Chapter 42

Cambrai (3)

“Let’s stay here for tonight and move out at first light.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to slip out under cover of darkness?”

“With tanks, they’ll hear us anyway. Better to move in daylight where we can see.”

“…That makes sense.”

The 11th Engineer Regiment wasn’t a combat unit to begin with.

And the U.S. Army was already strapped for resources. There was no way they could afford to equip non-combat personnel with personal firearms.

Their “weapons” were nothing more than pickaxes and hammers. Even a dwarf unit from some fantasy world would be better armed. This was insane.

“Do you have anything else?”

“Now that you’re here, we’re thinking of fortifying the village enough to hold through the night. What do you think?”

“If you can manage it, it’s definitely worth doing. But don’t push yourselves too hard.”

“…Hmm. Could we borrow a few tanks? Moving on our own is… unsettling. The men would feel safer with tanks nearby.”

“Of course.”

Any tank with even minor functional issues, any that had taken too much damage—scrapped. We tore them open, salvaged intact parts, and installed them into the remaining vehicles.

Recovery tanks had their cumbersome cranes removed, and we even stripped upper armor to convert them into makeshift evacuation vehicles for the wounded. Not comfortable—but carrying them on stretchers while escaping wasn’t an option.

We had to evacuate 1,400 civilians from a battlefield surrounded by the enemy. Every extra passenger mattered.

After all that, we were left with just 13 combat-capable tanks.

At this point, it wasn’t even a battalion anymore. It was barely a company.

Drawn perhaps by the sight of the Stars and Stripes waving boldly, British infantry began trickling in from afar.

Sometimes in company-sized groups, sometimes in platoons—sometimes just one or two men, completely broken.

It was a tragedy.

“What in the world is happening up there?”

“It’s over!”

One British soldier shouted, practically coughing up blood.

“The Germans—they just keep coming! We took open ground—there’s nothing to stop them! Artillery kept falling on us nonstop! We couldn’t even contact command—and that bombardment! That gas! H—Hiiik!!”

“I understand. Get some rest. We’ll stay here tonight and withdraw at first light.”

“Help me! Please! Don’t breathe! You can’t breathe! Hold it—hold your breath! Mother! MOTHER!! Aaaagh!!”

“Get him! Someone restrain him!”

The shock must have been overwhelming.

Even as I watched him being dragged away by medics, the bitterness in my mouth wouldn’t fade.

“They’re collapsing faster than expected.”

“That still doesn’t mean we can move at night.”

General Lisle, who seemed to have regained some composure, approached. I saluted and answered.

“We have no grasp of the current situation. We have no communication, and headquarters likely doesn’t even know where we are.”

“…Damn it.”

The British aircraft that had once been visible overhead were long gone.

The sky now belonged to Germany.

The German army had fully awakened as a war machine.

If Britain and France were still learning through piles of corpses, then how much had Germany learned—crushing both Russia and Italy while fighting on multiple fronts?

You could see it even in their gas tactics.

While the British simply deployed poison gas, the Germans were twice as vicious.

Now, their first gas attack wasn’t lethal gas—but a vomiting agent. British soldiers would hurriedly put on their gas masks, only to be overwhelmed by the agent seeping through, forcing them to rip the masks off—just in time for the second wave, the real killing gas, to envelop them.

The same applied to their assault troops.

The stormtroopers roaming the battlefield carried 37mm anti-tank guns, hurled bundled grenades, and some of our crews had already reported in screams:

“Their bullets are penetrating our armor!”

Could we win in this situation?

No—we couldn’t win.

But we wouldn’t lose either.

If the assault troops were scattered, it meant they, too, had lost communication with their command.

Of course, this was German-held territory—they knew the terrain far better than we did.

But there was still an unbridgeable gap between infantry and armored units. And there was a fundamental difference between those trying to block and those trying to break through.

We would save as many as possible.

We couldn’t destroy the enemy—but we could do this much.

That night, I stayed awake, staring at the operations map.

Searching for the most viable escape route.

