Chapter 52

The Empire Strikes Back

The winter turning from 1917 to 1918.

The German Empire surged forward with explosive momentum, displaying its power across all of Europe.

In the lands where the Russian Empire had collapsed, the Baltic states and Ukraine—long oppressed under the Tsar—now found German power taking root as a new order.

In Finland, which had also groaned under the Tsar’s leash, communists began to stir. But with the emergence of the outstanding right-wing general Mannerheim, those Reds quickly began their descent into ruin.

Now, only the final decisive battle remained.

The objective of the 1918 Spring Offensive, codenamed “Michael,” was the Somme.

In 1916, the British had launched a massive offensive along the upper Somme River—and lost 60,000 men in a single day.

A land of hell where Britain, France, and Germany together suffered 1.2 million casualties. The Germans decided to strike there and drive the British into the sea.

With the target decided, the next step was to choose the timing. In that regard, the German General Staff carried a massive timer in their minds.

The moment that timer reached zero, the United States would sweep everything away—including the Empire itself—with overwhelming numbers. That thought alone drove German generals half-mad.

Thus, the attack was set for as early as possible—March.

All preparations were complete.

Germany now possessed thousands of field guns, over a million shells, and hundreds of thousands of elite, battle-hardened troops redeployed from the Eastern Front.

The tactical concept that would go down in history as the “Hutier tactics” had finally been established. With Germany’s elite stormtroopers and superior artillery, Britain and France could be torn to pieces.

Of course, the Allies were not ignorant of Germany’s intentions.

They were not fools. Reality had simply gone far beyond even their expectations.

As Germany scraped together every last able-bodied man and threw them into the war, did Britain and France do anything different?

The two nations ultimately compromised with reality, reducing divisions from twelve battalions to nine.

They dismounted all cavalry and turned them into infantry, disbanded intact battalions to reinforce others, and desperately reorganized again and again.

Even so, they still lacked manpower.

“This isn’t about forming new units. Just to bring depleted units back to full strength… we need 600,000 more men.”

“Six hundred thousand? Are you insane? Even squeezing every last drop out of Britain, we can only muster 100,000! Even if we scrape together Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and all colonial forces, 600,000 is impossible!”

“Then tell the Americans clearly! Demand troops! The moment winter ends, the Germans will come to sweep us into the sea. How long do those fools intend to dawdle around training recruits?!”

Desperate, the British rang Washington D.C.’s doorbell incessantly—begging, threatening, pleading, even blackmailing. Eventually, Secretary of War Baker relented and sent a formal request to Pershing.

“The British are asking for 150 battalions. Just 150.”

“No.”

“They’re not asking for everything. What if we break up some units and assign them to British and French formations?”

“The sons of the United States must fight only under the Stars and Stripes. If they’re so desperate for manpower, why do they have dozens of divisions sitting in the Balkans and the Middle East? Tell them to pull those out first, Secretary.”

“We are, after all, part of the Allied forces—”

“I will consider it carefully, taking local conditions into account.”

Under relentless “requests,” Pershing eventually relented and lent some troops to Britain and France—but he held firmly onto command authority. That was one thing he would not concede.

***

Chaumont, Expeditionary Forces Headquarters.

“There are signs everywhere that a German offensive is imminent.”

At Pershing’s words, everyone nodded.

“However, our current state is far from ideal. I know how hard you’ve all worked, but—”

“No, sir. We are well aware of the reality.”

Even now, American troops were pouring in endlessly.

But strictly speaking, they were not yet an “army.” Just barely trained civilians in uniform.

It was clear that the U.S. forces were still far from having the strength or authority to take the lead in this war.

“For now, we are still spectators in this war. Speak freely—what do you think the Germans’ next objective will be?”

“Paris, of course.”

“They already learned in 1914 that taking Paris by conventional means is impossible. A second Verdun offensive is more likely. Crush the French army, then smash our still-forming forces—the road to Paris opens.”

“Wouldn’t they strike the British and aim for the complete annexation of Belgium?”

As everyone voiced their opinions, I remained silent.

And it seemed someone didn’t like that.

“Why is our youngest colonel so quiet?”

“Let’s hope the dull intellect of those Negroes hasn’t rubbed off on him.”

“I told you not to overexert yourself. Haha.”

Ah… they’re quite skilled at provoking, aren’t they? I really want to smash their heads open right here, but I hold back.

Surely someone here won’t just let this slide—

“Perhaps that’s enough.”

“Colonel MacArthur. You were silent yourself—”

“Listening to your predictions left me speechless. I suspect Colonel Kim’s thoughts are not much different from mine.”

No, no. Don’t drag me into this.

