Chapter 51

Mistletoe

The nations caught up in the Great War were gradually reaching their limits.

The collapse of the Russian Empire was like an alarm bell announcing their fate. Every politician was having nightmares of their heads being chopped off and Reds roaming the streets.

What had seemed to end with the downfall of the Tsarist regime—the Russian Revolution—brought shock and terror once more when Vladimir Lenin ignited another revolution, establishing the world’s first communist state.

And the leaders of that communist revolution, the Bolsheviks, delivered yet another shock by proposing an idea no one could comprehend.

“We have established the world’s first communist state—now the workers of all nations will rise up, cast off their chains as slaves to the capitalists, and start revolutions!”

“All we need to do is watch as those evil empires collapse at the hands of workers and peasants!”

Naturally, nothing like a global communist revolution occurred.

While the Bolsheviks burned fervently with fantasies of world revolution—neither negotiating nor fighting—what awaited them was, of course, the German army.

The Germans attempted to negotiate with these strange, incomprehensible people as if they were from another world, but soon realized that they neither intended nor were capable of negotiation, and began preparing to advance deep into Russia.

In effect, the war on the Eastern Front was already over.

But would the situation elsewhere smile upon Germany as well?

October 1917. The incompetence of the Austro-Hungarian Empire was laid bare before the world. Germany was forced to intervene on the Italian front and smashed the inept Italian army at Caporetto.

Even so, the mere fact that Germany would now be unable to withdraw from the Italian front was enough to overload the minds of its high command.

December 1917. The British army finally entered Jerusalem, the promised land. All that remained for Germany’s ally, the Ottoman Empire, was destruction.

If Germany could stabilize the newly conquered Russian territories and exploit their resources, there might still be hope.

But at the same time, they feared the ever-growing army of the United States.

After long deliberation, Germany reached a single conclusion:

“Before the American forces grow any stronger, we will gather every troop tied down on the Eastern Front and end the war on the Western Front!”

Thus, the Spring Offensive—also known as the Ludendorff Offensive—was decided.

Germany had no more soldiers. Quite literally, every last young man who could enlist had already been thrown into the army.

There was no food either. With bread and potatoes gone, German soldiers had to fill their stomachs with turnips—food meant for pigs. Even those were scarce, forcing civilians to eat sawdust and turnip leaves.

It was a simple, unavoidable conclusion: if they failed to completely crush Britain and France in this final offensive, there would be no future.

A massive gamble was set into motion, staking the empire’s last remaining chips.

The stake was Germany itself.

***

I’m getting anxious.

Only a few months remain until the Ludendorff Offensive.

There’s no way I wouldn’t know.

Unlike the “Armageddon Report” I had thrown out before World War I, now anyone with a functioning brain could see that Germany’s only remaining “rational” option was an all-in final gamble.

The next question was simple.

“So where will Germany strike?”

The way for Germany to win this war is simple: annihilate either the British or the French army. Easy, right?

To pull off such an insane operation, they would have to break through the hellish trench lines built since 1914, execute perfect strategic maneuvering, and completely wipe out the enemy’s main force.

I knew exactly where the Germans would come from, but for now, I kept my mouth shut.

It was better to preserve the original timeline as much as possible.

It was somewhat absurd for me—someone already tearing history apart without mercy—to think that way, but at least I wanted to avoid a “major distortion” like the Stars and Stripes being planted in Berlin.

I mean, what if Germany got utterly crushed and instead of something half-baked like the Treaty of Versailles, a puppet German republic was just set up? What if World War II never happened?

Of course, if you keep following that line of thought, you eventually reach, “What if Hitler died at Cambrai? Would that ruin everything for me?” But the gap between making small, controlled interventions like now and broadly interfering at the grand strategic level to completely annihilate Germany is far too large.

Everything has its limits. Just because you wet the bed in your sleep doesn’t mean you can go ahead and dump something worse on it. I’m a rational, sensible adult.

And even if I revealed everything, shouting “The enemy will come from here!” wouldn’t exactly be convincing, nor would it leave much room for our fine 93rd Division to shine.

Just look outside. Even now, those enthusiastic lads are training with all their might.

Back in the day, I would’ve slapped on a red cap, blown a whistle, and driven them hard with gusto—but as someone slated to become a division commander, recklessly jumping in like that would only cause the opposite effect.

