The Hundred Days Offensive (4)
Not long after the Battle of Saint-Mihiel ended—
On a day when the rain was still drizzling endlessly, I visited the 42nd Division for an operational meeting.
"Ah, Yujin. You're here."
"What's wrong with you? You look completely drained."
"It's over. We're all going to die on that damned ridge."
To see MacArthur of all people react like that—just what on earth had been happening lately? Starting with Patton, who had looked as sickly as a dying ox, something was clearly off.
"Aren't you the same General MacArthur who gets fired up at the sight of fortifications like that? Why the complaints?"
"The men of our 84th Brigade are training down there right now."
"Training? The battle's about to start."
"Exactly."
He trailed off, fiddling with his pipe for a moment before picking up a bottle instead.
"Care for a drink?"
"Uh… well… if you insist, I'll gratefully accept."
Judging by the look in his eyes, refusing seemed unwise. Better to drink and die than deal with the aftermath.
After we downed a drink together, he let out a deep sigh.
"They need training. Yes. Training."
"Mountain warfare training, I assume?"
"No. Shooting."
"Shooting?"
"The recruits don't even know how to fire a gun! The veterans all got carried off to the infirmary at Saint-Mihiel, and the replacements don't even know how to shoot! Useless bastards! What the hell are they teaching back home? How to tie bootlaces? How to surrender without getting shot?"
Seeing MacArthur, of all people, this wounded in pride—it was quite a sight in itself.
If the soldiers he had cherished so much were in that state, it was no wonder he was furious. If I had to send them into battle like that, I'd probably lose my mind too.
And this wasn't someone else's problem.
No matter how much a commander must view casualties as numbers, shouldn't we at least send men into battle properly prepared?
To be honest, I was still uneasy.
Back in my service in the Republic of Korea, soldiers rarely died in combat—most deaths came from mishandling equipment or diseases like scrub typhus. Shooting accidents were almost unheard of.
But now… nearly 30,000 soldiers were looking only at me.
Every time we went into battle, I could see the empty spaces left by those who never came back.
I returned alive.
They returned as corpses.
It felt like my chest was being crushed.
Honestly, it was easier when I was out on the front lines firing a gun myself. The white officers watching from afar would clap and praise bravery, and the soldiers would be emboldened by having their commander beside them—everyone was happy.
The 93rd Division was at least better off. I had trained them into tough men who could punch even a demon in the jaw if they met one in hell. Their mental conditioning was strong too—so as long as I and the other officers did our jobs properly, they wouldn't die pointless deaths.
But even now, my sanity was slowly grinding away.
If I had to send men who didn't even know how to hold a rifle into that hellish maw…
I honestly didn't have the confidence.
That day, MacArthur and I drank heavily, cursing out the bastards in D.C. and Chaumont.
***
The German army, just as at Saint-Mihiel, was once again burning with determination.
At this point, they'd feel better if they just admitted they were fools with will but no capability—but their fighting spirit still remained.
Since the outbreak of war in 1914, the Meuse-Argonne sector had been horrifically fortified over four years. It had been the starting point of the infamous Verdun offensive, and now stood as a key node of the Hindenburg Line and a vital railway hub.
Forests, ridges, valleys—and Jerries.
Concrete bunkers spread like spiderwebs, trench lines, artillery positions, fortifications—and at the center of it all, towering high, stood Montfaucon.
As if proving once again they were a nation of twisted masochists, the Germans had built a fortress designed to take the Allied assault to the absolute extreme. Ludendorff had poured everything into this place, intending to drain Allied blood dry—and now we had to smash headfirst into it.
If it were up to me, I'd say, "Please don't send the boys into a place like this."
But because it was a vital railway hub, capturing the Meuse-Argonne could change the entire course of the war. Not attacking wasn't an option.
The offensive in this direction was honestly beyond the capabilities of the U.S. Army.
Most of the American elite divisions had already been committed at Saint-Mihiel. There was barely any time to reorganize and redeploy them before throwing them straight into the Meuse-Argonne.
And this wasn't an operation we could conduct on our own—it had to fit into Foch's grand Allied strategy. Whether we liked it or not, the timetable had to be met. No matter what, the offensive had to begin on September 26.
1.2 million troops.
The vast quantities of food needed to feed them.
The enormous amounts of ammunition that had to be rushed to the front.
Countless tanks and artillery pieces.
And the units required to escort the supply convoys.
All of it had to move through a limited number of supply routes—naturally turning the roads into chaos, packed with trucks, wagons, and hollow-eyed soldiers.
A traffic jam far worse than any holiday exodus—this suffocating congestion was practically routine in World War I.
"But why can't this be sent to the front? Are you kidding me right now?!"
Alas.
At the Expeditionary Forces headquarters in Chaumont, there was a monster capable of handling millions of troops.
A man who had been promoted to colonel, yet instead of becoming a field commander as he had wished, ended up as a staff officer.
A man who had evolved not into MetalGreymon, but into SkullGreymon—becoming infinitely more ferocious: Marshall.
Compared to him, a mere traffic jam was nothing.
"This goes here! That goes there! Delay that! Traffic accident? Clear it first and open the road! Lay the telephone lines first—that's the top priority! Check the train schedule again! What? Why? Are you insane?! There's a level crossing near the accident site—you obviously need to adjust the train schedule! You can't even think of that, you idiots! Next—!"