If you say that, all the attention shifts to me, you egotistical maniac. You might be able to handle it with your pedigree, but I can’t!

“Oh? Is that so? Then let’s hear this valuable prediction.”

At this point, I had no choice but to speak.

I cleared my throat lightly and began.

“I’m not certain whether I’m right or wrong, but I tried thinking as if I were Hindenburg.”

“Hm.”

“From Germany’s perspective, the information they can obtain is limited. Of course, they gather intelligence through spies and other means, but they cannot possibly know everything about our situation.”

Interest began to stir.

Some looked impatient, others intrigued.

“To state my conclusion, I believe the Germans will strike the Somme once again.”

“You mean they’ll target the British? Leaving France aside?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to hear your reasoning.”

Pershing spoke quietly, and the chatter immediately ceased.

“Ypres, Passchendaele, and Cambrai. The British Fifth Army stationed in that sector was involved in most of the major operations of 1917. From the German high command’s perspective, it is the weakest and most vulnerable.”

“Hm. So not land of value, but ease of defeating the enemy?”

“At this point, what matters to Germany is not territory. Their fate will be decided by how many enemy troops they can destroy—and how decisively they can shatter the enemy’s core.”

“Anything else?”

“The Fifth Army’s left flank is the British Third Army, and its right is the French. They could split Britain and France apart.

And the terrain also favors Germany. If they launch the offensive as the weather warms, most ground will turn into mud due to the thaw. But as we saw at Cambrai, that area has firm ground, favorable for maneuver.”

“Hm…”

“But that’s the Somme! Would the Germans really attempt something so reckless?”

“Why did the Battle of Cambrai happen in the first place? Because tanks could maneuver there! And they’d attack a place crawling with tanks?”

“Alright. That’s enough armchair debate.”

Pershing seemed ready to end the discussion. If it dragged on, all that would remain was mockery and jeering among officers and staff.

“No matter where the Germans strike, remember that we must contribute to victory as part of the Allied forces. Now, the units currently ready for immediate deployment are—”

“The 1st Division has already taken over trenches from the French.”

“The 42nd Division is also preparing to assume positions in coordination with the French.”

“We as well—”

“The 93rd Division is ready.”

At my words, everyone flinched.

“The 93rd Division?”

“That’s correct. Its organization is nearly complete, and it is ready for immediate combat deployment.”

“Hah.”

They all clicked their tongues in disbelief.

Yeah, of course they’d find it ridiculous.

But it actually happened.

Most of the people here saw the 93rd Division as nothing more than “a bunch of Black troops gathered here and there by some fast-rising yellow monkey trying to hand out high ranks to his friends.”

But just as no one could have imagined that the leader of a ragtag band of brothers and his sworn companions would become the legendary trio of Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei, the men I gathered were future generals. If they could predict that, they’d either be regressors or transmigrators.

“So, you’re asking for the 93rd Division to be deployed as well?”

“Black troops are a bit…”

“The original purpose of forming the 93rd Division was to assess the combat capability of Black soldiers, wasn’t it? Even if they really are terrible, at least they can soak up German bullets.”

“Haha! That’s true!”

“No, why waste bullets killing them?”

Idiots.

Black soldiers’ combat capability? Terrible?

You’ll find out soon enough.

“The 93rd Division is currently organized under direct headquarters command.”

“That’s correct.”

Because no one wanted Black troops under their command.

Honestly, that worked out better for me. Due to all sorts of tangled political factors, the 93rd Division had already become something no corps-level command could properly handle.

If it were Pershing—the one who ordered me to form the division—there was still a good chance we’d see combat. But if we’d ended up under some senile, teeth-clattering racist general, we might’ve been stuck in the rear until the war ended, forgotten forever.

“We’ll discuss the 93rd Division later. Colonel Kim, remain behind.”

“Yes, sir.”

After the meeting, I was able to speak with Pershing privately.

“Colonel Kim, how are things going?”

“Very well. The organization is complete, and the men are full of fighting spirit.”

“I see. A fully organized division already—impressive.”

Pershing said it so calmly that I couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or genuinely impressed.

“…Are you considering options other than deploying us as a full division?”

“The French are requesting that some units be attached to their forces at the regimental level.”

Of course. The baguette bastards are as unhelpful as ever.

I wanted to foam at the mouth right then and there, but I had to remain calm and reasonable in front of Pershing.

“We have already completed our divisional structure, including direct-command units, and have trained to maximize effectiveness as a full division—not as fragmented regiments. If we’re split now, all our preparations will be for nothing.”

“Hm.”

“I ask you—while we may have no choice but to be placed under French command, please do not break us apart into regiments.”

Damn it. No way. I raised these men with such care—there’s no way I’d let them be torn apart and handed to the French.