Not as Kim Yujin, with knowledge of the future—

But as Major Yujin Kim, who had to bring his men home alive.

***

“Grenades!! Cluster grenades ahead!”

“Aaaagh!!”

“9 o’clock! Anti-tank gun!”

“Fire first! The three on the far right—maneuver left and take out that gun! The rest, keep distance and provide fire support!”

At dawn the next day—

We started the engines and moved out immediately.

Including the scattered British survivors we gathered, our numbers reached around 2,000.

Compared to the moment we had triumphantly crossed the first trench line, we were in a pitiful state.

We concentrated what few tanks remained to lead the way.

Without regard for origin, we loaded the healthiest and most determined soldiers onto the tanks. It slowed us down—but it didn’t matter. It was the only way to prevent the last tanks from being destroyed meaninglessly.

Several small engagements.

Stormtroopers ambushing us along the way.

And at the end of this desperate retreat—

Waiting for us was the very trench line we had first crossed.

“…Fuck.”

The trenches were back in German hands.

“See those bastards up ahead?”

“Yes, sir!!”

“Once we get past them, we’re home. We live.”

A lie.

There would probably be Germans beyond that line too.

But hope—even false hope—was necessary to keep men fighting.

“We break through in one go. Move!”

“KILL!!!”

I wish they’d drop that Patton-style slogan.

We were almost out of fuel anyway. Once we crossed that trench line, we’d have to abandon the tanks and escape on foot.

So there was no need to hold back.

We just charge.

“Attack!!”

Boom!!

“Anti-tank gun ahead!”

“Deal with it yourselves! Do I have to spell everything out?!”

“Captain Patton’s tank is moving toward it!”

“Then leave it to him! He’ll handle it!”

We entered the trench again.

This time from the opposite direction—its defenses were far weaker.

This is nothing—

BOOM!!!

“What—what was that?!”

“Grenades! Engine failure! The engine—!”

“Damn it! What were you doing during training?! Get out, now, you bastards!!”

I kicked the commander in the head and immediately jumped out of the hatch.

It was heavy.

The grease gun I’d carried all this time suddenly felt real in my hands.

Not long after we dismounted, the engine overheated—and then burst into flames.

“Attack! Damn it! Push forward!”

The flag.

It was still in my hand.

For the last time, I waved it fiercely, took a deep breath, and leapt into the trench.

“Feind! Feind eingehend!!”

“Eat lead, you bastards!”

At this point, rank meant nothing. Inside the trench, hierarchy didn’t matter—whoever had more bullets was king.

And now, by decree of Yujin Kim, anyone holding a grease gun was the Roman Emperor.

Rat-tat-tat-tat!!

Before the enemy could even fire a single rifle shot, the grease gun had already poured its burning “fuel” straight into their heads.

Tanks rammed into trenches from all sides, while cannon fire and machine guns roared.

As expected, the Germans had prepared well for anti-tank combat—but they hadn’t anticipated tank crews bursting out of disabled vehicles and delivering bullets up close.

Overwhelming firepower superiority.

All the time I had struggled to develop the submachine gun was paying off—right now.

Not in our blood—but in piles of German corpses.

“Wipe them out! Conserve ammo!”

Gunfire again.

No matter how many we killed, it wasn’t enough.

“Aaaaargh!!”

“Die! Damn it, just die!!”

A charging German—cut down with a burst.

Another writhing on the ground—one precise shot.

Ammo was running low. No burst-fire selector made it even worse. And there were still so many left to cut down.

As I tossed aside an empty magazine and reached for a new one—

A bayonet came flying at me.

“Shit—!”

A blow from a rifle butt made my head ring. Did I lose a tooth? No—still there.

But I couldn’t avoid the boot that followed.

Thud!

Damn it… is this how I die?

After everything… I die here in a trench?

No—

Bang!!

“Told you, didn’t I? You should’ve bought a few more pistols.”

Patton, drenched in blood and dirt, approached—holding that pristine ivory-handled pistol.

