The Hundred Days Offensive (3)
"Now that you've got a star, are you suddenly afraid of losing your life, junior?!"
"No. They say if I show off at the front lines again, they'll kill me."
Because of the relentless rain, even the cigarettes were soaked through. The damn thing wouldn't light—annoying as hell.
Whether I was irritated or not, Patton—grinning at the thought of dragging a tank right back to the front again—burst out laughing when he saw my crumpled expression.
"Who said that? Don't tell me General Pershing? He's not the type to do that."
"The General of the Army in Washington, D.C."
"Oh… wait… did Mrs. Kim contact you?"
"She said if another article comes out about me riding a tank and shooting at the front lines, she'll enlist in the Women's Air Corps—so I should behave myself."
"…May you rest in peace. Whether it's you or me, the women around us are no ordinary people. I'm honestly afraid my younger sister might shoot me when I get home."
There's someone who can make this medieval-style madman nervous? That's unexpected.
"Did you do something wrong to your sister?"
"I happened to introduce her to a man, and they even got engaged. But something went wrong."
"There's a Korean saying: if matchmaking goes well, you get three cups of wine; if it goes badly, you get three slaps. You should've recommended someone decent."
Given it's the Patton family, maybe it's three bullets instead. I'd never even met her, but just hearing the surname Patton made me look at things differently.
I could already guess what kind of guy Patton had introduced. Probably someone just as unhinged as him—no wonder his sister couldn't take it anymore.
"I thought the man was quite decent. It's not like I actively pushed them together… Anyway, the guy came here to France and fell for another woman."
"And you're letting him live? Just wait. I'll personally make it so that bastard's balls go from existing to having never existed—"
I owed Patton quite a bit. I should shoot that spineless bastard who made his fiancée cry and tie him to the hood of my Black Lotus, then drive sixty-nine kilometers.
"Well… killing him would be a bit difficult."
"How high-ranking is he that even you, Patton, say it's difficult? What, is he General Pershing or something?"
Patton came over and put a cigarette in his mouth.
Then slowly, heavily, he nodded.
What a damn rotten world.
We smoked for a long while, watching the moon, before parting ways.
Seeing that eccentric man wear such an expression, I couldn't bring myself to say what I had planned about the meeting earlier.
***
"The enemy is coming through Saint-Mihiel!"
"There are numerous signs indicating an American concentration of forces."
"We've entrenched eight divisions and two brigades in concrete bunkers across the high ground. The Americans won't be able to take this place."
"We only need to hold until the rainy season begins. The lowlands will turn into swamps—perfect conditions for us, and the worst for the enemy."
The German army was no fool.
The Americans' movements were far too straightforward—typical of the Allies—and any seasoned Prussian general could easily read the shape of the front and the Americans' impatience, predicting their next move.
But the Americans weren't without justification either. The success of the Saint-Mihiel offensive was critically important to them.
"Why not step down and hand over command? If the Americans suffer a crushing defeat, the consequences will be enormous—"
"In that case, I'd rather return home."
For an army long dismissed as second-rate by second-rate powers, the U.S. Army needed to cut off the Germans' heads to stand as a true pillar of the Allied forces.
Marshal Foch, the Allied Supreme Commander, had already been looking for an excuse to dissolve the U.S. First Army and subordinate American forces under the Anglo-French command. If this offensive failed, he would not hesitate to do so.
Cornered, Pershing had no choice but to grit his teeth and declare, "Not only will we capture Saint-Mihiel, but we will also reclaim the Meuse River and the Argonne Forest with American forces alone!"
Declaring the recapture of a fortress the French had failed to retake since 1914 was one thing—
—but as always, when those at the top say, "I don't like that mountain," it's the ones below who have to dig it out.
Meanwhile, Private John Miller—one of those who had to do the digging—had now been promoted to Private First Class.
The proud 369th Regiment of the 93rd Division had been issued a new weapon: the remarkable B.A.R. On the day it was distributed, the division commander reportedly shouted three cheers and talked endlessly about this new marvel.
"It's good we got machine guns, but is it really that great?"