Unlike Britain and the United States, France was actively sending Black troops to the front.

Not because they believed in liberty, democracy, or racial equality. Just a few months ago, their soldiers were refusing to go into the trenches en masse.

Where the British and Americans would say, “What, fight alongside Black soldiers? Are you insane?” the French were more like, “We can’t watch our boys die anymore—let the Blacks bleed instead!”

So naturally, they’d all die. The French wouldn’t care about preserving Black soldiers.

Not as long as I still had breath in me—

“I also believe that unless a division is incapable of functioning as a proper formation, there is no need to break it apart just to assist the French.”

…Thank God.

As expected—General Pershing.

This was what rational judgment looked like.

“Then… does that mean we’ll remain intact as a division, assigned under a French corps?”

“That’s why I want to ask you. The division you’ve built is… quite unique. I haven’t fully grasped it yet.”

There was a subtle edge to his words.

At this time, a standard U.S. division numbered around 28,000 men.

But due to volunteers and other factors, the 93rd Division was nearing 30,000. It couldn’t be helped—anyone even remotely fitting the criteria was being dumped into the 93rd.

With that surplus manpower, I’d been able to experiment freely.

“Since we’re a headquarters-controlled division, I believe a certain degree of uniqueness is acceptable. Though I imagine the French may find us… difficult to handle.”

“But you still need final training, don’t you?”

The 1st Division had already entered the trenches, replacing French units. The 26th and 42nd Divisions were either preparing for deployment or already in position. The French were desperate to maximize American combat power.

To get a taste of real combat, we’d eventually have to work with them.

“I believe there are pros and cons to that as well.”

“…Very well. I’ve heard your concerns. I’ll take them into account when making my decision.”

A few days later—

I received Pershing’s final decision:

“The 93rd Division’s deployment to the front is to be postponed, to be held in reserve for emergencies.”

That was enough.

Sure, there was a huge difference between green troops getting their first taste of frontline trenches or not—but honestly, no officer of this era would fully understand my unit anyway. Not its composition, not its training, not its racial dynamics—nothing.

Better to stay under Pershing.

There wasn’t much time left before the Germans came.

***

March 21, 1918.

At last, the day arrived.

“Commence Operation Michael! Sons of the Empire—end this war!”

Ignoring the final stirrings of peace factions within the Empire, the German army launched its grand Spring Offensive.

As expected—just as history dictated—the first target was the British Fifth Army.

After being battered at Ypres, Passchendaele, and finally Cambrai, the exhausted British units had little means to resist the sudden German onslaught.

Cambrai came back to mind.

I had felt it clearly back then—the German army was more aggressive than any force on earth in exploiting weaknesses, launching relentless offensives, and pushing deep into enemy lines without fear of isolation.

The result: the British command structure collapsed, torn into countless fragments, crumbling with shocking ease.

Having tasted such success, there was no way they wouldn’t apply those lessons.

This wasn’t just knowledge from history—it was a bloody lesson I had experienced firsthand.

The Fifth Army was an obvious weak point.

After the brutal fighting of 1917, many battalions with a nominal strength of 1,000 men barely had 500 left. Replacements were scraped together from everywhere, destroying unit cohesion. On top of that, they had taken over additional French sectors, stretching their lines even thinner.

And considering how poorly the French built trenches…

The Fifth Army’s collapse was practically inevitable.

4:40 a.m.

A massive German bombardment fell upon the unfortunate British Fifth Army.

Across a 60-kilometer front, shells rained down. The frontline trenches were hit with the now-infamous cocktail—tear gas, chlorine, mustard gas, phosgene—while the rear was blasted to destroy roads and communication lines.

9:40 a.m.

After five hours of relentless bombardment, just as the British were reeling, the Germans surged out of their trenches.

Morning fog, gas, and smoke blanketed the battlefield. Under this cover, German troops advanced safely, with stormtroopers at the forefront breaking into enemy trenches without hesitation.

In a single day, the Fifth Army’s line collapsed.

The British fell like leaves in the wind. Though the Germans faced pockets of fierce resistance, there was no organized counterattack.

With the Fifth Army shattered and the Third Army to its left also taking damage, Germany’s objective became clear:

Split the British and French armies—and drive the British into the sea.

Everything I had predicted was becoming reality.

“The Germans are advancing day by day. The French are on the verge of losing their minds over the possibility of losing Amiens.”

“Then reinforcements will be needed.”

Pershing nodded.

“When can the 93rd Division be deployed?”

“We have been ready.”

“Good. As of this moment, complete the organization of the 93rd Division and prepare to assist the French.”

I saluted heavily.

The gunfire announcing the final act of this mad war was echoing in my ears.