Rendezvous of the Stars (1)
The armed forces of the United States were insignificant.
Their combat power was poor.
Their equipment was lacking.
But even as the German Empire merely continued to breathe, those insignificant, pitiful, and poorly equipped forces kept swelling day by day.
From 1 to 2, 2 to 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128…
A rate of growth beyond the imagination of the Germans.
Had they known that a force of two million would arrive in 1918, just a year later, the generals of the German Empire might all have chosen suicide.
The American Expeditionary Forces were reorganized at a rapid pace.
Under the headquarters, the I Corps was established, and beneath it gathered, one after another, the "Big Red One" 1st Division, the "Indianhead" 2nd Division, and the 26th, 32nd, 41st, and 42nd Divisions formed based on National Guard units.
And my precious tank battalion was wedged right into the middle of that hell.
"Please calm down, gentlemen. The tank forces will be reinforced soon. There's no need to start now—"
"What's the point of letting them sit at headquarters! They're basically decorations, aren't they?!"
"Our 1st Division has already been deployed into the trenches. If we're to show the strength of the U.S. Army, shouldn't they be assigned to us?"
"Come now! Since when does a mere division get attached a tank battalion? This is at least corps-level!"
"And isn't the corps basically decorative as well? You're just letting that power sit idle in the rear? Maybe finish training first before talking!"
Stop. My life is already at zero.
Why are they all going crazy over getting the tank battalion… though honestly, I'd probably go just as mad to get my hands on such an incredible asset.
According to the Talmud, when two women fought over a child, each claiming it was hers, Solomon ordered the child to be split in half, revealing the true mother. But a tank battalion can't exactly be split—
"Let's calm down. If the tank unit is too difficult to use at battalion scale, why not divide it into company-sized elements for now and assign them to frontline divisions, and later, when more tanks arrive, form new corps-level battalions?"
"That's a brilliant idea!"
"Excellent suggestion!"
Get lost. Get lost, you lunatics. Don't you dare split my battalion, you idiots.
"That won't do. If you're just going to use tanks as mobile pillboxes, it defeats the original purpose of forming a tank battalion. It would be better to maintain the battalion and later form additional tank companies—"
"What's this yellow monkey doing, interrupting high-ranking officers?!"
"Don't get cocky just because you got promoted overnight!"
Ah, I really want to shoot them all. Bastards.
"Now that the organization is complete, doesn't that mean Major Kim's role is finished?"
"Colored people lack a sense of responsibility and their combat ability is inferior. Even now, we should appoint a more capable officer as battalion commander."
"If we entrust such valuable tank forces to a yellow monkey, Britain and France will laugh at us. General Pershing, perhaps reassign him to the staff?"
"If someone tied to tank manufacturers is placed in combat command, we won't get objective data. Let's assign someone capable of fair evaluation!"
Look at these damn bastards.
It was true that my position was unstable.
To begin with, I had been told to "organize" the unit—I had never actually been granted the battalion command. My official position was the utterly ridiculous title of assistant to the training planning staff under the expeditionary headquarters. In reality, the only time I ever met the training planning officer was when discussing tank crew training.
Knowing that, those men were already fighting over the future title of tank battalion commander.
As I was debating whether my blood would boil over, General Pershing sat silently, eyes closed, deep in thought.
"Everyone, attention."
The moment he spoke, silence fell over the conference room.
"Brigadier General Doyen."
Brigadier General Doyen, commander of the 2nd Division, answered loudly.
"Perhaps because you're from the Marines, you seem to have many complaints about my personnel decisions."
"I am speaking objectively. I have worked closely with the French Army for a long time, and I know how they think! How could we entrust this to a colored—"
"You've earned many distinctions, I hear. Are you perhaps interested in the position of expeditionary commander?"
"…No, sir."
"Do not overstep your authority. This is your final warning."
"Understood."
After firmly putting down a fellow general and driving the room's atmosphere below freezing, Pershing finally presented his opinion.
"The tank battalion will not be disbanded."
"General!!"
"A tank battalion exists precisely to gain real combat experience in large-scale armored operations. Why do you keep insisting on disbanding it? Many tanks are already crossing the Atlantic. You'll all receive them soon enough, so stop whining."
"Ugh…"
With that, he openly called out the hidden truth beneath their arguments—I know you all just want to play with it.
Everyone flushed red and lowered their heads.
As expected—only Pershing could be trusted.
"Colonel Rockenbach?"
"Yes, General."
Samuel Dickerson Rockenbach quickly responded.
"We will establish an Armored Section within the expeditionary headquarters and place you in charge of it. I'll delegate everything related to tanks to you, so make sure others don't meddle unnecessarily. And Major Kim."
"Yes, sir."
"How far has the organization of the tank battalion progressed?"
"It is essentially complete."
"Then designate it as the 326th Light Tank Battalion under direct headquarters control, and appoint Major Kim as its commander."
Finally.
Finally, I'm a combat unit commander.
How long I've waited for this day.
My chest tightened.
In this damn land of discrimination, I had finally seized a command position in a combat unit. I didn't know how long it would last, but at least now my career could finally stand on solid ground.
While I tried my best not to show it, Pershing continued issuing orders.
"You'll likely enter combat within a month. Prepare yourself."
"Yes, sir."
The meeting continued, and eventually, it was my turn.
"This is how the newly formed 326th Light Tank Battalion will be operated. Additionally, tank crewmen will be issued separate personal firearms."
"Separate personal firearms?"
"Yes."
At last, I brought out the item I had been waiting to propose.
At my signal, Patton, who had been waiting, dragged over a box and opened it in front of everyone.
"What is that?"
"That's a personal weapon?"