"Well… uh… anyway, the key point is that we can fire over the Jerries' heads while advancing! With this 'Jerry thresher,' those bastards won't be able to move!"
As with all things in the army, by the time the story reached PFC Miller, it had turned into something bizarre:
"The division commander, having bestowed upon us this marvelous rifle of Vulcan, named it the 'Jerry Thresher,' and ordered that the men with the strongest arms in each squad be chosen to crack open Jerry skulls."
Unfortunately, Miller—who had gone through college and worked as a lawyer—did not possess a rugged upper body. Thus, the task of operating the so-called "Holy Thresher of Antioch" fell to Private Jones beside him.
After initially distributing the B.A.R., Division Commander Kim's first action was, absurdly, to take them back.
"Seriously, this amazing gun doesn't even have a bipod?"
"It's meant to be fired while carried, like the Chauchat—"
"I've always thought that way of using the Chauchat was idiotic. I didn't even want to give that horrible excuse for a weapon to our troops as a machine gun, but using this as a Chauchat substitute would be a sin. Just shut up and modify it to attach a bipod."
Chief of Staff Omar Bradley, as usual cursing all the while, carried out a crude field modification. Ugly and rough as it was, the weapon now had a makeshift bipod. The soldiers joked that it looked like it had received the blessing of a kung fu master.
And now, that "blessed" B.A.R. was threshing Jerry skulls with astonishing effectiveness.
Dudududududu!
"Jones! Fire! Keep firing!"
"The ammo's going way too fast!!"
It was hell.
The Jerries were dug into trenches on high ground, gleefully pouring down a storm of lead.
Normally, they would be crawling on their bellies, praying that the trees in front of them wouldn't collapse and hoping their mortars would wipe out the enemy—but now Jones was firing back enthusiastically, at least making the Germans flinch.
"Squad, advance! Prepare to clear the barbed wire!"
"Kill the Jerries!"
"Let's gooooo!!"
They charged forward, stomping hard through ground turned to a mess by five days of rain.
Mud splashed all over their bodies and faces, but no one cared.
The neat freaks died first. The ones who hesitated died next.
With no thoughts at all, a squad of bullets made of flesh and blood surged forward as one.
While the riflemen provided covering fire from behind, the soldiers armed with Grease Guns dashed outside the machine gun's firing range, rushing ahead to throw grenades at the Jerries—
"Get down! Get dooown!!"
"W-what?!"
"Mortar!"
BOOM!!
The ground right beside Miller caved in, and a massive column of water shot upward.
A chill ran down his spine.
His courage vanished, replaced by the realization that he had almost died.
If the ground hadn't been such a mess, shards of wood or stone might have torn into his body.
But if he let that fear take hold here, he would never be able to stand up again.
Still…
He was afraid.
His limbs trembled uncontrollably. At some point, his pants had grown damp.
Then, like a gramophone song he had grown sick of hearing in training camp, a voice echoed in his ears.
'Courage isn't charging like a madman into enemy machine guns.'
'Humans are rational animals! That's why we're afraid! Terrified! Damn it, even I pissed myself a few times at Cambrai—who the hell are you to act tough!'
'Remember this. Accept your fear! The one who loses fear dies first. The will to face fear—that is courage! And only those who rise with courage can taste the fruits of freedom!'
Rise with courage.
Stand up… and return to the families of the fallen comrades.
Not with a notice of death—but in person, as the one who witnessed their final moments.
"Can you get up?"
"I'm alive! I'm still alive!"
"Good. That's enough. As long as all your limbs are still attached, that's all that matters."
The squad leader slapped him across the face a few times before returning to his position. I'll add that to the bill too, you bastard.
"Where the hell are our tanks? What are they even doing?!"
"How the hell should I know! Stop looking for tanks that aren't here and do something about that damn machine gun!"
At that very moment, with a sharp whistling sound, the sky thundered.
"Planes—please, just—!"
"Just hit this spot once before you go! Please!!"
Tourists of the sky.
Those bastards would leisurely drift through the air, and only when they felt like it would they drop a bomb or two as a tip before disappearing.
They always bombed someone else's unit and only showed their faces to ours before leaving.
"Damn it, I should've applied to be a pilot."
