The Hundred Days Offensive (2)
In mid-July, the German Army's confidently launched Second Battle of the Marne ended in a humiliating defeat that would be remembered throughout German military history.
With this battle, the Allies completely recovered the Marne salient, and the Germans were forced to flee in panic just before being encircled and annihilated. The shock was so great that they even had to pull in troops that had been preparing an offensive in the north.
But the Allies had no intention of giving Germany time to recover.
August 6.
The Anglo-French forces began moving once again.
"Sergeant?"
"What is it? If you're calling me because you saw something imaginary again, I swear I'll beat you with a mess tin."
"Look—look over there, sir. My eyesight's not great, but…"
The sergeant sighed and raised his binoculars.
The war was supposed to be happening far away, near Paris. This place was nowhere close—
"What the hell is that?"
Dust.
An enormous cloud of dust.
And once he noticed it, he could faintly feel the ground trembling from afar.
"Sound the alarm! Now!"
"Sir? Sir??"
"You idiot! Sound the alarm right now! Multiple enemy tanks! Offensive incoming!"
"Mu-multiple, sir? If I say that wrong I'll get chewed out—how many—"
"The horizon is full of tanks! Can't count them! Move!!"
A limitless army of steel, powered by the overwhelming industrial might of the United States.
For this battle, the Anglo-French forces deployed an astonishing 1,200 M1918 tanks along with around 400 Mark heavy tanks. Their goal was to completely drive back the German forces, who had been shelling the railways around Amiens as if it were routine, all the way to their pre-spring offensive positions.
"We should've ordered more tanks earlier. Fools."
"They break down easily? Inefficient? Who cares! Then just deploy more of them!"
"No preliminary bombardment needed. Crush everything."
"Tanks—advance!"
Even though tanks were prone to breakdowns and vulnerable to well-prepared anti-tank tactics, sheer numbers made traditional trench defenses useless.
To make matters worse, the Germans had already sent what little reserves they had left to Chemin des Dames, leaving them with no choice but to watch their defensive lines collapse before their eyes.
By the fourth day of the offensive, only thirty of the original 1,600 tanks remained operational—but that hardly mattered anymore. The tanks had already torn the German defenses to shreds, and that alone had decided the course of the battle.
In the Second Battle of Amiens as well, the Germans chose to retreat.
And just as they tried, as always, to catch their breath and stabilize the front—this time, the French launched another offensive along the Aisne River.
Now even the Germans themselves no longer knew how far they would have to retreat.
****
Lieutenant Colonel George Marshall had recently come to a new realization.
Who am I? Where am I?
It had started with frustration.
The 1st Division, to which he had devoted himself body and soul, had suddenly been turned into a "unit to demonstrate the strength of white men" by those who did nothing but talk in Chaumont. And even after shedding enormous amounts of blood to achieve results, they were still belittled as having accomplished less than "the Negro troops."
In such an absurd situation, there was little Marshall—merely a divisional staff officer—could do.
He had been deeply involved in operations, but that was all. Even if he wanted to intervene in everything happening within the division, doing so would be overstepping his authority.
Exhausted by endless desk work and insidious political maneuvering, Marshall finally submitted a petition.
[To the Adjutant General at Chaumont.
For several years, I have been assigned exclusively to staff duties. I am exhausted from desk work and request reassignment to a combat unit.]
Not long after, Chaumont sent a surprising reply.
[Oh my, despite your many achievements, you're dissatisfied with remaining a divisional staff officer? Then how about serving as staff for the Expeditionary Forces?]
And so Marshall, now assigned as an operations staff officer for the Expeditionary Forces, cursed the world with all his might as he made his way to Chaumont.
As if the world responded to his curses, his vehicle was forced to wait endlessly for passing supply trains, then suffered a blown tire—and even the spare tire burst—leaving him stranded on the road for hours.
Of course, wasting time like this did not cancel his reassignment.
With the dead eyes of a rotting fish, Marshall took up his new duties—and at the same time became a key figure in planning the historic independent American offensive.
And so, he now found himself receiving requests that were requests in name only.
"It's been a while. Haha. I trust you've been well?"
"Ah, I've been well enough. You're always smiling, aren't you?"
"If I don't smile, they ask why I look miserable. If I do smile, they ask why I'm grinning. So I might as well just smile. Ha. Ha. Ha."
Yujin Kim.
The very model of a meteoric rise.
A man climbing an utterly unbelievable promotion path that seemed straight out of the Civil War.
There were many in Chaumont who disliked Kim—so many that, with only slight exaggeration, one could say there were almost none who viewed him favorably.
Because he dared to stand out despite being Asian.
Because he only flattered those with influence.
Because he fraternized with Black troops just to secure a divisional command.
Because he pursued his own ambitions at the expense of other units.
Because he was greedy for achievements and incapable of generosity.
When Marshall had first arrived at Chaumont and casually spoke a few positive words about Yujin Kim, he had nearly been suffocated by the backlash.
"…Are you alright?"
"What do you mean?"
"With your rapid rise in rank, you must be under a great deal of pressure, whether you realize it or not."
"To think the great Lieutenant Colonel Marshall would worry about me—I'm deeply touched. I thought you'd be disappointed that you can't work me like a slave anymore."
"When did I ever work you like a slave?! Anyone hearing that would get the wrong idea!"
Was he still sulking over being pushed a bit hard back then? What a petty little brat! It wasn't like the work had been dumped on him—I did it together with him!
If he were my nephew, I'd have smacked his backside without hesitation—but what could I do? In the army, rank was everything.
And that very rank was proof of what kind of man Brigadier General Kim was.
