Land of Freedom
Chaumont.
Headquarters of the American Expeditionary Forces.
"What do you mean by that?"
I had come out to Chaumont for the first time in a while, leading my now trademark steed, the Black Lotus.
The thick stack of documents Ha-ji was carrying in his arms contained the meticulously reviewed records of our soldiers' achievements. I silently prayed for the front-line officers who had been ground down to produce those reports.
The division's directly attached Rangers and tank battalion were, once again, practically wiped out.
The 371st Regiment was combat-ineffective.
And it wasn't like the other regiments were in good shape either. Every single one of them had held on through sheer grit and stubborn will.
The soldiers of the 93rd Division had faithfully kept their promise.
They were patriots, outstanding warriors, and they had fulfilled their duty.
So now it was my turn to keep mine.
But Chaumont's reaction seemed a little different from what I considered reasonable.
"Please repeat that."
"Think about it logically, Brigadier General Kim. Are you saying all of these men performed deeds worthy of commendation? I've received countless after-action reports from other units, but none have submitted anything on this scale."
…What the hell is this guy saying?
No, wait. Hm. Is that so?
Other units hadn't fought battles on this scale yet. While others only skirmished, we had engaged in brutal, blood-soaked combat. Naturally, there would be a massive difference in merit.
Judging by his tone and expression, my blood was starting to boil—but this was probably because I still didn't fully understand U.S. Army customs or… whatever, those unspoken rules. I was just some lucky bastard who shot up the ranks overnight, while he, though lower in rank, had decades more experience in the army than me.
Control your expression. Smile. Smile. Cheeeese.
"Even without going this far, no one would ignore the achievements of the 93rd Division."
"No, what I'm talking about isn't the division's record, but the individual soldiers who fought bravely—"
"Haha. No need to worry. Of course, there are fools here in Chaumont who look down on you, General. The kind who assume inferiority just because your skin isn't white. But don't worry. At least I am convinced that you, General Kim, are an honorary white man of whom the United States can be proud! So please rest assured—"
"I'm sorry, but my staff and I cross-verified this data multiple times before submitting it. I would appreciate it if you could recognize the efforts of these soldiers who fought bravely on the front lines—not me personally."
Did I sound too stiff?
The staff around us started peeking over like curious meerkats.
Now I looked like the bad guy. I'm not Patton. When people go "Oh, they're fighting! They're fighting!" it only makes things more awkward.
"I'm telling you, aren't I? Brigadier General Kim, you'll naturally be promoted to Major General and reassigned to a better post. Even your handpicked officers have proven their abilities. Your future is smooth sailing. Everyone will be promoted and move on to better places."
"Reassigned?"
"Of course. Rewarding merit and punishing faults—that's only natural, isn't it?"
Something felt off. Our conversation wasn't lining up at all. I didn't like this.
"Then… who has been designated as my successor?"
"Successor?"
Something kept rising inside me.
When I used to go to the West Sea, I'd be digging for clams in the mudflat, only to suddenly realize the water had quietly crept in.
Just like that, something was swelling in my chest—tight, suffocating, unpleasant.
"Haha. Hahahaha."
"Hahahahaha!"
People hurriedly gathered around us.
I'm serious, we're not fighting.
An older staff officer spoke to me in a calm tone.
"Brigadier General Kim. Though I am of lower rank, as a member of the United States Army and someone who has served much longer, may I offer you… a small piece of advice?"
"I still have much to learn, haha. I'd be glad to hear it!"
"You've risen so quickly that you don't seem to understand how things work yet. Soldiers' jobs are always like this."
"…?"
What kind of nonsense is this?
Listen to reason. Listen to your inner voice.
—KILL! KILL!! Nonsense deserves a beating!
—What did you do with the pistol I gave you, junior?! Now is the time for negotiation!
Why is my senior in my head? Go away. That's terrifying.
"General. If you sweep dust in your house with a broom, who did the cleaning—you, or the broom?"
"…Ah."
"Soldiers just go home when it's over, don't they? Naturally, those who will remain in the army for a long time should have higher 'priority,' wouldn't you agree?"
Right. To these bastards, soldiers are just brooms.
I know from experience—my mom used to beat me with a broom. It hurts like hell. The fact they don't understand something that simple means they were raised wrong. Were there really this many people in the U.S. Army who grew up without mothers?
As if unaware of my thoughts, he chuckled and tapped the documents I had submitted.
"And besides, they're Negroes, aren't they? Of course, they must have achieved something. I won't deny that. But all of it was only possible because we whites guided them in the right direction."
The Patton inside me roared.
No, let's hear from the ever-wise MacArthur inside me.
—Ah, junior. Men like us can do whatever we feel like.
