To Europe (3)
To summarize the conclusion—nothing really happened during the meeting with the French High Command.
"Major Yujin Kim?""Yes, sir.""So you're the famous one. I was a bit surprised—you're Asian. Chinese?""Korean."
That was about it.
I didn't step forward to say anything, nor did I receive any particular attention afterward.
But Pershing seemed quite satisfied even with that.
"Well, Major Kim? What did you think?""It was a valuable experience.""Is that so? Those fellows were probably itching to ask you something, yet they held themselves back quite well."
Seeing my puzzled expression, he continued.
"As soon as I received your report, I had a translated copy sent to Paris as well. From what I hear… it caused quite a stir over there. The first reaction was rather memorable."
—There seems to be a typo in the report's date.—Ah, that's actually correct.
At that point, Pershing—rarely—smiled.
"And then the 'author' shows up, and he's Asian. They couldn't ignore you, but they couldn't quite bring themselves to engage either. Must've twisted their insides quite a bit. You played your role well."
When you put it like that, it feels like I've become some kind of baguette-gut-twisting machine.
And just as Pershing said, the French had indeed been quite irritated—something that would later be proven in another way.
After finishing the march in Paris, the 1st Division departed immediately.
General Sibert, the division commander, and Marshall, assigned as his staff, both wore expressions filled with frustration and self-reproach. Well, they had been thoroughly humiliated—there wasn't much to say.
Meanwhile, our Expeditionary Forces Headquarters went straight into a meeting.
"At present, it has been proven that the U.S. Army is far from ready to enter the war."
"..."
At Pershing's blunt assessment, everyone lowered their heads.
A disorganized mass of militia.
While the British and French had grown through total war—amassing millions and learning through immense sacrifice—the U.S. Army had remained stagnant. The result was only natural.
"But that is all. We will learn quickly. We will absorb the lessons they paid for in blood. We will purchase the weapons they have developed.This war will be finished by our own hands. Remember that."
"Yes, sir!"
"We will not enter combat immediately."
He continued.
"Take it easy. Slowly. You expect me to throw those poor men into the trenches right away? Is their role to cross the Atlantic only to die immediately? I have no intention of doing that. If possible, I want us to focus entirely on training this year."
"Understood."
"I am aware that the 1st Division is already searching for training grounds. I want to provide our soldiers with sufficient equipment, weapons, and training as quickly as possible. I expect all of you to fulfill this requirement. Do everything you can to ensure our men become proficient with firearms and the battlefield as soon as possible."
…As expected, a great commander remembered in history really was different.
Pershing's principles were firm.
We will not serve under others.We will decide for ourselves when to enter the battlefield.And that moment will be when our soldiers are fully trained.
For a commander leading an army full of incompetents and fools, it was almost a perfect policy.
"Major Kim."
"As you can see, what we need most right now is training."
…Damn it.
You said you'd send me!You said I could go where I wanted!Don't tell me that meant "I'll send you to whatever training ground you want." Damn it—I feel like loading a round of justice right now.
Patton betrayed me too. That damned senior who had been pounding his chest about being the headquarters commander was now standing there quietly, not saying a word. Didn't he say just one day of training would be enough? At this rate, I feel like I'll be training troops until the war ends.
I should've known when he bought me that red hat. No skull emblem on it—unlike my custom one. Maybe I should just carve a skull into Patton's head instead—
"Are you alright? You look a bit out of it.""I'm fine."
Fine, my ass. I want to die.
"I have a mission for you, Major Kim."
Everyone in the room immediately looked up.
"The French have ordered 10,000 tanks from Ford. Since both Britain and France now recognize the potential of tanks, the War Department has decided that we must begin operating them in earnest as well."
"That means—"
"For now, we'll start with about one battalion. Prepare to fully organize a tank battalion. Select soldiers with driving experience from among the current troops, and thoroughly test how tanks will be used—in training, operations, and actual combat."
"Understood!"
This was definitely an important mission.
