White Knight (2)
The Spanish flu.
A product of humanity's obsession with perfecting the art of killing—an epidemic that would claim more lives than World War I itself.
I had called a meeting, but no one yet shared my sense of urgency.
"As you mentioned, the proportion of influenza patients is gradually increasing. However, compared to normal years, there is not yet a significant rise in severe cases or fatalities."
As the chief medical officer presented various statistics, the consensus quickly formed that my concerns were premature.
"I still don't think the upward trend itself is a good sign."
"That much is true."
"At the front, proper sanitation measures are impossible. But we're in the rear, and we also have limits on receiving replacements. Let's at least do what we can."
Right now, I had no real weapon to fight this massive disease.
No—modern humanity itself didn't.
Humanity had already built a modern medical system. We knew that it wasn't ghosts or miasma, but germs that attacked the human body. We had statistics, and we had scientific methodology.
And yet—we had no weapon to fight those germs.
Even I felt like I was going insane. The doctors must have been under far greater strain. It wasn't like the chief medical officer wanted to downplay things.
Penicillin hadn't even been invented yet.
I vaguely remembered that alcohol disinfectants were commonly used during outbreaks. But it's not like you can just splash liquor or ethanol around and call it a day. And I didn't have the capability to produce proper disinfectant anyway.
Sure, I had scraps of knowledge—something about alcohol above 70% having disinfecting effects. But I could guarantee one thing: if I issued something like that to my men, it would all be turned into drink before Jesus Christ could die and rise again.
Just as cats instinctively eat fish, soldiers instinctively try to make alcohol. These were the same people who turned methanol from torpedoes into booze. Seventy-percent ethanol? Not a chance it survives.
Masks.
The only measure that actually existed. But not the proper masks of the 21st century—just cloth or fabric covering the face. I had no idea how effective that really was.
At least the 93rd Division was in the rear right now, so I could tell them to wear masks. The moment they returned to the trenches, though, all of this would become meaningless.
In trenches so filthy that even a sewer would seem clean, you catch everything except maybe AIDS.
In the end, the measures I could take were extremely limited—and most of them would only build resentment among the soldiers.
"If you want proper quarantine measures, the most effective option is ultimately a complete restriction on leave."
"Even if the men currently worship you like some god among them, the moment you ban all leave, you'll become worse than Judas Iscariot."
Colonel Hayward added cautiously, "That might be… a bit much."
I know. I know.
A commander who bans leave—he'd deserve to get shot. But if they mix with civilians, any attempt at disease control becomes meaningless from the start.
That was my biggest dilemma.
Given the reality of the era, even if I launched full-scale preventive measures, they wouldn't be very effective.
And the influenza would only get worse, not better. If I started restricting the men now, by the time it peaked, they might go mad after being cut off from the outside world for months.
"…For now, let's monitor the situation. Isolate anyone showing symptoms, enforce personal hygiene through command directives, and prohibit overcrowding in confined spaces."
"Yes, sir."
"And from what I can see, unsanitary battlefield conditions always carry the risk of an outbreak. If an epidemic occurs, we must be able to isolate entire units immediately. From now on, leave will be granted on a unit basis."
"That shouldn't be a major issue."
"And let's procure masks in bulk at the division level."
It couldn't be helped. We'd just have to do what we could.
All I could do was write letters—to home, to Chaumont, to acquaintances—and pray that nothing happened.
Driving a car straight into enemy lines was easy.
But this helplessness, standing against nature itself… that was something I simply couldn't overcome.
***
By the time April was coming to an end, American forces began appearing on the battlefield in earnest.
Starting with the 93rd Division—which had struck like the wind and vanished just as quickly, leaving the Germans shaken and terrified—followed by the 1st Division, 2nd Division, 26th Division, and 42nd Division.
Each time another American unit entered the front, the Germans felt the pressure mounting—but they couldn't afford to stop their offensive.
The offensive around Amiens—failed.
The offensive in Flanders—also failed.
Third time's the charm.
The Germans were now preparing their third offensive: Operation Blücher.
The plan was to seize the high ground along the Aisne River—specifically the Chemin des Dames—and from there advance toward Paris.
If successful, they could reclaim the key terrain lost during the Nivelle Offensive and ride that momentum to threaten Paris itself. The Allies would be forced to rush their forces south, and then—once again—an opening would appear to strike Flanders or Amiens.
More importantly, newly acquired intelligence gave them even greater confidence.
The British forces, battered and exhausted from recent German assaults, had been redeployed to the Chemin des Dames sector to rest.
What could be easier than beating a crippled enemy who had already been pummeled half to death? If they failed even this, Prussian pride would be in shambles.
The German army crouched low, preparing for the next offensive.