"A Black guy becoming a pilot? Dream big, why don't you."
Private Hopper, who had crawled up right behind him, cut in while lying prone.
"Why wouldn't I be able to? Just wait. Kim said he'd open the door someday."
"Yeah, right. I'd sooner believe a woman flies planes."
"They really do—"
BOOM!!
"Wooooooah!!"
"Holy shit! Thank you! Thank you so damn much!!"
"I love you! I love you, baby! Drop just one more!!"
"I'm sorry for calling you a white bastard! You're the best!!"
The machine-gun nest that had been pouring fire onto them moments ago was completely wiped out by the bombing run.
As they sent roaring cheers up to the sky, the pilot seemed to understand, waggling his wings lightly before dropping another blazing gift. BOOM!!
"The forward machine-gun position is gone! Keep advancing!"
"Let's goooo! We still need more supplies!"
"Freedom! Freeedooom!!"
Miller and Hopper immediately sprang up and rushed toward where the machine-gun nest had once been.
There, limbs that had once belonged to human bodies and torn entrails were scattered gruesomely, while a few surviving soldiers trembled like aspen leaves.
"Surrender! Surrender!!"
"Drop your weapons!"
"U-uh… I… I surrender."
One German soldier, his rifle nowhere to be seen, answered in halting English.
"You speak English?"
"I… was an English teacher."
"Then hurry and say it in German. Tell them all to surrender."
"Y-yes… understood."
As he stammered out a shout, soldiers hidden all around began throwing down their rifles one by one and emerging. Some had been hiding in places no one would have imagined, startling the Americans.
"…Is it really okay for them to surrender this easily? Do Germans even surrender?"
"How old are you?"
"…Twenty-five."
"My eldest son is twenty-four. Try being dragged to a foreign land at that age to seize someone else's country. Wouldn't you think about surrendering?"
At those words, Miller looked closely at the surrendered soldiers' faces—every one of them was old enough to be his uncle or even his father.
"@^@#$^@"
"#@&%*!!"
"What are they saying? Tell them if they try anything funny, we'll shoot immediately."
At Miller's words, the soldier smirked and translated.
"They're grumbling, 'Damn it, I should've voted for the Social Democrats.' The one next to him is telling him to shut up."
"Social Democrats?"
"That one's a red. Be careful—you might catch it. No doubt he'll pull out a Communist Manifesto from his coat and start preaching, so you'd better throw him in a camp quickly."
If Germans had really voted for the Reds, would this war have even started?
Private Miller didn't know. He had never voted himself, after all.
But judging from the fact that "those bastards without parents" were, according to his respected division commander, the people mentioned second most often—namely the Reds—it seemed that whether or not the Germans had chosen them, the war would have happened anyway.
Still…
At least they had the right to choose. That much, he envied.
***
September 11.
Unlike some of the battles I had experienced before, this time an especially "special" gift had been prepared for the Jerries.
The air force.
Now, we had taken the skies from Germany.
Our observation balloons steadily relayed reconnaissance data, and the artillery, receiving those coordinates, gleefully rained shells down on the enemy's heads.
With no less than 1,500 aircraft mobilized for this offensive, Germany had no room to counterattack. Even in World War II, how many years did Germany truly hold air superiority against the Western Allies? At this point, it might as well be considered a racial trait.
German airfields, bridges, command headquarters, bunkers, railway stations, crossings, supply depots, logistics hubs, ammunition stores—anything belonging to the Germans that could be seen was showered with burning bombs.
They must have worked hard to fortify everything in preparation for a fight—but the U.S. Army wasn't foolish enough to charge headfirst into that. Of course, it had to all be wiped clean first.
The date changed—September 12.
As a steady drizzle lowered the soldiers' body temperatures—
At last, thousands of artillery pieces roared to life at once, and the Battle of Saint-Mihiel began. The German army was completely checkmated.
The battle ended in just four days. The U.S. Army achieved a perfect strategic victory.
Riding that momentum, the Americans advanced immediately toward their next objective—the Argonne Forest.
And if my memory serves me right…
Out of the 1.2 million troops who marched into the Argonne, 120,000 became casualties.
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