The U.S. Army wouldn't be entering combat anytime soon anyway. I wasn't entirely sure why such a responsibility had fallen to someone like me, freshly and unexpectedly promoted—but this was clearly an opportunity.
"The French also requested you."
"Of course, I rejected it. Since when do they get to summon officers from another country at will? You should focus on your assigned duties. If you need cooperation from other nations, consult Headquarters first, then handle it within reasonable limits. After all, they are still our allies—whether we like it or not."
"Understood."
At that moment, someone chimed in—completely lacking any sense of timing.
"General.""What is it, Captain?"
The ever-unflappable madman of the 20th century had that gleam in his eyes again.
"I would like to participate as well."
"You already have quite a lot on your plate as headquarters commander."
"General, I am the first officer in the United States Army to have commanded tanks in combat. Naturally, I am the most suitable person to take part in this new tank unit."
…What kind of absurd logic is that? By that reasoning, General Pershing himself commanded the Mexican Expedition, so he'd qualify too.
"Hmm…"
The problem was that Pershing actually seemed to be considering it.
No, sir! Please don't hand that mad dog over to me—please!
"That… is true."
He looked between me and Patton, then nodded.
…Damn it.
"If I send you two bandits together, the future of tank warfare will surely be bright."
"General, shouldn't a highly capable officer like Captain Patton remain at headquarters for critical duties—"
"KIM! You got promoted to Major and you're already abandoning me?! I bought you meals! I bought you drinks! Huh?! And now you've become such a cold-hearted man?! I didn't raise you like this!!"
Anyone hearing that would completely misunderstand, you lunatic.
Regardless of my internal screaming, General Pershing made his decision.
"Captain Patton.""Yes, sir!""You'll be assigned under a much junior officer. Will that not be uncomfortable?""Major Kim and I are already one and the same! How could hands and feet feel uncomfortable serving the heart?!"
"…I see. You two get along quite well. Then prepare for the transfer. Assist Major Kim well."
Just like that, he happily handed the mad dog over to a handler and stepped away.
Leaving me—the newly appointed dog trainer—completely dumbfounded.
"Hahaha!! Thank you, General! I will make those damned Germans understand exactly what tanks are! I'll charge straight to Berlin and hang that crippled Kaiser's corpse on a tank—"
"Major Kim. I leave Patton in your care.""…Yes, sir…"
"So then, what will the tank unit's nickname be? 'White Skull'? Or 'Headhunters'?"
Please don't say things like that seriously.It doesn't sound like a joke.
France was deeply depressed after the failure of the Nivelle Offensive.
That massive offensive—launched just before the United States Army's full-scale entry into the war—ended in one of the worst disasters imaginable, producing nothing but enormous casualties.
Pétain, newly tasked with restoring the French Army, presented a simple slogan to calm soldiers driven to rage and despair:
"We will wait for the Americans—and the tanks they will bring."
Once the tanks arrive, we can survive.No more charging toward trenches like dogs, only to be cut down by machine guns.
And so, the French high command began aggressively promoting this "new weapon" coming from America. Given the situation, tanks seemed the most promising and meaningful development.
France placed an order for 10,000 Ford-built tanks—officially designated the M1917—and even secured a license to begin domestic production. They were going all in.
In this situation, the fact that someone across the Atlantic—some barbarian land—had predicted this hellish trench warfare before the war even began, and had proposed the concept of tanks faster than anyone else…
That drove the French into a frenzy.
"…You're the one?""That's correct."
Damn. Look at these frogs switching attitudes.
They dragged me here under the pretense of discussing training grounds for the U.S. tank unit, and the moment they realized I was Asian, their expressions turned sour. It was almost artistic.
"Hmmm…"
"You requested my presence, yet all you can do is 'hmmm'? What is it—are you from Versailles? A noble whose head somehow wasn't cut off?"
Nice one, Patton. Damn, that felt good.
His unfiltered, reflexive remarks froze the French officers' expressions.
"Ahem! My apologies if that seemed impolite. We were merely surprised by how young you are."
