The Sword of the United States (2)
Boom! KWAANG! Boom!
"Fire! Keep firing! Don't let those Jerry bastards take off their gas masks!"
Perhaps it was because the division commander had personally driven them so hard—but the artillery brigade of the 93rd Division somehow managed to emplace their guns on the newly captured ridge.
But the next order left them in despair. Their limbs trembled with exhaustion, yet they had no choice but to keep firing.
"Everyone is completely spent. If you could give us just a little time—"
"So what? You're tired? Try complaining about that to those boys over there!"
The commander spoke coldly, but the artillerymen fell silent as they looked at "those boys."
The bodies of American infantrymen, not yet even collected, were scattered everywhere.
"If we fire one less shell because we're tired, another comrade dies at the hands of the Jerries. Stop complaining. You might feel like you're dying, but you're not actually dead, are you? Load now! If we want to open the future, we have to give it everything we've got!!"
They clenched their teeth so hard they nearly bled—but they didn't care.
The batteries roared to life once more.
Even the Germans, who had resisted to the very end, would soon have no choice but to face reality.
And if that realization came late, it would simply cost them more lives.
He wanted to push the signal corps harder to lay down telephone lines faster, but there were limits to what was physically possible. Besides, while the infantry were his subordinates, the signal corps were practically middle-aged men.
"Prepare a runner."
"Yes, sir."
As always, artillery had to fire at unseen enemies from the rear.
Which meant that if something went wrong, they might end up wasting shells on empty ground—or worse, dropping fire directly onto their own troops and earning their fury.
At this moment, hitting friendly forces would be the worst possible outcome. It wasn't just about casualties—once a unit was hit by friendly artillery, its morale would collapse completely, making it unusable in battle.
They had done well so far. In this decisive battle of the Meuse-Argonne, he couldn't afford to be branded a traitor. So he decided to finish firing on a few pre-designated coordinates and then fall silent.
More than anything, if he ordered more firing, it felt like his own men might not let him live.
But before he could send out the runner, a motorcycle messenger from division arrived first.
"New orders!"
"Understood."
As he scanned the order sheet, his expression twisted more and more.
"This is screwed…"
They'd captured another ridge, and now they wanted him to send a regiment there?
Whoever he sent would resent him to death. They had just fought with everything they had.
At least, with a small measure of mercy, they had been given some time—but it didn't make things any easier.
"Understood. Inform them that once the 372nd Regiment takes over this ridge, we will move immediately as ordered."
"Yes, sir!"
With a roar of the engine, the messenger sped away like the wind.
War was truly a terrible thing.
***
As the 93rd Division gathered everything it had for the breakthrough—
The neighboring Rainbow Division, the 42nd, was also bleeding heavily.
"The 83rd Brigade… has been annihilated."
"What kind of nonsense is that?!"
Major General Menoher, commander of the 42nd Division, spun around in shock and grabbed the telephone in irritation.
"Brigade commander! What is the meaning of this?!"
—We apologize. The enemy counterattack is too strong. The line is collapsing, and we can no longer control our troops.
"Hold the line as long as you possibly can. That is your final mission."
Bang!!
Declaring the brigade commander relieved of duty, Menoher slammed down the receiver in frustration. After grinding his teeth for a moment, he called the operator again.
—Yes, General.
"Connect me to the 84th Brigade. Priority!"
A moment later, a steady, reliable voice came through.
—Brigade Commander MacArthur speaking.
"The 83rd Brigade has collapsed."
—Didn't I tell you? We need more support. Even if you throw in the 84th Brigade right now, we won't be able to push the Germans back.
MacArthur had only recently been the division's chief of staff, handling everything. As far as Menoher could remember, this was the first time he had ever heard him say something couldn't be done.
"Is it that bad?"
—I apologize. If you order me to die, I will. But if you want me to win, I request more firepower support.
"I'll request additional artillery support from corps."
—We also need more air support. Right now, the Germans control the skies above us. We need to sweep them clean.
"Fine. You'll have it all. I promise. So by 1800 tomorrow, no matter what happens, I want the Stars and Stripes flying over that hellish ridge. That's my order."