Damn… Senior Patton really is the best.

“I’ll lend you one. Let’s kill these bastards first, then think later.”

“Ugh… my whole body’s wrecked. Thanks to you, Captain—I’m alive!”

“If we make it out of here, I’ll be a major too. Call me Major Jin! Hahaha!!”

“Then you can call me Lieutenant Colonel Jin.”

“Deal! I’ll call you whatever you want—just stay alive!!”

While we were exchanging jokes like that—

The second wave reached the trench.

“Wipe them all out!! Defend the honor of the United States!!”

“Don’t leave a single one alive!!”

The engineers came in like a storm.

Pickaxes and hammers in hand—more terrifying than ever.

Right… they were railroad workers.

Strike specialists who could crack skulls as easily as they handled tools.

Now that they finally had the chance for close combat instead of pathetic shooting, the pent-up fury of laborers exploded onto German heads.

“You little shits—who do you think you’re messing with?!”

“A—aaaargh—!”

“Hey, that weapon looks nice! Hand it over, bastard!”

A miracle: we engaged the enemy—and ended up with more armed men.

The German force, barely a battalion in size, melted away under sheer numbers like sugar in water.

“Can you still walk?”

“Damn… feels like I got hit in the thigh—”

“Hey! Someone help our esteemed Lieutenant Colonel Jin over here!”

“…I’m fine. I can still walk. More importantly—what about our route? Can we keep moving?”

“No.”

Patton’s voice dropped low.

“What do you mean…? Are the enemy coming?”

“No.”

“Then what—”

“It’s friendly forces.”

“…What?”

Dragging one leg, I climbed out of the trench.

And what I saw—

Was something I had never expected.

Hundreds… thousands of soldiers in the distance.

Not British.

Not German.

Anyone could tell—

They were American doughboys.

Then I saw it—a vehicle speeding toward us from afar.

It rattled violently but somehow didn’t overturn, smashing through wrecked barbed wire in a ridiculous stunt before stopping right in front of me.

“Am I too late, Major?”

“No—what is this—how—”

“I rushed out with just one regiment. Let’s get out of here immediately. If the Germans catch us, we’re finished too.”

Colonel MacArthur gestured to the seat beside him.

“What are you waiting for? Get in.”

“Ah… yes, sir.”

Still dazed, I climbed into the vehicle. It immediately turned and sped toward the rear.

“We almost lost you. The hero of Cambrai nearly became a ghost.”

“Why… is the 42nd Division here…?”

“I threw a bit of a tantrum.”

That wasn’t something you could explain with just “a tantrum.” The 42nd Division wasn’t even the closest unit to Cambrai.

“A minor field exercise, you could say. Now that they’ve had a taste of the battlefield, it’ll be good experience for them, won’t it?”

…This lunatic.

I couldn’t even begin to imagine what he had pulled at headquarters.

As I sat there speechless, he pulled out a bundle of bandages from somewhere.

“Let me see your thigh.”

“…Sir?”

“It’s a gunshot wound, isn’t it? Doesn’t look like the bullet’s lodged… hmm, just grazed. If we don’t disinfect it now, you might end up lame.”

…This is absurdly honorable treatment.

Colonel MacArthur himself tore part of his uniform, disinfected the wound, and bandaged it.

As soon as he finished, the car came to a stop.

“Take a deep breath. Get ready to smile.”

“…Smile?”

“Of course. The second battlefield begins now.”

He stepped out first, then personally opened my door.

“Come on out—the hero of Cambrai!”

The moment I stepped out—

Flash! Flash! Flash!

Brighter than artillery, camera flashes burst everywhere.

“Major Kim!”

“Battalion Commander Kim! Hero of Cambrai! Please say a few words!”

“How does it feel to be the first to break through the Hindenburg Line?!”

…You bastard.

Thanks a lot.

MacArthur appeared beside me and threw an arm over my shoulder, wearing a dazzling smile.

“Smile wide. Cheese.”

MacArthur…

You are truly a terrible man.

Flash!