Chapter 46

The Expeditionary Force Headquarters That Brings Storms

Warning. Warning. MacArthur sighted. MacArthur sighted.

I’d seen it on the National Geographic Channel—wasn’t this exactly the kind of atmosphere when a lion appears at a watering hole on the savanna?

Tension, jealousy, admiration.

True to a man who always stirred up countless emotions, the mood around him shifted dramatically. Yet MacArthur himself, as if this were his natural state, remained completely at ease.

Wait… now that I think about it, isn’t he the chief of staff right now?

Can he really afford to be this idle? Shouldn’t he be working at his division?

—Of course, I softened that into socially acceptable language, but the reply I got was a masterpiece.

“What’s the big deal? I’ve already taken care of everything.”

“…Pardon?”

“I’m acting as division commander at the moment too. Took it easy, and it was all wrapped up in no time. Division-level work? Set aside a day and it’s basically done, isn’t it?”

Wow. How obnoxious. People like me are just ordinary humans—we’re not aliens like you. Apologize to the U.S. Army officers.

Still, when someone as important as MacArthur personally came to see me, I couldn’t exactly brush him off by saying I had work to do.

“Let’s go.”

“Good. I was just getting tired of dealing with fools. I was in desperate need of a conversation with someone who could actually understand me.”

…Anyone would think he already had me pegged as a caught fish.

***

MacArthur is a very difficult man to deal with.

His enormous ego isn’t really the problem. He’s genuinely capable—and will only become more so. It’s no different from the respect I show to Dosan.

The problem is that this blazing sun of a man is coming at me with full force, wanting me by his side—and I’d rather keep my distance.

But I can’t afford to offend him either. He’s a future Army Chief of Staff, a Field Marshal, even the last shogun of Japan. If I fall out of favor with him, my life could genuinely become miserable.

So once again, dinner turned into a tightrope walk.

“So, what do you think about this part?”

“As expected of you. I wish even half my subordinates could keep up.”

“What the 42nd Division needs most right now is someone who can see the bigger picture. Someone like you.”

MacArthur didn’t bother with long-winded explanations—he went straight for a strong push.

“Haha… I appreciate the high praise, but as you know, assignments are ultimately decided based on what those above deem most appropriate, aren’t they?”

“Exactly. And General Pershing is an excellent man—so naturally, he’ll see that the 42nd Division is the perfect fit.”

…Now that was an unexpected angle.

What stood out was just how strong MacArthur’s faith in Pershing was.

I didn’t know the details of their relationship, but MacArthur clearly regarded him as a great leader and was convinced that someone of his own caliber would naturally be valued.

“As you may have heard, several outstanding officers from the 42nd Division are being reassigned to other units.”

“Yes, I’ve been hearing a lot of rumors about that lately.”

“A petty scheme by those who envy the 42nd Division. It’s frustrating, but a soldier must obey orders.”

Honestly, it wasn’t that unusual.

The U.S. Army had always been like this. Just as they had split up the 326th Light Tank Battalion to serve as the foundation of multiple units, it was standard practice to send capable personnel to weaker formations to give them more responsibility.

But to MacArthur, it seemed like a challenge—a violation.

Still, it didn’t feel like the rant of a power-hungry egomaniac. Rather, it came off as a kind of defense mechanism against losing all the people he cared about at once.

At the very least, MacArthur was someone who took care of those within his circle.

“That’s precisely why I need someone like you! The new division commander hasn’t been decided yet… but who knows, it might even be me. Regardless, the gap in talent is enormous.”

“With circumstances like that, I’m sure General Pershing will make the right decision and assign the necessary personnel.”

“Of course. There’s nothing to worry about. Then I suppose we’ll be seeing each other in the 42nd Division soon. You’re a natural field officer—someone who shines brightest on the battlefield. If your blood is boiling for war, I’ll gladly provide the opportunity!”

No, that doesn’t mean I’m going. That was just polite conversation.

…But the command position is tempting.

MacArthur’s offer was so sweet I almost said yes on the spot.

I’d already commanded a battalion—naturally, the next step I wanted was a regiment.

A regimental command under MacArthur? That’s a guaranteed feast of achievements. I’d practically drown in medals. At the very least, I’d never fall behind in my postwar career.