"The United States does not discriminate based on age or race. We judge solely by ability."
These racist bastards—talking about age? Let's be honest, you flinched because of my skin color.
Perhaps deciding to focus on reality, they began spreading out blueprints and documents on the table.
"Both we and the British, in our attempts to overcome trench warfare, have arrived at the concept of a heavily armored, armed tractor.""Of course. It's the most logical solution.""Then why develop something small and compact like this, instead of a massive 'land battleship'?""Then why did you order it if you don't like it?"
…Damn it, I need to hold back.
My irritation kept slipping into my tone.Come to think of it, they ended up making something almost identical in actual history anyway. Funny. If they already believed this was the best approach, why even ask? Just to show off?
"…!"
"Just so we're clear, while I did participate somewhat in the development of the M1917, I am not a Ford salesman. If you have questions, you should contact Ford. Anything else?"
Honestly, I was already drowning in work trying to organize a new unit—why was I stuck doing this nonsense?
Even deciding where the new tank battalion would be assigned was chaos.
General Sibert of the 1st Division rushed over the moment he heard from Marshall—"Of course you'll assign a combat unit like that to our front-line division, right?"—like a baby bird with its mouth wide open.
Meanwhile, Headquarters screeched, "Such a precious asset must be under direct HQ control!"
Typical soldiers.
Even while dealing with all this blood-pressure-raising nonsense, the formation of the tank battalion was progressing smoothly.
"Y-you're giving this… to me?""That's right, Captain Patton. It is now time for you to inherit the warrior's mission.""Hahahaha!! Don't worry—I'll train them into perfect elite troops!"
More like elite idiots.
Is this really the right decision?Or am I just losing my mind from overwork?
Trying not to imagine what kind of monsters Patton would turn his trainees into, I handed him the red hat and sunglasses.
Yeah… let's just rest now.I'm done with training.
Captain Dwight Eisenhower was stuck in Texas, fully devoted to training new recruits. His desperate pleas to be deployed were rejected with the unbeatable logic: "No. Losing an excellent instructor once with Major Kim was enough."
From across the Atlantic, I received letters from him filled with incomprehensible resentment and anger.
What comforted the sorrowful Ike—unable to go to the front—was his newborn first son, Doud. The same man who used to complain that my letters were nothing but stories about my son was now filling his own letters entirely with stories about his.
See? That's what happens when you have a kid.
Captain Omar Bradley was assigned to protect the strategically vital copper mines in Montana from "evil Reds" and German spies. From him, I received letters practically cursing me, asking why I alone was thriving.
Captain James Van Fleet was now commanding a machine gun company and was scheduled for deployment soon. The day he set foot in France, I fully intended to greet him with a warm neck-snap.
Marshall, meanwhile, was coughing up blood running back and forth between the 1st Division and Headquarters—coordinating between them, and politely explaining to the British and French, "Get lost. We are not your subordinates."
Patton… was just being Patton.
"Supplies!""Suuupplies!!""Remember this! Crush the enemy with a wave of steel! Kill them all!!""Kill them all!!!"
I deliberately turned my gaze away from the scene of mass brainwashing unfolding on the training grounds.
Something… something insane was happening.
As everyone busied themselves preparing for war, November arrived before we knew it.
And on November 1st, new American troops arrived in Saint-Nazaire.
The 42nd Infantry Division—the "Rainbow Division."
A trembling drizzle welcomed them, and the transport ship that brought them would never return to America—it was sunk by a U-boat attack.
All these omens felt deeply ominous to the division commander.
"Can these ragtag men really… pull this off?""Do not worry, General. Your army is invincible.""You're full of spirit. But my health is failing… I'm not sure I can do this well.""I will assist you to the best of my ability. Please do not worry too much."
The miserable drizzle that made troop management a nightmare,the sinking of the transport ship,and a frail superior—
None of these hardships or ominous signs could extinguish the fire burning in the heart of the 42nd Division's Chief of Staff, Douglas MacArthur.
Because the battlefield was calling for him.
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