Imagine a division commander acting as a drill instructor. The men would be worked to death. I’m not that heartless.

Perhaps because the talent is so capable, the 93rd Division was taking shape at an incredible pace.

Just the number of future stars I’ve brought in is staggering. If this still doesn’t work out, I’d be in trouble.

“Must be nice. Some people are drowning in work without a moment to breathe, and here you are leisurely strolling around, deep in thought.”

“Ahem. This is all part of my profound planning for future operations as a division commander.”

“Yeah, right.”

Omar, clearly irritated, flung a stack of documents at me.

“Do you have no conscience? The guys you lured in are still crossing the Atlantic.”

“Conscience? I’m giving them the opportunity to earn glorious achievements—”

“Go to hell.”

MacArthur had given me exactly what I needed most: brilliant media coverage.

As the fame of the “Hero of Cambrai” shook the world, it was only natural that independent figures searching for a worthy commander would flock to me.

In that sense, wouldn’t it be fair to say my charisma has already surpassed Liu Bei?

“You know the guys have been running to send telegrams and letters every chance they get these days?”

“Huh? Why?”

“Why else? They feel it’s too unfair to die alone, so they’re trying to drag others down with them.”

What is this, some kind of pyramid scheme? A multi-level marketing structure?

Come to think of it… it actually is. The ones who joined first grabbed positions as lieutenant colonels and majors—triple platinum members, you might say—and those who came later settled for major to captain. This is totally a pyramid scheme.

How did the officers of the 93rd Division, recruited with nothing but justice and courage, end up like this? My heart aches.

“The divisional direct units are almost fully organized. Machine gun battalion, signal battalion, engineers, headquarters unit, transport command, military police, supply corps, medical unit, ammunition unit—how many people do you think got ground down for this, you heartless bastard?!”

“Ah, yes. I’ve read the reports, so I know. As expected of my friends. They’re so capable it brings tears to my eyes.”

“Really?”

“The food today was delicious. Sob, sob.”

Sensing I was about to get punched, I quickly straightened up and began carefully reading the report.

“The divisional Ranger unit is nearly complete too. Once they’re done, the direct command structure will be finished.”

“Now that we’ve actually built it… this is practically regimental size. I’m… not sure about this.”

The German stormtroopers I encountered at Cambrai were truly terrifying. Even with me commanding an armored unit, we still took considerable damage. If you encounter such a nightmare unit and don’t feel like copying it, you’re unfit to be a commander.

Of course, unlike the Germans, we have no need to desperately rely on infantry to deal with enemy armor. Naturally, we’ll equip them with cluster grenades and anti-tank rifles, without dragging along cumbersome anti-tank guns.

And thus, the Rangers.

Originally, my initial concept was something like a recon unit commonly found in modern divisions. My vague plan was to mix German stormtroopers with future reconnaissance units and operate them under direct divisional command.

But during the formation process, we ran into several obstacles.

The recon units I remembered were designed to operate in mountains or places like the DMZ. What we needed now wasn’t “reconnaissance,” so that was only natural. Unless we were just checking whether any living Jerries remained in the trenches…

What I wanted from the unit I was about to establish was just one thing: a powerful hammer that could be driven into the enemy’s weak point and completely tear their defensive line apart. The moment they heard that, my friends immediately said, “Elite light infantry? Rangers?”—and it was adopted on the spot. If anything, it’s far better to introduce a concept familiar to current U.S. Army officers.

If implemented properly, they would likely play the most crucial role when the 93rd Division is deployed to the battlefield.

If implemented poorly… they’d all die. Damn it.

“How’s Anastasio doing?”

“…Yeah, he’s doing well.”

“That’s good, then.”

From the start, he’d never aimed to be a typical U.S. Army officer—he’d always intended to command the Philippine Scouts. The Rangers might be the perfect opportunity for him.

For some reason, Omar’s gaze—staring at me like a dried fish laid out on an ancestral rite table—felt unusually unsettling today. I should sit down and have a proper talk with him after work.

***

Major Omar Bradley, who had been designated as the future chief of staff of the 93rd Division and was currently acting in that role, felt gloomy as ever today.

The Hero of Cambrai.

West Point’s pride, Yujin Kim.

That guy had been extraordinary even back in his cadet days.

There was never a bizarre incident or scandal he wasn’t involved in. He threw more punches than anyone else—and got hit just as much—and constantly skirted the boundaries of the academy’s rules as if testing them.