That evening ended on a very warm note.

MacArthur and I parted with smiles.

At least, until then.

***

“It’s been a while, Yujin. Or should I call you Lieutenant Colonel Kim now?”

“…What brings you here?”

“The division’s in a terrible state. I haven’t even had time to come to Chaumont, but I finally got a break.”

Major George Marshall looked visibly worn out.

“Care for a drink after work? Since I ran into a familiar face, I suddenly feel like having one.”

“Of course. I’ll be waiting.”

I owed Marshall quite a bit.

After the Pancho Villa Expedition, when I was stuck in the rear, it was Marshall who most actively shielded me from the jealousy and hostility around me. Sure, he treated people like hardworking oxen—but he never cared whether that ox was yellow or black.

And during my training process, there had been… a few minor issues. Plenty of grounds for complaints, if anyone had wanted to raise them—but Marshall quietly buried all of it.

Just how many “letters of concern” had been written by Americans opposed to training under a “yellow monkey”? And yet, Marshall had turned them all into firewood.

It must have been quite a burden for someone who was only a captain or major at the time—but he never once showed it. That was Marshall’s strength.

“Grateful? I just did my job. If you’re thankful, then work harder. And stop leaving early.”

That was always his terrifying response whenever I tried to thank him, so eventually I just stopped.

After work, we went straight to a shabby place for dinner.

“I should apologize first.”

“Apologize?”

“About Cambrai.”

Marshall shut his eyes tight and downed a drink.

“Our 1st Division was the closest to Cambrai, but we didn’t move. We only found out after everything was over that the 42nd Division had been deployed.”

“Why would you apologize for that? It wasn’t even a decision at the division level, and you weren’t the division commander—you were just a staff officer.”

MacArthur is the strange one here. What kind of chief of staff acts like that?

Honestly, it worked out in my favor—but imagine if there were another person in this world who ignored both superiors and subordinates alike and acted purely on their own conviction…

…Ah. Patton. Damn it.

I downed a drink as well, enduring the pounding headache. Damn, that hits the spot.

“Good. I appreciate you thinking that way.”

“If there’s something you want to get off your chest, just say it. We’ve known each other more than a day or two, haven’t we?”

“…Yeah. You’re right.”

He fiddled with his glass for a while, still looking troubled, before finally speaking.

“When the issue of MacArthur’s overreach first came up, the 1st Division staff was, naturally, furious.”

“I can imagine.”

“But at least I shouldn’t have been.”

…What does that mean?

“Whatever the case, the 42nd Division saved your lives, and we did nothing. Regardless of the damage to the division’s honor, saving my friend was something I should have been grateful for. But I was so caught up in that momentary sense of humiliation that I didn’t even think of it.”

…Wait, did he just call me a friend?

I didn’t realize he thought that much of me.

And suddenly, I felt a surge of resentment. I thought he treated me like a plow ox—but he considered me a friend while whipping me like that? Even cotton field slaves probably worked less brutally than I did back then!

Whether he noticed my silent frustration or not, Marshall calmly continued his confession.

“It hit me later, like a bolt of lightning. I thought about it for a while, and then I happened to run into you at headquarters, so I decided to say it.”

“Why agonize over something like that? It’s all in the past, and nothing really came of it, right? What, did you grab Colonel MacArthur by the collar or something?”

“…No, I didn’t.”

Only then did he allow himself a faint smile. He really is a man who rarely shows emotion.

“I’m not bothered at all, so don’t worry. Let me ask you instead—if you had known, if you had known I’d be fighting for my life at Cambrai, would you still have turned away?”

“No. Within my authority, I would have pushed for a rescue operation as much as possible. But… whether I would have overstepped like Colonel MacArthur—I’m not sure. I probably wouldn’t have gone that far.”

“And I shouldn’t have,” he added.

After spending so much time around embodiments of madness like Patton and embodiments of ego like MacArthur, talking to someone as reasonable and upright as Marshall felt almost surreal. Had I just gotten too used to abnormal people—or was I the abnormal one?

…No, that’s impossible. I’m the very model of a rational, upright man. If anything, I’m most similar to Marshall: logical, composed, but with a hidden warmth. Maybe it’s just the alcohol hitting me faster than usual.

