White Knight (3)
May 27, 1918.
As the German Army launched its third spring offensive—Operation Blücher—the Allied forces were once again forced to spill an immense amount of blood.
"They gave up Chemin des Dames?"
"Are they insane?! They've all lost their minds! Why would they give that up?! Aaaagh!"
Chemin des Dames was, by its very terrain, a naturally impregnable stronghold.
France had lost it in vain at the beginning of the war, and only after shedding an enormous amount of blood had they barely managed to retake it last year.
And now?
They had just given it up again in a matter of days?
Pétain, the Commander-in-Chief of the French Army, had originally suggested to Duchêne, the commander of the Sixth Army responsible for its defense, that instead of stubbornly holding the line, it might be better to fight flexibly while falling back.
But Duchêne insisted it could be held—and the result was a miserably hollow defeat. It was only natural that the political sphere erupted in outrage.
"The Jerries lack mobility! Any fools trying encirclement tactics—blow them all to pieces!"
"We're not done yet! Move immediately to the next operation—Gneisenau!"
Even so, the Allies poured in every available reserve, managing at least to prevent this massive breakthrough from turning into a full encirclement.
And while the German Empire burned its last reserves, struggling to advance even a single step further—
The high-ranking officials of the Allied nations had already begun arguing over postwar shares.
Whether ordinary citizens were driven into the trenches to die meant little to them.
In fact, it was the opposite.
After shedding enough blood to wipe out an entire generation, there was a growing fear that failing to secure sufficient compensation might lead to national upheaval.
Already, agitators calling for anti-war movements and strikes were spreading everywhere, and with the founding of the Soviet Union—the world's first communist state—that fear had begun tightening around their throats.
Britain and France could not escape it.
***
At the end of May, the U.S. Army's 1st Division secured victory in a series of battles at Cantigny.
However, it was not enough to significantly affect the overall war, and the German forces continued their relentless advance toward Paris.
Because of that, some individuals were dissatisfied.
"Why can't we achieve greater feats than that Negro unit? What on earth is General Bullard doing?"
"Even so, driving the Germans back and capturing Cantigny is a great achievement."
"Even if that Negro unit won, didn't they just give up a lot of land—trading flesh for a bit of muscle? How is that a proper victory? The 1st Division liberated French territory from the Germans—that's a far more legitimate accomplishment. Their calculations are wrong from the start."
Of course, not everyone in Chaumont was unhinged, and there were those who grew frustrated watching such attitudes.
"Paris is already within range of German artillery, and you think whining about some damn Negro unit's achievements matters right now?"
"If we lose this war, those bastards will probably blame it on them too."
"We need to deploy Yujin Kim immediately!"
"But the 93rd Division is still recovering from the losses at Amiens—"
"The British and French divisions aren't fully intact either. Let's be honest. Among all the units we have, the one that can shake the Germans psychologically the most is the 93rd Division!"
In the end, the discussion circled back to the core conflict: whether or not to deploy the 93rd Division.
Pershing had spent years forging a blade that would not yield to endless political and external pressure—the 500,000-strong U.S. First Army.
Even setting aside racial perspectives, the question remained: would including the 93rd Division be the finishing touch, or would it instead cause division within the U.S. Army due to racial tensions?
Not only Chaumont, but even British and French generals argued fiercely over it.
"General Pershing! When will the 93rd Division return to the front?"
"We are currently considering assigning the 93rd Division to reserve duty—"
"Ridiculous! The Jerries are right at the gates of Paris! What use is a 'reserve' now? If you hate dealing with Negro troops so much, then hand them over to the French like before!"
"That is not possible. This is an internal matter of the United States."
"You stubborn fool!"
After shouting matches and returning to headquarters in Chaumont, Pershing was greeted, as always, by the political maneuvering of his staff.
"Sir, the construction of our trenches and roads is progressing too slowly."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, sir. With the demand for non-combat labor higher than ever, we propose reducing excessive reserve forces to meet that demand—"
"There's no need to dress it up so elegantly. You're suggesting we disband the 93rd Division and have the Negroes dig trenches."
