Rendezvous of the Stars (2)
Patton, MacArthur, and I sat together at a restaurant, elegantly cutting into our steaks as we talked.
"I've been wanting to have a proper conversation with you two."
"Haha. It's an honor to hear you say that, Colonel."
"The honor is mine. No one has stimulated me intellectually as much as Major Kim has recently."
MacArthur spoke with an impressive smile.
"I was deeply moved after reading your report. That insight, that logical progression, that clear conclusion—it was like a lighthouse shining through the fog for a ship lost at sea."
"You're flattering me too much."
"Flattering? Someone has finally evaluated you properly, and you call it modesty? Since when were you so humble?"
Patton, chewing his meat aggressively, threw that out, and MacArthur burst into laughter, nodding.
"Captain Patton is absolutely right. At this point, even humility is excessive. You need to hold your head higher! Why should someone capable of such miraculous foresight bow his head?"
If I don't stay humble, I'll just end up attracting trouble. I'm not MacArthur. I need to know when to keep my head down.
"Of course, your race is a problem."
He said it casually, raising his wine glass.
"But prophets throughout history had foresight, yet no power. In the end, only those with power can make others listen to prophecy. Even Christ had to whip the corrupt merchants in the temple. If there are those who refuse to open their eyes even when shown the future, then they must be forced to open them."
"…I see."
"Of course, you've done your best. You developed that 'submachine gun,' and you introduced tanks as well. You didn't just talk—you acted. That makes you a righteous man."
He muttered that new ideas always face resistance.
"This is a duty. The duty of those who know more. When I helped push for the adoption of that firearm, I was simply fulfilling that duty."
His conviction seemed unshakable. Even at the end of his life, it probably wouldn't waver.
My thoughts drifted elsewhere.
If my report was like a prophet's prediction, then what did that make him—the one who recognized its truth faster than anyone else?
What an overwhelming ego. Even Syngman Rhee would barely rate a five in comparison.
"Don't take offense, but I'm actually quite glad you're Asian, Major Kim."
"…What do you mean by that?"
"If you were white, would you have come to West Point? You'd have gone somewhere else—the State Department, or Manhattan, or wherever. I'm fortunate to have such a capable junior."
"Haha…"
"After General Pershing, naturally, it will be my era. And when I retire, the one to lead the United States Army will undoubtedly be you, Major Kim."
My hand slipped as I cut into my steak.
"As you just said, my race is a penalty."
"Don't worry. In my era, all those incompetent fools who lack judgment will be cleared out. What you need is only loyalty and diligence toward the United States."
Hearing a mere colonel talk about his era and succeeding Pershing would normally be laughable—but when it was MacArthur, it was different.
That boundless arrogance couldn't simply be dismissed as arrogance. In reality, the era after Pershing did belong to MacArthur.
"Wasn't it frustrating? Those incompetent fools holding you back with meaningless excuses? If you work with me, you won't have to waste your time teaching idiots the ABCs one by one."
"Work with you? Uh—"
"Not in the sense of factions, of course. Just as it sounds. Let's work together to build a better U.S. Army. Besides, it's not like you can transfer to the 42nd Division anyway."
Whew. My heart nearly stopped.
If this had been a full "Join me!" kind of proposal, it would've been a serious headache—but the most politically savvy officer in U.S. history stopped exactly at a level I could accept.
"I would be grateful for the chance to work with someone as outstanding as you, Colonel. It would be the honor of my life. Hahaha!"
"Hahaha!"
"Hahahaha!!!"
With Patton laughing along without fully understanding why, the rest of the evening dissolved into trivial small talk.
On the way back to the 42nd Division's quarters—
MacArthur sat silently in the back seat of the vehicle.
The situation at expeditionary headquarters was not good.
As expected, there were plenty of people everywhere who envied and resented the great MacArthur—and headquarters was no exception.
The stench of political schemes aimed at keeping the 42nd Division in check was already thick in the air.
Despite the division commander's worsening health, he was not being replaced. Dozens of capable officers—MacArthur's own trusted hands and feet—had all been transferred out to other divisions at once.
Why?
At a time when they should be concentrating strength into the most capable unit to maximize combat effectiveness, why do this? Just to divide up credit? Are achievements and recognition really that important?
Disgusting, incompetent fools.
Their heads full of nothing but filth, their tongues forked like snakes—sycophants clouding the judgment of the great General Pershing.
A man like Pershing could never make the wrong call. A hero recognizes another hero. It was obvious that the worthless stars around him were desperately trying to smear mud over MacArthur's brilliance.
As his thoughts reached that point, MacArthur suddenly recalled the junior officer he had met today.
A new hero—whose true worth only he had recognized.
A brilliant gem that had clawed its way up from the very bottom, from a far harsher position than his own.
And wasn't the way that gem was being slandered by incompetents so very similar to his own situation? How could he, as a senior, not help?
Major Kim might not realize it, but MacArthur's "long arm" had already been supporting him from before.
During the Mexican Expedition, as a War Department spokesperson, he had recognized this promising junior's potential and even promoted him extensively in the press. If the junior knew this, he would surely be moved to tears of gratitude.
Fortunately, General Pershing was also paying attention to him.
Anyone could see that appointing him as a battalion commander this time was a stretch—but Pershing had pushed it through. He must have wanted to give a talented young officer real combat experience.
The unit entrusted to him—a tank battalion.
If he said it would enter combat within a month, then it would obviously be part of an offensive.
An Allied offensive within a month.
A battlefield where tanks, this new weapon, could be deployed.