The sun? No, nothing so absolute. That would be MacArthur.

The moon? Don’t be ridiculous. He’s nowhere near that gentle.

If anything, he was like a meteor—something that flashes across the night sky and makes you hurriedly wish upon it.

If it falls on your own head, you curse out loud. If it falls on someone you hate, it’s the most entertaining thing in the world.

Having spent four years right beside him, Bradley knew better than anyone that that storm-like energy wasn’t just madness—it was a desperate struggle to overcome the innate barrier of his skin color.

That was why he supported those near-acrobatic antics, cheered more than anyone at Yujin’s success, and believed that his success would not just be personal, but a leap forward for the United States itself.

That was why he crossed the Atlantic.

To help Black soldiers and go to war with them. He might joke as if driven by self-interest, but if it came to justice and honor, Kim was the kind of man who would step forward before anyone else.

If no one helped him—fighting against the U.S. Army and society itself to realize the American Dream—then who would? God? Hardly.

But now, doubt was slowly seeping into his bones.

At the very least, what was unfolding here was something even someone as good-natured as Kim could hardly bear to watch.

“Remember this! Colonel Kim has instructed that the reason tanks are made of steel is so that even after crushing enemies beneath them, you can just wash them off with water and they’ll be clean!”

“Understood!!”

“What in the world are you teaching them?!”

At Bradley’s sharp outcry, the instructors in red caps answered without the slightest hesitation.

“We’re teaching the lessons learned at Cambrai.”

“What kind of nonsense lesson is that?!”

“In the chaotic battlefield environment at Cambrai, tank guns and machine guns had to be used very carefully, as resupply was difficult. Colonel Kim, who was then a battalion commander, had already taken all of this into account and taught us: ‘The weight of a tank, its mobility, even its intimidating noise—everything must be used as a weapon for proper tank operation.’”

No—how does that turn into something this insane, you lunatics?

—but Bradley was far too gentle a gentleman to shout that aloud.

“…Fine. Just clean up the wording a bit when you teach it.”

“Understood! Listen up, men! In that sense, the tank is the greatest killing machine ever invented by mankind—”

He didn’t know anymore. Still, a miraculous racial unity had formed within the tank corps, so perhaps that was what mattered.

Giving up on trying to understand, Bradley quickly moved on.

“Well, if it isn’t the chief of staff.”

“Cut it out. It’s embarrassing.”

Major Anastasio Quevedo Ver had been appointed commander of the 93rd Division’s Ranger unit.

He understood what Yujin meant by “Rangers.” Still, he was skeptical about whether such a powerful shock unit was truly necessary for this division.

But Yujin, with his uncanny, almost prophetic judgment, was certain of its necessity and pushed it forward forcefully.

“It’s actually really simple. Where do you think the 93rd Division will be deployed?”

“What do you mean where?”

“Either somewhere no one else wants to go—the rear—or a hotspot where you walk in and die. One of the two, right?”

“….”

“If it’s the rear, it doesn’t matter. But if we have to throw ourselves into a death zone, we need an elite close-combat unit specialized in brutal fighting. That way, we can bring back even one more man alive.”

Bradley couldn’t refute that.

As always, Yujin wasn’t just thinking in purely military terms—he was carefully weighing political factors above all else.

They had undoubtedly learned the same things at the academy, yet Yujin’s plans always rested on a web of countless groups and tangled interests. That was something Bradley could never hope to match.

That bastard really should’ve gone into politics.

No… it was precisely because he didn’t go into politics and remained a “true soldier” that he had to develop such abilities to survive in uniform.

“Listen up, you elite bastards! Anastasio here will lead you to a paradise for people of color!”

“Woooooo!!”

“Kim promised us! More supplies! More glory! And a brighter future! Tear them apart and kill them—and you shall be rewarded!!”

“Kill the Jerries!!”

“Kill the whites!!!”

…Yeah.

Better to think positively.

If West Point hadn’t taken Yujin in, he would’ve definitely become a Red and staged an armed uprising in Washington D.C. like in Russia.

Or maybe he’d have ended up a bandit chief somewhere.

For the sake of the United States’ future, West Point had accepted the side effect of taking in individuals with… well… a bit too much fighting spirit.

Bradley decided to think of it that way.

And strangely enough, he felt at ease.