Because if this one failed too, the consequences would be… grim.
And the Allies weren't just sitting idle either.
At the end of March, as the German offensives were reaching their peak, Pershing had finally been forced to bend—at least slightly—and make concessions to Allied Supreme Commander Franz.
The reason was simple.
The overwhelming success of the 93rd Division had strengthened Franz's argument:
"Closer cooperation will bring greater results."
With that, Ferdinand Foch was no longer just a mediator—he now bore the immense responsibility of shaping the grand strategy of the entire Allied force.
But his road ahead was anything but easy.
He had to clash not only with Philippe Pétain, the commander-in-chief of France, but also with politicians from every Allied nation, all while holding the coalition together.
And standing directly in the path the Germans intended to advance—
was a division painstakingly built by the United States:
the 1st Division.
***
The bombardment never ceased.
George C. Marshall rubbed his temples as he alternated between the operations map and a thick stack of documents.
The battle of the 1st Division was not a simple matter.
If anything, it was deeply political.
After the 93rd Division achieved its miraculous victory and marched through Paris, the 1st Division had, absurdly enough, become the symbol of the "real U.S. Army"—or more bluntly, the "white U.S. Army."
From Marshall's perspective, he wanted nothing more than to storm into Chaumont and tell them to fix their logistics before spouting such nonsense.
But no matter how he looked at it, things were shaping up into a rivalry—
93rd Division vs. 1st Division.
At first, the natural rival had been the 42nd Division—the Rainbow Division—led by Douglas MacArthur, a man who embodied symbolism, broke records, and thrived on the front lines.
But recently, MacArthur—after inhaling a lungful of poison gas and barely recovering—had responded cynically to requests that he become the standard-bearer of "white units."
"Are you all insane? 'White units'? If you have time for that nonsense, volunteer for the front instead. The Germans are right in front of us—White Power? What I need is firepower. Give me more artillery!"
After being thoroughly chewed out, those same people had turned to the 1st Division instead.
Unfortunately for them, General Bullard was not the type to lash out like MacArthur.
"If those idiots had their way, they wouldn't be satisfied unless we pulled off an encirclement and captured a division flag."
"Sir, you shouldn't concern yourself with that."
"Yes, of course I shouldn't. But you understand, don't you? Even General Pershing himself has come all the way here. What do you think that means?"
The division commander let out a deep sigh.
For the 1st Division, the consensus among leadership was clear:
Holding their ground was enough.
The top priority was to acclimate the troops to the battlefield—
to the terrain around Cantigny, and to the complex trench systems.
And unlike during the 93rd Division's operations, the Germans were not underestimating the Americans this time.
They were methodically testing them—
with relentless artillery barrages mixed with poison gas.
…Damn it, Yujin. That guy went too far.
If you fleece a sucker all by yourself, what are the rest of us supposed to do?
Now that same sucker won't make a big bet unless he's holding a royal straight flush.
"By the way, I heard that legendary commander of the 93rd Division sent you a letter?"
"Yes, sir."
"I see. Bragging, was he?"
"It wasn't bragging—it was concern. Since it relates to official matters, I believe it's fine to share."
"Official matters?"
General Bullard frowned, puzzled. What official business could a rear-positioned division possibly have with a staff officer of the 1st Division?
"There are signs of influenza spreading within the 93rd Division."
"…Ah. I've heard some talk about that recently. If it's affecting them as well, then it's not just a result of filthy trench conditions."
"Brigadier General Kim believes the influenza will grow worse."
"Hm. But it's just influenza, isn't it? It may weaken combat effectiveness, but there's not much we can do. We can't evacuate men just for coughing."
"That's exactly the problem. Knowing something is wrong, yet being unable to act."
"Frankly, I'm more concerned about trench foot than influenza. Ask any frontline soldier—if you had to evacuate one, who would it be?"
That was true.
Influenza might pass with time—but trench foot could leave a man crippled.
"For now, we'll just emphasize stricter hygiene."
"I'll inform the medical officer. Now then, moving on to the next agenda—"
…Is this really enough?
Marshall hesitated inwardly, but there was no choice.
The priority was simply too low.
The Yujin Kim he knew was not someone who would mention something trivial.
If he brought up influenza, it wasn't idle talk—it meant he had seen signs of something serious.
And if he was merely advising another unit to "be cautious," then in his own division…
he was probably already raising hell trying to contain it.
"For now, our top priority is ensuring sufficient ammunition supply."
"That matter has already been raised. At Chaumont, some of the shells originally intended for the French—"
In the end, matters of sanitation were, strictly speaking, outside his authority.
If only he were a division commander—or at least a chief of staff—there might have been more he could do.
For the first time in a long while,
Marshall felt a deep, burning desire for a higher position.
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