—You only become famous by disobeying orders. Close your eyes and charge in. You've always been good at that, haven't you?
Damn it, MacArthur. Advice from a golden-spoon aristocrat who never faces consequences is useless!
"Of course, I'm not saying they're bad! Don't misunderstand. Unlike those Dixie fools in the South, I know discrimination is wrong—I'm a Republican, after all. But setting discrimination aside, there are still differences in this world, aren't there? Blacks contribute with their bodies, since they're less evolved, while we use our advanced intellect to guide them. So—"
Ah.
I can't take this anymore.
The sound of a grenade pin being pulled rang inside my skull.
I thought I'd built up a hell of a lot of patience living in this fine 1900s world—but here's another bastard calmly smiling as he yanks the pin out of my head.
I kicked the desk in front of me with all my strength.
"You motherfucking pieces of shit, where do you think you're running your mouths?!"
"General! General! Calm down!"
"Gun! Take his gun!"
"Let go! Ha-ji! Let go of me right now!"
"You can't shoot! Don't shoot!!"
"What is the meaning of this! What in the—"
"You desk-riding bastards think you can just swallow up the achievements my men paid for with their lives? Huh?! HUH?!"
BAM!
I shook Ha-ji off and smashed my fist straight into that bastard's face. He flew through the air lighter than the Jerries.
"My promotion?! If I cared about that, I wouldn't have done any of this shit in the first place!"
"What are you—"
"I promised them! I promised those men they'd be rewarded! That I'd open a future for them! And now you bastards, sipping coffee in your cushy office, have the nerve to—"
"Military police! MP!!!"
"General Kiiim!"
Ah… that feels better. Damn. That's refreshing.
Since it's come to this—
You're getting beaten like a dog today.
***
Active-duty brigadier general assault incident!
Naturally, Chaumont was thrown into chaos.
I beat those bastards senseless until the MPs arrived, and perhaps out of some last shred of mercy, they confined me to a small room instead of throwing me in a cell.
Well, an active-duty brigadier general committing assault is one thing—throwing him in the brig would be a bit too pathetic.
Looking at it now, the situation in Chaumont was beyond words.
I had sensed it when I took command of the 93rd Division, but I had more enemies than I thought. No—I had gained more enemies. And most of them were incompetent trash whose origins I couldn't even guess.
The people who would definitely take my side—MacArthur, Marshall, Patton—were all scattered, busy with their own duties.
Marshall's 1st Division was deployed at the front, just like the 93rd.
Patton was running the armored school, living his fulfilling life of daily training.
MacArthur… had recently gone to the front line for fun, inhaled poison gas, and was evacuated. Why the hell is a colonel going to the very front? That man's got a death wish.
Anyway, with all my key connections gone from Chaumont, the only person at headquarters I could rely on was… General Pershing.
And knowing Pershing, he'd probably say, "I understand your situation, but discipline is discipline," and punish me without hesitation. That's the kind of man he is. Being favorably disposed toward me and actually being on my side are two completely different things.
At this rate, my men won't even get a single piece of candy to take back with them.
And it's obvious what happens if they return empty-handed, without even a proper medal. The soldiers, already on edge, will hijack some passing bus and shout, "We're going to Chaumont!"—and I'll be standing there in tears yelling, They're not Germans! They're my men!
…This is a problem.
Try media manipulation again? No… that's not it. Racial discrimination against Black people isn't something that improves with a bit of media play. This is something that has to be approached long-term.
Then what can I do right now—
Knock knock.
"Who is it?"
"You have a visitor. May I open the door?"
"Ah, yes."
Who could it be?
Could it be General Pershing? If so, I'd better drop to my knees and beg for my life. If I grovel hard enough, maybe he'll take pity on me.
"It's been a while, Lieutenant Kim. Or rather, you were a lieutenant then—now you're already a brigadier general."
"Yes, it's been… a while, sir."
I immediately snapped into perfect attention and delivered the sharpest salute I could manage.
…What?
Why is he here?
No, seriously. This is way too surreal. I was bracing myself to get chewed out by Pershing at most—
Standing before me was Secretary of War Baker.
"I happened to be in France on an inspection tour. Didn't you hear?"
"My deepest apologies… I did not."
"I wanted to visit the 93rd Division at least once. And meet the youngest division commander in person."
No, wait. How could I not know the Secretary of War was in France? At the very least, someone from my academy class should have told me—
…Ah.
Of course.
I'd drained every last connection I had trying to recruit people into the 93rd Division.
Idiot… I'm such an idiot…
"Before coming here, I heard quite a lot about you. Just how much have you been running wild like an unbridled colt?"
"…I have no excuse."