"C-cough!"
"As I've said before, overstepping authority will not be tolerated under any circumstances."
Amid this den of tangled intentions, schemes, and hidden agendas—
"Ah. This is the division commander speaking. Division commander speaking."
I, meanwhile, was doing something extremely important.
"Hands like this! Get soap between your fingers! Scrub thoroughly! Got it, you bastards?! Any unit with even one man showing dirty fingernails gets no leave!"
"SIR, YES SIR!"
Proper handwashing instruction is critically important. Absolutely.
Let them make all the fuss they want.
In the end, they'll have no choice but to call for us.
All I have to do until then is keep our combat strength intact.
So wash your damn hands, you idiots.
This mother is about to lose her mind.
***
After capturing Chemin des Dames and advancing toward Paris, the German offensive ultimately stalled due to their chronic weakness—their inadequate supply system.
No matter how bravely the frontline soldiers fought, without the ability to quickly deliver food and ammunition, their advance—like always—ground to a halt.
The U.S. 2nd and 3rd Divisions, after fierce and bloody fighting, broke the spearhead of the German advance toward Paris, proving that the American army was far from a weak, second-rate force.
But the Germans did not give up. The runaway train had already gone too far to stop.
And then—
"Deputy Chief of Staff."
"Don't tell me we've been defeated. The operation—was it successful?"
Ludendorff received a report in which countless deaths had been reduced to a single line of numbers.
"The number of reported influenza cases has surpassed 500,000."
"Five hundred thousand…?"
"The operation is no longer possible. We must withdraw."
"That's impossible. No… no, that's impossible! Why?! What were the army doctors doing?! The medical corps?! The Empire—our Empire—brought down by something as trivial as a cold—"
"We must begin censoring the press immediately. No article that could allow inference about our military situation can be published."
"Yes… yes, that's right. Conceal it as much as possible. We must make it appear that we still have sufficient strength."
June.
At last, the White Knight of pestilence raised its chilling scythe against Europe.
And the Germans—who had been starving for years—lost far more soldiers than the Allies, who had access to food from across the Atlantic.
The German Empire's final bastion—the German Army—was finally beginning to shatter.
They had endured for so long against the Red Knight of war and the Black Knight of famine.
But now that even the White Knight of pestilence had arrived, only one thing remained.
As the situation deteriorated to this extent, the Empire's leadership had no choice but to gather in one place.
"Your Majesty. Even now, we must give up what must be given up."
"What do you mean by that, Foreign Minister?"
"We must come to the negotiating table now. The Quartermaster General dismissed it as 'just a cold,' but even that 'cold' is killing the sons of the Empire!"
"Refrain from defeatist remarks! You know very well that negotiation at this point is no different from surrender!"
Ludendorff slammed the table with a bang, and the minister flinched.
"If we surrender now, we will have to give up not only the vast territories conquered from Russia, but at the very least Alsace-Lorraine as well. That cannot happen!"
"We must already be concerned with the survival of the Empire itself. We should concede what must be conceded and plan for the future—"
"Quartermaster General."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
As Kaiser Wilhelm spoke, everyone present fell silent, waiting for his words.
"The army… can it still fight?"
"It can, Your Majesty! We will deliver victory without fail!"
"I do not ask for much. Alsace-Lorraine, the newly conquered eastern territories, and… Luxembourg. If we can have the Empire's borders recognized up to that extent by those frog-eaters and island pirates, that will suffice."
At the Emperor's and the military leadership's absurd exchange, the Foreign Minister felt darkness cloud his vision.
Did they truly believe they could still extract concessions from Britain and France?
At a time when they should be prepared to surrender everything just to preserve the German homeland?
Unless Paris itself were conquered, it was impossible. In the end, the discussion had simply returned to its starting point.
"Your Majesty, the Empire does not have the funds to sustain the army."
"We need only one final step. Have the Reichstag immediately pass a war bond issuance to replenish military funds."