Fools only cared about the title of division commander and brigadier general—but the command of the 93rd Division had originally been a poisoned chalice that everyone avoided and ran from. Now that he had succeeded and achieved great feats, those same fools trembled with resentment, thinking, "It should've been me! That yellow monkey!" Honestly, it would be better for the U.S. Army if they just died in the trenches.
"I envy you."
"You envy someone whose parents—and now even grandparents—are getting insulted? These days they're saying I've completely lost my mind after getting involved with Black troops—"
"That's not what I meant! You pretend not to care, but it clearly bothers you a lot, doesn't it?"
"Who could live like this without being shaken at all when they're constantly insulted like this…?"
He trailed off, as if a few names had come to mind.
And what made it even sadder was that Marshall could guess exactly who those names were.
"Anyway. Your current position is one that everyone envies enough to grind their teeth over. Just look at me—I even petitioned to be sent to a command post, and yet I got dragged into this Sodom and Gomorrah called Chaumont."
"Seems like the eyes at Chaumont aren't just for decoration. Honestly, you should be at least Chief of Staff of the Expeditionary Forces—"
"Don't joke."
"I'm serious."
If a distinguished division commander, the center of everyone's attention, personally sought out a familiar operations officer, the reason was obvious.
"Do you want to talk about the next offensive as well?"
"Of course. How are the plans coming along?"
"You already know that even if we want to put the 93rd Division at the front, the staff is strongly opposed. I truly am sorry—"
"Isn't that only natural? No need to worry too much. If Chaumont weren't crawling with people dying of jealousy over the 'Negro unit's' achievements, it'd be a monastery."
Yujin spoke with a sneer.
"St. Mihiel… or the Argonne Forest. One of the two, right?"
"…Yes. You're well informed. Did someone tell you?"
"General Pershing is obviously going to want an independent American offensive. If so, what other options are there?"
The correct answer was both, but Marshall forcibly kept his mouth shut before he could say it.
This man had a way of casually hitting the core of things—it made him impossible to underestimate.
One day, I should really fix that bad habit of his. No wonder he's made so many enemies, always showing off like that.
What if he were sent to D.C. to sit silently and shuffle paperwork with bureaucrats all day? After a few years of working like a machine, he'd probably break down crying—"I didn't know talking to people could be this wonderful!"—and be reborn as a proper adult.
While Marshall was making this private resolution, Yujin continued with a bright smile, praising the 93rd Division.
"From my perspective, if we consider the achievements the 'Negro unit' will make, it would actually be better to deploy us at the front."
"What do you mean?"
"If we're kept as a reserve, isn't it obvious what happens? Other units slam headfirst into the Germans, bleed heavily, get exhausted and rotated out—and then the 93rd Division comes in for the finishing blow and retakes the position. Then the commander of the relieved unit gets criticized for lacking perseverance—"
"I understand."
If someone had to be cannon fodder anyway, better to place them at the forefront from the start.
Yujin hadn't said it outright, whether intentionally or not, but even aside from achievements, simply shedding blood would give Black soldiers grounds to demand their share after the war.
Still, they had already proven their worth at Amiens, and regardless of whether they were assigned to non-combat roles now, their demands would only grow stronger—
Realizing that this line of thought wasn't really his responsibility, Marshall dismissed it.
"I understand your position. You want to be placed at the vanguard."
"Either way, we're going to get criticized. I'd rather at least take the path where we get less of it. I ask for your consideration."
"I'll be sure to bring it up with the staff."
That guy must have it rough too.
Things are already like this—once the war ends and he returns to his original rank, how much worse will it get?
At least now, during wartime, his abilities could earn recognition. But after the war, what a long and lonely fight awaited him.
For now, the only thing Marshall could do was help create opportunities for him to prove himself further.
"…Sigh."
I'd rather be out on the battlefield.
This is exactly why I didn't want to do staff work.
Lowering his head, Marshall returned once more to that dreadful staff office.
***
No matter how desperately I argued, it seemed it was still too much.
Since Amiens, I had done everything possible to maintain the unit, and I was certain that any rational judgment would inevitably lead to placing the 93rd Division at the front.
The problem was whether Chaumont would make a rational decision.
In the end, all that remained was prayer.
In that uneasy state, I attended the operations meeting—and, as expected, things went in the worst possible direction.
"Can we really say that the 93rd Division's achievements are due to their superior combat ability?"
"Based on battle reports and prisoner testimony, much of their success resulted from German complacency. Regardless of which American unit had been there, the outcome likely wouldn't have been significantly different—"
Wow. They're really tearing it apart.
So because the white divisions' performance is underwhelming, they're going to push this kind of logic?
Marshall was the only one I had some faith in, but judging by how he was grinding his teeth in the corner, even he couldn't do anything.
Man proposes, God disposes.
At this point, with the postwar period to consider, there was no need to force achievements in this war.
Clearing my mind, I began thinking about how to persuade the men of the 93rd Division to go home quietly without losing morale. If headlines like [93rd Division Soldiers Riot] appeared in the newspapers, I'd be done for.
That is—until he showed up.
"What the hell kind of nonsense are you all spouting right now?!"
That booming, thunderous voice.
A barbarian bursting through the door.
A radiant aura trailing behind him.
A riding crop in his hand, as if he were Jesus Christ himself about to drive the merchants out of the temple.
Whether or not he realized the blasphemous image he evoked, the medieval knight born a thousand years too late finally roared—
"You sons of bitches who don't know a damn thing about the battlefield—where do you get off flapping your slick tongues like that?! Want to die?!"
Could you tone down the language a bit?
When you talk like that, it drags even a refined, reasonable man like me down with you, you know.
READ MORE CHAPTERS HERE : https://beastnovels.com