We wrapped up that topic—there was nothing more to dig into anyway—and moved on to light conversation.

Then he finally brought up what seemed to be the main point.

“Have you decided on your next assignment?”

“No. That’s actually why I’ve been getting called everywhere lately. Funny, isn’t it? Now that I seem useful, suddenly no one cares whether I’m a ‘yellow monkey’ or not.”

It was a bit irritating, seeing people who used to look down on me now wanting to get close. But that’s just how life works.

“Then there’s a position I’d like to propose.”

“I’m listening.”

“Chief of Staff of the 1st Division. What do you think?”

—Pffft!!

I almost spat out my drink. I forced it down, but it went the wrong way, burning my throat with raw alcohol.

“Cough—cough! W-what are you talking about all of a sudden?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. The chief of staff position is vacant.”

“But a position like that should obviously—”

Anyone would say it should be Marshall.

The man who would one day build the United States Army into a force commanding millions. A chief of staff position was practically reserved for him.

“Well, I have… various responsibilities. But this isn’t just my personal suggestion—it reflects the division’s opinion as well. If you’re interested, we’re prepared to push for it at the division level.”

“But even so—”

That’s way too fast.

Chief of staff means a promotion to colonel. This isn’t just fast—it’s rocket speed.

Of course, it’s tempting.

Regimental command is appealing, but chief of staff is no small position either. Being the chief of staff who commands Marshall? It doesn’t even invite second thoughts.

What is this? Is it finally my time?

“If you rush things, you’re bound to choke. I can’t help but be cautious. Aren’t there others who want the position as well?”

“The 1st Division is in turmoil after a series of incidents. Many want a war hero—one of the few in the U.S. Army with real combat experience—to step in and stabilize things. The atmosphere isn’t bad. If you decide, we can push it through.”

“…I’ll think about it.”

Regimental commander of the 42nd Division.

Chief of Staff of the 1st Division.

This is insane. Either choice is excellent.

In a great mood, I returned to my quarters and drifted into a happy sleep, dreaming of holding a winning hand in cards for the first time in a while.

***

“Hah, that’s quite the joke.”

“What do you mean?”

“Making the hero of Cambrai a chief of staff? Well, it’s not a bad decision—from the 1st Division’s perspective.

But I, Douglas MacArthur, can say with certainty that Lieutenant Colonel Kim is a man who shines brightest among soldiers. A hero of color appearing in a unit symbolizing the unity of 26 states—now that’s perfection.”

“Have you been a War Department spokesperson for too long? Why make such grand statements over a mere divisional assignment? Lieutenant Colonel Kim is a natural instructor and a capable staff officer. If he were to be killed, it would be a serious loss for the United States.”

“Are you suggesting there’s a U.S. Army officer afraid of combat?”

“Sending someone who nearly died once back into danger isn’t exactly a normal line of thinking.”

“I’m the one who saved him.”

“By breaking through the front lines—and ignoring headquarters’ orders.”

Damn it, it’s freezing.

As if December itself had seeped in, the temperature in the headquarters meeting room had dropped below zero.

Watching MacArthur and Marshall slash at each other with words like blades, I—Yujin Kim, the shrimp caught between whales—could only tremble.

General Pershing, as always, sat there smoking, silently observing their argument. That look in his eyes… I’d seen it during the Mexico expedition too. Let’s see…

“Well, look at you idiots. Keep going. What a mess. And I’m supposed to cross the ocean and fight a war with people like this?”

…Hard to argue with that, General.

At this point, Pershing was my only hope. Anything I said would be useless.

Can you hear me… General… I’m speaking directly to your mind…

“Enough.”

Had my desperate telepathy reached him? At last, after finishing his cigarette, Pershing spoke.

“Lieutenant Colonel Kim.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have a preferred assignment?”

…Are you serious? You’re asking me that here? Are you trying to get me killed?

Marshall and MacArthur’s gazes snapped toward me.

In moments like this, discretion is the better part of valor.

“I will follow whatever decision headquarters makes.”

“Then I’ll make the decision right here.”

Thank you. A great commander truly is different.

The supreme judge, Pershing, finally delivered his verdict.