A French offensive? Impossible. France was still reeling from the shock of the Nivelle Offensive.
Then it must be a British offensive. Logically, Britain wasn't in a position to attack either—but with the word "politics," any offensive could happen.
Passchendaele? No. That muddy hell was too much even for tanks. If they pushed soldiers in there again, Field Marshal Haig might be assassinated.
A map of Western Europe unfolded in his mind.
Countless arrows and front lines appeared and vanished in seconds.
And soon, he reached a conclusion.
"Cambrai."
"Sir? What do you mean?"
"There will be a British-led offensive at Cambrai, centered around tanks."
"Have you received some kind of hint about future operations?"
"No. Can't you figure out even this much yourself?"
Ignoring his bewildered aide, he fell into thought.
How much longer would he have to fight enemies both in front and behind?
"Good luck, Major."
"Cambrai."
"What?"
"We're probably heading to Cambrai."
The battle where tanks truly began to rise as the core of warfare.Compared to the original history, the U.S. had developed tanks much earlier, and with my presence, the establishment of tank units had also accelerated. There was more than enough plausibility for the American forces to participate in the Battle of Cambrai.
"Where even is Cambrai?"
Patton hurriedly flipped through a map, muttering, "Cambrai… Cambrai…"
"Here? What's even there?""The German army.""No, I mean—why there of all places?""Because the ground is firm. There's no better place to run tanks."
A few months earlier, under British Expeditionary Force commander Field Marshal Douglas Haig, the Third Battle of Ypres—especially the infamous Battle of Passchendaele—had taken place.Before anyone realized it, British casualties alone had reached somewhere between 200,000 and 400,000. Once again, British soldiers had been buried in that hellish sea of mud, and the public demanded results to justify the sacrifice.
So—Cambrai.An enemy stronghold where new weapons might just turn the tide.
But what could our battalion, with only a few dozen light tanks, possibly accomplish there?It felt like going would mean death—but not going wasn't an option either.
Of all things, my first battlefield had to be one where defeat was practically guaranteed. This is insane.
"Hah. You hear that and immediately think of Cambrai? Major Kim, you really are a monster! Truly a legend of the U.S. Army!"
Well, of course—I already knew that was where the fight would happen. Want to die once and try regression yourself?
Still… MacArthur was the problem.
If you simplify the complex political world of the U.S. Army, you could divide it into the Pershing faction and the MacArthur faction.That didn't mean they were openly hostile. MacArthur constantly talked back to Pershing, but Pershing never beat him down or reassigned him to some backwater like the Panama Canal.
But after Pershing, when Marshall rose as successor, things became more complicated. MacArthur and Marshall getting along well? Not a chance.
If I think about it simply, siding with Marshall would be the easy answer. Between the seemingly rigid but warm-hearted Marshall and the self-absorbed MacArthur, Marshall seems like the better choice.But the problem is—Marshall would probably look at me like, "That one's a prime workhorse. No matter how heavy the plow, he'll pull it."
I'd die, you know?
I'm not joking. If I ended up on Marshall's line, he might stick me next to Roosevelt in Washington D.C. while he happily goes off to defeat Hitler. The Marshall I've seen would absolutely do that.
And MacArthur?
Well, for one, the fact that it's "MacArthur's era" for decades leading up to World War II is a huge advantage. And if I just flatter him properly, life wouldn't be too difficult!The problem is the Bonus Army incident—where he drove veterans away with tanks—and the fact that the older he gets, the more likely "General MacArthur" turns into "that bastard Mac." Still… maybe if I stay by his side and help guide him, things might turn out fine.
No need to overthink it.Marshall and MacArthur don't truly clash until after World War II begins—so I'll just stay on good terms with both! Easy!
"Major Kim?""You called for me?""The Commander-in-Chief is requesting your presence. Please come at once.""Understood."
The time had come.
"The British are planning an offensive at Cambrai. It will be a large-scale armored operation centered on tanks."
Colonel Rockenbach, now my superior, explained. Patton listened quietly, while I quickly began organizing the outline of the operation I had just received.
"I intend to deploy the newly formed 326th Light Tank Battalion there. What do you think?""I agree that it needs to be committed to combat.""That sounds like you have reservations.""We'll lose. Most likely."
At my words, Colonel Rockenbach frowned, but Pershing, seated at the head, remained silent.
"Do you have a reason?""Isn't it obvious? It's a rushed offensive meant to preserve Haig's position. If this kind of operation succeeds, that would be the real miracle.""Major Kim! Watch your tone.""There are clear advantages to capturing Cambrai, and it makes sense for tanks to play a central role. But that's where it ends.""Many offensives are driven by political purposes. That alone isn't enough. Is there another reason?""If it's the British, they wouldn't hesitate to use us as expendable stones. Their tanks are slow but heavily armored, while ours are light and fast. Perfect for throwing into the fire.""If it's the British, they'd do exactly that. They can barely take care of themselves as it is."
Pershing nodded.
"Your life does not belong to you. It is a valuable asset of the United States. Act appropriately according to the situation on the ground.""Yes, sir."
After a moment of thought, Pershing placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Return alive. That's an order.""Yes, sir. I will obey that order.""Good. That's enough. No matter what others say, I trust you—so don't burden yourself unnecessarily."
My throat tightened, but fortunately, I didn't show it.Would I be able to come back alive?
I suddenly found myself missing Henry and Dorothy.
"If things look bad… just go, take a look, and come back."
…What kind of order is that?Is that even possible?
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