"Go on, tell me. I don't have the authority to interfere with headquarters' decisions, but I can at least hear you out."
Over the next few minutes, I quickly briefed him on the distinguished service of the 93rd Division's soldiers and the reaction I had just received in Chaumont.
"…Hmm. Let me say this first—I am proud of you. Bringing you into the Expeditionary Forces will probably go down as one of the wisest decisions of my life. If I ever write memoirs, I'll be sure to brag about it."
"Yes, sir."
"But your rapid rise may have made your position more precarious. You understand now, don't you? Among the stars, politics comes first. Decorations for Black soldiers are not a simple matter of merit. It's an issue that could shake American society."
…The same story again.
Hearing even the Secretary say this, I couldn't help but feel my strength drain away.
Just like I'd told my little chicks, was the only way to persuade these Western bastards really just blood, bullets, and fear?
"Sir. I wasn't making some soft argument that hardworking soldiers should get medals."
"Oh?"
"This is a matter of trust. Trust is a precious resource—once lost, it's extremely hard to regain. Whether they are Black or not isn't the real issue. The real danger is setting a precedent that men can bleed and not be rewarded for it."
Baker, the politician, stroked his beard in silence.
A politician changing his words isn't a big deal. No one really trusts politicians anyway.
But a nation's words and actions—that's a different story entirely.
And in the original timeline, the United States completely squandered that trust through infamous incidents like the Bonus Army.
If possible, I wanted to avoid anything like that.
"I'll think it over. We'll discuss it in more detail in D.C."
At least, amid all this, I had managed to deliver my message directly to someone at the very top.
Now it was my turn to move.
Not long after, I was urgently summoned to the headquarters of the French 36th Corps.
"Did something happen?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
General Nollet had a habit of speaking without context—it always made my heart drop.
"A notice came from the American Expeditionary Forces. They say they're pulling the 93rd Division out and reorganizing it under U.S. command."
"…I haven't heard anything about that."
What kind of nonsense is this?
Wait. Don't tell me—
"I suspect it might be related to the matter of commendations—"
"…That seems likely. Take a look at the document. It says 'to be reorganized and deployed on a U.S. sector of the front.'"
"That's correct."
"Your unit is almost entirely Black, isn't it?"
"Of course."
"Then without Black replacements, how can they even reorganize it?"
Wow. That's some miraculous logic. Were they hunters of mythical beasts in a past life or something?
But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense—and the more uneasy I became.
"I… requested that the achievements of my soldiers be recognized. It seems that caused the issue."
"What do you mean? Asking for recognition is a commander's duty."
I calmly recounted what had happened in Chaumont, but as I spoke, General Nollet's face gradually filled with a single clear expression:
What kind of bullshit am I hearing right now?
"So… they're too petty to give medals to Black soldiers, so they're planning to shove the 93rd Division somewhere in the rear?"
"…Is that what it is?"
"Of course it is, damn it! It's obvious! Brigadier General Kim, if you wrote that report, you should have submitted it to your superior command—the corps! How dare those Yankee bastards presume to evaluate the achievements of the great 36th Corps as they please! Insolent fools!"
I quickly deployed my "Pokémon," Ha-ji, to hand over the report to him, and not long after, he summoned me again.
His expression was darker than ever. Even as a corps commander, it seemed he couldn't overturn decisions made at that level.
"Brigadier General Kim. It's most unfortunate, but this is where we part ways. The 93rd Division will be removed from the 36th Corps and placed under the American Expeditionary Forces."
"It can't be helped. Thank you for everything."
"However, as long as I'm still the corps commander, I suppose deciding your route back is within my discretion."
He tapped the operations map with his baton and drew a line across it.
So—
"You'll go through here, and then return to those damned Yankees."
Paris.
"It would be perfect if you held a grand victory parade in Paris on your way back."
"A… parade?"
"Isn't the 93rd Division the guardian of Amiens? Everything's already arranged. Dress them up properly. We'll shower them with medals like hail."
"Thank you, thank you very much!"
"No need to thank me. Men awarded the Croix de Guerre deserve at least this much. If those Yankees still refuse to give medals, they'll only be exposing their own pettiness."
He winked.
"In a true land of freedom, those who shed blood are always rewarded! As for the Légion d'honneur, you'll have to wait a bit. I'd like to see the looks on those islanders and Yankees' faces first! Hahaha! Say, have you ever considered settling down in the great French Army? We have the Foreign Legion—and ah, my niece is very beautiful, perhaps—"
I didn't have the time to hear the rest.
More than joy, it was relief that filled my mind.
At the very least, I wouldn't be sending my brave soldiers back empty-handed.
For now… that was enough.
One step at a time.
Time was on my side.
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