Handling the lifeline of a million-man expeditionary force like a master, Marshall proved to the world that he was the most capable logistics officer in the United States.
A true magician.
What else could you call someone who makes troops and supplies appear where they shouldn't, at times they shouldn't? Even we watching from the side were dumbfounded—how much more so the Germans? Ludendorff could scream about cheating all he liked—I'd agree with him.
"How can you call yourselves staff officers if you can't even manage this much?! Are you going to keep working like this?!"
"We're sorry!"
"Set priorities first before speaking! Time is critical!"
A reliable officer who gave his all to any task, regardless of preference.
But honestly…
From my perspective, this was a spectacular own goal—driving himself a hundred million light-years away from the command position he so desperately wanted.
After displaying this level of competence, did he really think they'd give him a command? If it were me, I'd keep him locked in headquarters forever.
The massive transport operation led by Marshall was completed not on the planned September 25—but a day early, on the 24th.
And that precious extra day—
Marshall used it to personally inspect frontline units and deliver presentations on the upcoming advance routes.
"Brigadier General Kim!"
"Congratulations on your promotion to colonel."
"Save the congratulations for after we take that hellish fortress. Let's discuss the future plans for your 93rd Division first."
What a joyless man. We could at least exchange a few pleasantries.
Of course, I already knew full well how much blood that damned Meuse-Argonne would demand from the U.S. Army. So I quietly listened to Marshall and prepared for the operation.
"Listen carefully. You will advance along this axis once it is secured—"
***
"The battle begins tomorrow. Our deployment will come a bit later."
At my heavy words, everyone inhaled sharply.
"The 185th Brigade, the 186th Brigade, and the artillery brigade—how are they?"
"The 185th Brigade has no major issues."
"The 186th Brigade has nothing particular to report."
"The artillery brigade has completed all deployments."
"And the soldiers' hygiene conditions?"
"No problems."
Bradley, my chief of staff, answered immediately.
Honestly, the one suffering the most by being stuck next to me was probably Omar. I did feel a bit sorry. But he did receive a generous evaluation for his performance at Amiens, so let's call it even.
"As you instructed, we've distributed a large number of masks. However, I don't expect the soldiers to actually wear them amid the chaos."
"What can we do? That's all we can provide. If we could shoot influenza with a rifle, we'd have done it already."
"We've also issued spare socks in abundance, along with gas masks and other equipment—"
A rapid briefing.
Now, all that remained… was the battle itself.
"Before we enter this new battle, there's something I want conveyed to all troops."
At my unexpected remark, those who had begun to stand and return to their units sat back down.
"I believe… this battle will likely be the last."
"Isn't that a bit of a reckless assumption?"
"Here—after this, it'll be Metz or Sedan. We won't be advancing beyond that. In truth, once the German defensive line in the Argonne Forest collapses, the Hindenburg Line is finished as well."
The fall of the Hindenburg Line.
In effect, that meant Germany's defeat.
Of course, like the Axis powers in the original World War II timeline, they could continue a desperate, ugly resistance.
But just like in the original World War I… Germany chose negotiation rather than prolonging such a miserable fight.
"Please tell the men that the end of the war is near. But instead of vague hope, make sure they also understand how thoroughly the enemy has prepared to block our path."
"Understood."
"I don't expect miracles. No brilliant tricks, no heroic last stands. We move forward step by step. The war may soon end—but for those Black soldiers, their lives will remain a long, ongoing battle."
I spoke as calmly as I could.
Yes. I said it properly. Gently. Thoughtfully.
So why—
Why the hell did it turn out like this?!
"Our great division commander has instructed us: 'Even after taking the Jerries' heads, there will be plenty more necks to cut!' Why?! Because the whites will never easily give up first-class citizenship meant for us!"
"Wooooooah!!"
"So don't relax just because you killed Jerries, and don't despair if you couldn't kill many! The path ahead for us Black men is filled with countless enemies!!"
Why did my calm, thoughtful speech get twisted like that?!
"Omar."
"What?"
"Why have our proud 93rd Division soldiers become… those kinds of lunatics?"
"What are you talking about? They learned it all from you."
What kind of false accusation is that?!
That's just unfair. If they learned from me, there's no way they'd turn out like that.
"No, I mean—look. I'm Asian, right? Easy to look down on."
"So?"
Why's he reacting like that?
"So… if anything, it was more like acting. You know—putting on a performance. I had to present a strong leadership image and a clear vision. So I added a bit of a macho touch."
"Wow. I see. That's so you, Yujin."
Omar responded flatly, without a trace of emotion, and patted my shoulder.
"So… let's say everything you've been doing was acting."
"It's not 'let's say.' That's exactly what it was."
"Sure, sure. Anyway—what did your soldiers see then? The real Yujin? Or that lunatic persona you were playing?"
"…Uh."
"You raised them like that. They watched that lunatic act and turned out this way. You can't deny it now."
At Omar's words, I felt dizzy.
This wasn't what I intended… Not to that extent.
That was basically Patton and his followers.
"Just think of it as receiving thirty thousand top-tier lunatics. With that, the 93rd Division and its commander, Yujin Kim, will earn eternal fame. A unit of madness—and its leader—remembered forever in U.S. history."
"Then what about you?! What are you?!"
"A victim who got dragged into it."
Omar—daring to act like nothing more than a chief of staff—left me behind and walked off to his quarters.
Abandoned. What a bastard…
That dawn—
The Meuse-Argonne Offensive began.
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