White Knight
[Hero of Cambrai, Defender of Amiens!]
[The strength of the United States! Ally of great France, protector of freedom!]
[The German claw, crushed in just 48 hours?!]
Step. Step. Step. Step.
Every movement perfectly aligned.
Discipline that shone without a single command.
The U.S. Army's 93rd Division marched proudly through the streets of Paris.
At its head, as always, their division commander rode in the Black Lotus, waving to the citizens of Paris.
A miracle of a man—becoming a division commander at just twenty-five.
From Cambrai to Amiens, always shamelessly standing at the very front of the line.
And perhaps because the 93rd Division had an unusually high proportion of educated soldiers compared to other units, there were, naturally, some who looked at this Asian division commander with suspicion.
'He's just an honorary white anyway. Must've wanted promotion so badly he took command of people like us.'
'Only Black men can be trusted, you idiots. Whether they're white Yankees or slant-eyed Asians, they're all the same.'
'Looks like he was pretty desperate for glory himself. Hah.'
But at Amiens, he proved himself—by returning with his vehicle riddled with bullet holes.
And at Chaumont, he proved once more who he was—rejecting the filthy grasp of white officials and choosing to remain beside his men.
Even those who had held onto doubt and suspicion until the very end fell silent after hearing what had happened at Chaumont, spreading from the driver's account.
Of course, the future that lay before them was still blocked by a solid wall.
But their division commander was relentlessly hammering at that wall.
"Waaaaaah!!!"
"I… have no regrets now."
"Thank you! Thank you!"
From babies in strollers to old men in wheelchairs, all of Paris poured into the streets to warmly welcome these proud defenders.
The ever-passionate Parisians had decided to burn brightly for this one day, celebrating the victorious parade.
At first, the soldiers were stunned by the unimaginable sight—being welcomed by white people.
Then, one by one, they began to sob.
U.S. medals? Who cares.
Their division commander had said with a heavy face, "Just wait a little longer. It's not the time yet."
But the scene unfolding before their eyes right now—this was the very future that young commander had promised.
"Come here!"
"Huh? Mmph—!!"
One marching soldier was overwhelmed by the full-force charge of a young woman and dragged out of formation. And of course, no true Parisian would miss such entertainment—
The crowd whistled and cheered, shouting, "What a handsome couple!" instead of stopping it, only fanning the flames further.
The electric atmosphere reached its peak when the award ceremony was held in the heart of Paris.
Officers—and even ordinary enlisted men—received medals befitting their deeds amid thunderous cheers. Not a single one of them could hold back their emotions.
After that dazzling victory parade ended—
I received a secret invitation from General Nollet.
"Yujin Kim reporting."
"Come in! Have a drink!"
Now I understood why he told me to dress casually.
After being guided through a maze of back alleys by a French soldier, I arrived at a shabby tavern that could have existed anywhere.
Beside General Nollet sat two older men. At a glance, they radiated that unmistakable military aura—faces carved with stern seriousness. There's no mistaking that kind of look.
I carefully took a seat and accepted a glass.
"This is Yujin Kim. A young man with a very bright future."
"Tall and sharp-looking. Definitely officer material. You've been a great help."
"A pleasure."
Nollet began introducing them one by one.
"This gentleman here is Lieutenant General Debeney, commander of the First Army—our corps' superior command."
…Damn. A big shot.
From what I knew, he had served as Chief of Staff under Pétain, the current French commander-in-chief. That meant serious connections.
"And this gentleman… perhaps you recognize him?"
"…?"
I studied the quiet old man for a moment.
If Nollet was saying that, he must be someone famous—but who would I know—
"Could it be…?"
"Mm."
"Is he… the person I'm thinking of?"
"That would be correct. This is General Pétain, the current commander-in-chief of the French Army. Ah, no need to salute."
…Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Why the hell is Pétain sitting in this run-down tavern, drinking with a straight face?
In history, Pétain is far better known as the head of the infamous Vichy France regime.
But right now, he stood at the peak of his life—defending his nation against Germany, leading the French Army in its most critical hour. The pinnacle of both his career and a soldier's honor.
Knowing that he would later be branded a traitor and dragged through a long, miserable downfall made the moment feel… indescribably strange.
"It's an honor to meet pillars of France such as yourselves. Thank you very much."
"No need for that. We were curious about you as well… and we also wished to offer an apology."
General Nollet turned his glass slowly, as if choosing his words carefully.
"You know why we're treating you like this, don't you?"
"Because you need us, I assume."
"That's right. General Pétain and General Franz here have been hounded by politicians lately. Sent out to defend the nation, only to get beaten down and return."
It couldn't be helped.
To those unfamiliar with the military, it looked as if Germany—after crushing Russia and Italy—was now pushing back Britain and France with ease.
The French Army had suffered major mutinies just a year ago. The public was still exhausted by war.
In such a situation, a unit with a striking, undeniable victory record was exactly the kind of thing politicians wanted to use for propaganda.
And honestly, I didn't mind at all.
"Of course, I understand the necessity for you to do this. But whether it benefited me and my soldiers—that's a separate matter entirely."
Someone might call France's actions hypocritical.
But from my position—being the one receiving medals—my first thought was: Who cares if it's hypocrisy?
Say a rich man donates a hundred million won to an orphanage just for tax benefits.
From the orphanage's perspective, who cares why he did it? They still got the donation.
France and the 93rd Division—both sides win.
That's what you call a clean deal.
"Thank you for your understanding."
"Not at all. I will never forget France's generosity."
After that, we didn't speak of the war any further.
Mostly, General Nollet and I did the talking. Occasionally, General Debeney chimed in.
