive what lay at the end.
But they could not disembark.
They foresaw defeat.
***
"Excuse me. I've come from the 16th Bavarian Reserve Regiment."
"Ah, you're here? Hand it over."
The messenger quickly pulled documents from his bag and handed them to the officer.
He already knew what they would say.
Enemy pressure too strong.
Position untenable.
Requesting withdrawal and reorganization.
That would be the gist.
The results of the grand offensive had been utterly disastrous.
Even a mere messenger like him could understand how things were unfolding.
And usually, when delivering bad news—
the anger fell on the messenger.
"...I see. That's understandable. Wait here a moment. The division's orders will be ready soon—take them back."
"Yes, sir!"
Fortunately, there was no outburst this time.
Was it because the officer was kind—
or because he had already seen too many reports like this?
Taking the document, the officer stepped into the next room.
Though separated by a thin wooden wall, the shouting from inside carried clearly.
"Damn it! I knew this would happen!"
"That bastard Groddeck ruined everything! Our division has nothing left!"
"One division! A single division! If anyone could fill a gap like that overnight, they'd be Frederick the Great, not an ordinary man!"
"Calm down. The front has stabilized, and there are no further offensive orders from above. We just need to do our job now."
"Stabilized? That's not the point! This offensive was supposed to win us the war! If we start losing ground piece by piece, it'll all collapse! We can't hold it!"
"The 16th Bavarian Reserve Regiment has already announced they're withdrawing—not requesting permission, but declaring it!"
He could hear everything.
That the 208th Division had been wiped out entirely.
That the enemy capable of devouring a whole division wasn't the familiar British or French—
but a new force: the Americans.
And worse—
that those Americans were, unbelievably, Black troops.
How had the great German Empire fallen to this?
What had those Junker nobles—so proud of their medals and immaculate uniforms—actually been doing?
No—
was there ever any chance of winning this war in the first place?
Was this offensive ever the right decision?
The higher-ups were all the same.
From the perspective of a lowly soldier who survived on garbage disguised as food—
this war, this offensive—
it was all nothing but absurd fantasies drawn up on desks.
They were the real parasites of Germany.
They claimed to lead the nation—
but in truth, they were its rot.
Why had they ever been given power?
To win wars.
And yet the wars they waged sent Germany's sons to die—
forced them to scavenge like animals in miserable trenches.
This isn't right.
This… something has to change.
"Here are the new orders. Please deliver them to your regiment."
"Thank you."
"You've been working hard. Take this—eat it on your way."
The officer smiled faintly and handed him something small.
Bread.
Not turnip bread. Not sawdust bread.
Though it was hardened black bread, it was still bread.
"Thank you—"
"Shh. Keep your voice down. Eat it when no one's watching."
"…Thank you. I'll repay this someday."
"Repay it by doing your duty. That's patriotism."
He placed the orders and the bread into his bag, mounted his bicycle, and began riding back.
After a long while—
when the stench of corpses faded—
he collapsed by the roadside and opened his bag.
"…Kh—kh…!"
It was delicious.
Unbelievably so.
Something he wouldn't have even glanced at a few years ago—
now tasted unbearably sweet and soft.
Warmth welled in his eyes—
and tears began to stream down.
War was always like this.
The kind and decent died first—
becoming corpses in trenches, food for rats.
Those who abandoned their humanity and became monsters—
received medals,
sat in grand headquarters,
and fed on the blood of more young men.
It had to change.
This country had to change.
But the bread was good.
The messenger—
Adolf Hitler—
stuffed every last piece of tear-soaked bread into his mouth.
At least in that moment—
he was happy.
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