"That looks horribly ugly."
"Isn't that just a lump of metal? A grease pump? Some kind of oiling tool?"
"Heh. It's a weapon."
Decades ahead of its time, the legendary firearm—the "M3 Grease Gun"—revealed itself.
Of course, it hadn't yet received the official designation M3 here, but the moment they saw it, people were already calling it a grease gun. It certainly looked the part.
"A new weapon. Did you develop it?"
"Some of you here may remember the report I submitted a few years ago."
It was easy to tell who had read the Armageddon Report and who hadn't—just from their expressions.
"At the time, I predicted that in trench warfare, there would be a need for a weapon capable of spraying bullets right in front of you within an extremely short time. That's why I developed this 'submachine gun.'"
"Why not just use a shotgun?"
"A shotgun fires multiple pellets at once. Field artillery and machine guns aren't the same thing, are they? In any case, I was certain such a weapon would be necessary, so I funded its production myself—and this is the result."
He's ugly.
And because of cost-cutting, production efficiency, and various other factors, it even borrowed some elements from the legendary "Sten," making it look even worse than the original M3. It was nothing more than a lump of metal with absolutely no sense of aesthetics.
For the generals of this era—who firmly believed that a proper firearm must have wood on it—it must have been a massive culture shock.
"You're saying we should use that?"
"Major Kim, you do understand that your unit is meant to serve as a model for future tank forces, correct? Are you suggesting we introduce this… thing to the entire army's tanks?"
"This is a matter of national honor! If we use something like that, we'll be ridiculed!"
The reaction was terrible. Judging by the way Patton, who had been standing quietly beside me, began snorting sharply, the atmosphere had clearly gone to hell.
As the weapon was being torn apart with criticism, one man casually walked forward and picked up the grease gun.
"May I test it for a moment?"
"What do you mean—"
"So the bolt works like this… I see."
After briefly examining it, he took a steady grip—
Tatatatatatatat!
—and fired straight into a corner.
The terrifying sound echoed through the room, and everyone's faces turned pale. Those who were about to protest shut their mouths three seconds later. Anyone who had made it this far possessed at least a minimum level of judgment—they weren't fools who could blindly deny what they had just witnessed.
"Do you have any spares?"
"Yes, a few, but—"
"Send all of them to the 42nd Division."
"What are you talking about?"
The commander of the 42nd Division, who looked half-dead and utterly exhausted, snapped his head toward him—but the man remained unmoved.
"General. This weapon is the future—and the lifeline of our soldiers. We must secure it first."
"I-is that so…?"
"It is."
Thud.
The heavy sound of the gun being placed on the table filled the room.
"In my judgment—Douglas MacArthur—this weapon will save countless American soldiers."
"Guh—!"
"Colonel MacArthur! Even so, firing it like that here—"
"You gentlemen were evaluating the weapon without even attempting a live-fire demonstration. When no one here is even willing to stand up and try it, what else was I supposed to do? I had to show you."
MacArthur spoke with a faint, incredulous smile.
"Remember this. Everything we once considered common sense ended in those trenches. The Europeans are piling up countless corpses, learning new truths every single day. And yet, we—who pride ourselves on our frontier spirit—intend to cling to outdated thinking? Whose corpses do you want to pile up next?"
With that single outburst, the atmosphere in the room shifted as if by magic.
After the meeting ended, I approached him.
Douglas MacArthur.
One of the most famous soldiers.
Ranked third among all graduates since West Point's founding.
A giant who would leave enormous marks in America's greatest wars.
A man who would rewrite the history of the U.S. military with unparalleled achievements.
I knew full well what he would become in the future—and how he would eventually fall due to his own mistakes. And yet, even I, who knew all of "that bastard Mac's" less flattering sides, couldn't help but be impressed by the way he had single-handedly dominated that room full of generals.
I had to admit it.
The MacArthur in dusty books and the man standing before me were entirely different.
This man was the embodiment of innate charisma.
A lone, radiant sun—one you either worship or curse.
An ego that tolerated no equal, paired with the genius to justify it.
If I intended to remain in the military, I would one day have to choose:
Join those who worshipped him—
Or become one of those who wanted to drive a knife into his back.
"Thank you for your help."
"Help?"
"With the weapon, earlier."
"That wasn't help."
He shook his head and spoke with certainty.
"The usefulness of that weapon would have been proven eventually. The only difference is whether it's adopted immediately through insight—or after rivers of blood force it to be accepted. I merely opened the eyes of those above us—for the sake of the men at the front."
An arrogant statement.
But considering what he had just done, it was impossible to deny. How much easier would it be for soldiers storming trenches with that grease gun in hand?
As for me—still burdened with the label of "yellow monkey"—I couldn't have subdued those old fools in that room.
Patton? He'd have blown up in anger and gotten himself thrown out.
But MacArthur had done it with just a few words—while still securing majority support.
"It seems some people may feel uncomfortable with you after today, Colonel."
"Uncomfortable? Over something like this? Only incompetent men worried about their positions would feel that way. Anyone capable of proper judgment would be thanking me instead. There's no need to worry. You're more anxious than I expected."
Wow. How can someone say things like that so confidently? It's like this man has studied how to make perfectly correct statements in the most infuriating way possible.
He extended his hand toward me and Patton.
"Douglas MacArthur. Chief of Staff of the 42nd Division."
"Major Yujin Kim."
"Captain George Patton."
"I found your report quite impressive. What do you say? It's getting late—shall we have dinner together?"
What should we do?
Patton and I exchanged glances, and I quickly made my decision.
"It would be an honor, Colonel."
"Ha. Of course it would be. Let's go."
I'm grateful… but he's still insufferable.
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