And throughout it all, Pétain remained silent.
Even though we were laughing and chatting, in truth, no one could really drink.
The German offensive wasn't over yet.
It wasn't just a matter of stopping the next attack—what mattered more was whether this country still had the will to keep fighting at all.
***
What is wrong with these people…
Clutching my head from a hangover, I could only click my tongue as I read the morning newspaper.
"Ha-ji. Ha-ji?"
"Yes, sir."
"…Is this newspaper printed just for me?"
"Didn't you drink too much?"
"…Right?"
Just how desperate were they for propaganda?
The French press was singing praises at full volume.
[Great France discovers a pearl in the mud!]
[Warriors abandoned by their homeland, embraced by the true land of freedom]
[Freedom had no place for the fighters of freedom: The tragedy of the 93rd Division abandoned by America]
What the hell—what does that make me then?!
Were they really that starved for national pride? They were practically screaming, "Look how great France is! How can we give up just because the war is a bit tough?!"—desperately trying to restore their national morale.
Ha… this is irritating.
According to the articles, the 93rd Division had achieved great feats, but the narrow-minded and selfish Yankees couldn't even conceive of honoring Black soldiers, so they tried to bury all their achievements.
However, noble and free France—a nation that respects the rights of Black people—could not ignore such valor, even if they were Black. And so, despite the opposition of those petty, insidious Yankees, France boldly carried out this victory parade! Ah! Glorious France! Will you still spread defeatism while such a great nation stands in crisis?!
"…I've become a complete clown."
"Won't Chaumont have something to say about this?"
"So what if they do? Now that it's blown up this much, they won't even be able to open their mouths."
At this point, it couldn't turn into an ugly public fight between France and the United States. If France was going this far, we had to yield a step.
Though… that "narrow-minded and selfish mindset"… you guys will be doing the exact same thing thirty years from now.
Grumbling to myself, I returned to Chaumont in surprisingly good spirits—
—and was immediately summoned by General Pershing.
"Brigadier General Kim."
"I'm sorry! Please spare me!"
"…Don't kneel. Where is the dignity of a United States general?"
If you told me to roll around barking like a dog, I'd do that too, sir.
"There will be no court-martial."
"…Pardon?"
"I've already spoken to the victims personally. Apologize later and shake hands—that will suffice."
Pershing spoke as if spitting the words out.
"You're quite the problem yourself. Do you admit that?"
"I do."
"No matter how your rank might technically justify it, beating them like that… honestly, it almost felt refreshing—"
"Cough, cough!"
"—You'll remain under restriction for a while."
The chief of staff beside him suddenly coughed loudly, and I didn't quite catch the rest. Probably nothing important.
"Would you like me to put it gently, or plainly?"
"There's nothing to hide. Please speak plainly."
"First, the 93rd Division cannot be sent to the battlefield for the time being."
"…What do you mean by that?!"
I raised my voice, and the chief of staff frowned. Hold it in. Hold it in.
"The 93rd Division's achievements are remarkable, but reorganization will take considerable time."
"…Because they're Black?"
"It's not because I'm a racist. It's reality."
This all stemmed from the nature of the 93rd Division—as a Black unit.
Unlike other units, which could simply receive replacements from across the Atlantic, we had to recruit Black soldiers, train them, and then wait for them to cross the ocean before receiving reinforcements.
The war would be over before that!
"Do you require further explanation?"
"If we disband the 372nd Regiment and two brigade headquarters and reorganize into three regiments, we can maintain sufficient combat power. Once the wounded return, we'll have no issue operating at division level."
"That may be so. Which is why I said 'for now.' First, complete the reorganization. After that, the 93rd Division will be placed directly under Expeditionary Forces command, as originally planned."
…Haa. At least we weren't being cast out entirely.
But I wasn't stupid enough to miss the subtle nuance in Pershing's words.
Within the Expeditionary Forces, there was clearly a growing movement that could no longer tolerate Black soldiers receiving such recognition.
Naturally, they would now wait for another white unit to achieve comparable results.
The endless French propaganda had undoubtedly wounded American pride—especially here at headquarters. According to those articles, we looked like third-rate villains.
So what remained was the ugly excuse: "That level of achievement? Anyone in our invincible U.S. Army could do that."
Invincible U.S. Army… huh. That oddly rolls off the tongue. Reminds me of a certain pair of twins for some reason—
"Also, there will be no further promotion for you."
"Yes, sir."
That was only natural.
Considering I got off without a court-martial, this was basically the price I had to pay.
"Your current rank was essentially paid in advance. Remember this: you weren't promoted because of your achievements—rather, if you had failed to achieve anything, it would have been taken from you."
"I understand."
The chief of staff's gaze felt like… the look a mother gives after you break the neighbor's window playing baseball. Come on, it wasn't that big of a mistake…
"Good. Take care of your unit. And come up to Chaumont more often. From what I can see, your absence here was the primary cause of this whole mess."
"Understood!"
Alright. That more or less wraps it up.
Once we finish reorganizing, fight off the next German offensive, and get through the Hundred Days Offensive, the war will be over.
With achievements no one can deny, the road ahead should be smooth.
Smiling to myself, I returned to camp—
"Yujin. I need to talk to you for a moment."
"Is it urgent?"
"No, not really. Just something you should know."
As usual, Bradley handed me a stack of documents.
"Lately, more soldiers have been coming down with colds. I've ordered stricter hygiene measures—"
"A cold?"
"Yes. A cold. Or maybe influenza? Anyway, the medical officers are saying—"
"Call all commanders immediately!"
Bradley's eyes widened at my sudden shout, but I didn't have time to explain.
…Damn it.
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