"…Understood, Your Majesty."
"If we do not believe in the army, who will? Gentlemen, see to it that the foolish citizens are properly pacified for the day of victory."
It was over.
The civilian officials were plunged into despair as they watched the Kaiser and the military leadership—unmoved to the very end.
"Do not worry, Your Majesty. Your army will cross the Marne River once more, and this time, Paris will be taken as spoils of war."
"I place my trust in you."
Shortly after, the Foreign Minister, unable to withstand the pressure, submitted his resignation.
***
July.
"Well, well? There's still dust on the window frame??"
"I'm sorry!"
"No, no. A little dust is understandable. You might breathe that in, catch influenza, start coughing, and turn the whole unit into a bunch of coughers."
"I'll correct it immediately, sir!!"
"Hey now, you can be a little flexible. But I told you to wash and dry your masks diligently at all times—so why don't I see any?"
At the garrison, as always, I was busy being a nag—working day and night for the health of my soldiers—when a bolt from the blue struck.
"General?"
"What is it? Did Omar send you to drag me in for bullying the men again?"
"No, sir. You need to step outside right now."
"What is it? Please don't tell me the food truck broke down."
Haji stepped closer and whispered in my ear.
"General Pershing is on his way here."
"What the hell?! Why didn't you tell me there was an inspection?!"
"The 42nd Division just got torn apart. He's coming straight from there."
Damn it. The 42nd Division got wrecked? Just how brutal was the inspection to wreck them like that?
If I'd known, I would've had the men press their uniforms instead of running sewing drills. We're screwed.
"Tell the men—everyone participating in inspection—to bring out their A-grade uniforms. The clean ones. Anyone who doesn't have one stays in the barracks and doesn't show their face."
"Yes, sir."
"And—"
In the distance, I could already see a convoy of vehicles approaching.
He's already here.
"Ha… haha. Damn it, we're screwed. What do I do?"
I don't even have a briefing prepared.
Trusting my officers, I rushed out in a hurry to greet General Pershing.
"Ah, there you are. It's been a while, Brigadier General Kim."
"Y-yes, sir."
"We don't have much time, so we'll begin the inspection immediately."
With that thunderclap of a statement, the inspection team from headquarters poured out of their vehicles.
If there is a second most dreadful thing in the world, it is an inspection from higher command. The most dreadful is a surprise inspection.
I had no choice but to endure the blade of inspection as everything down to my underwear was metaphorically stripped bare…
"Your unit management is thorough."
"Well, sir, we always operate under the mindset that we could be scrutinized at any moment."
"Good. I'm surprised there are fewer patients than expected."
Of course there are. After all the hell I went through to reduce even a single case—if we were the same as other units, I'd be so ashamed I'd put a bullet in my own head.
"You're aware of the situation at the front?"
"I've heard the Second Battle of the Marne is underway."
"In my view, the Germans are reaching their limit. Foch may be thinking about next year, but I believe our army is now fully prepared to strike the enemy."
As long as there's no variable. Pershing muttered.
Influenza was growing stronger by the day. The Allies were controlling the press with everything they had, trying to ensure that not even a whisper of the disease spread.
Only I knew that the Germans were in a similar—no, worse—condition. Even the Allied leadership could only speculate, saying, "If we're like this, could the Germans really be spared?" They had no idea how much damage it had actually inflicted.
The man who had built something from nothing.
The man who had endured every trial and finally constructed the massive backbone of the United States Army—smiled faintly.
"Were you already thinking this far ahead? When the disease began spreading?"
"…I had a vague hope, at least."
"Ha. I've come to understand all too well how exhausting it is to have a capable subordinate. Care for a smoke?"
We fell silent for a moment, each lighting our own cigarette.
After a long pause, waiting for his words—
He delivered his decision.
"The 93rd Division, with its well-maintained condition, will have to serve as the fire brigade."
"We can extinguish everything without leaving a single ember. Just give the order."
"Excellent. Then go—and bring down the Empire."
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