—Brigadier General Kim requested 28,000 body bags, didn't he? Please order another 6,000 for my brigade. Either the flag will be planted on that ridge… or it will be wrapped around the sack I go into.
With that, MacArthur ended the call and immediately convened his staff.
"The outcome of this battle rests on us. The 83rd Brigade has collapsed, and the enemy has retaken that damned ridge. Now there are only two options—we drive the Jerries out, or we die."
"The Germans have been holding back and preparing for a single decisive counterattack. If we take that head-on, do you think we'll come out intact?"
"I've made every request I can. If even one of them isn't granted, then I'll have to pull back as well."
No sooner had he said it than a reply came back from corps. Every bit of support he had requested had been approved.
As expected of Menoher. He might grumble, but he always delivered everything that could be done.
"Good. Then this is how we'll proceed."
He drew a bold straight line across the map.
The points where corps-level firepower would scorch everything. For the Jerries down there, it would be nothing short of Armageddon—but it was exactly what was needed to make them understand reality.
"This won't affect only us, you know."
"Exactly. We won't get far if we advance alone. And our friends on the flank understand that very well."
This time, MacArthur picked up the phone.
"Connect me to the 93rd Division headquarters."
—Yes, sir. Yujin speaking.
"You know the situation well enough, I assume? It's a perfect day to die. The 84th Brigade will break open the road to Sedan today, no matter what."
—That's good to hear. Actually, I've ordered quite a few body bags myself.
"Hahahaha!!!"
—Hahahaha! It's perfect here. Enemies to the left, right, and front—so many that even a blind man could score hits at random. I'd love to head to the front myself, but what a shame.
"You ought to value your life a bit more. You're a division commander—what kind of reckless behavior is that? If you'd dashed to the front again, you wouldn't even be able to take this call."
—That may be true, but I'm suffocating here. There's no communication from the front—I have no idea what's happening. When will radios finally become reliable?
The staff officers listening nearby looked as though they were staring at lunatics—but it didn't matter. When ordinary men look at geniuses, suspicion is only natural.
"I've secured all the firepower support I could from corps. I'll read you the coordinates—listen carefully."
—Heh. That's exactly the sector we need. Once the Chariots of Fire make a pass, the Germans will be nicely roasted.
"What a poetic expression. I'll have to use that when I write my memoirs. With support like this, the 93rd Division's advance should be smooth, wouldn't you say?"
—If we can't break through with this much backing, we should tear off our ranks. I'll start issuing new orders immediately. Good luck, sir!
Click.
A spark lit in MacArthur's eyes.
If that dependable junior cleared the flank, the enemy pressure would ease significantly.
If the 42nd Division, the 93rd Division, and the 1st Division broke through in a ∧-shaped formation, then whatever grand counteroffensive the Jerries were planning would be reduced to a mere joke.
And the subordinate he knew was someone who could carve open the German defenses in the most rational, most perfect way—someone full of that so-called "offensive spirit."
That damned obsession with "offensive spirit."
As the thought crossed his mind, MacArthur lit his pipe.
Honestly, it had been far easier fighting alongside the French. Since the start of the Meuse-Argonne offensive, he had come to realize just how rigid and ossified the thinking of the higher command had become. It made his teeth grind.
He had been appalled when he read the pamphlet distributed at Chaumont, supposedly a collection of battlefield lessons.
[Front-line commanders fear enemy machine-gun nests too much. This stems from excessive concern over casualties. A commander of the United States should not wait for friendly artillery, but instead aggressively advance using infantry rifle firepower. Maneuver and offense are, in most cases, correct.]
In this day and age—and they were still saying this kind of nonsense?
Units that faithfully followed that "teaching," charging machine-gun pillboxes with their precious bolt-action rifles, were almost entirely wiped out in miserable fashion.
Units that waited for higher-level artillery support before advancing were likewise slaughtered—because the fire support was never sufficient, and the machine guns remained fully operational.
Commanders who tried to spare their men's lives, seeing this reality with their own eyes, were dismissed for "lack of offensive spirit."
At that rate, he'd rather be stuffed into a body bag himself.
Suppressing his rising irritation, MacArthur spoke.
"I'll lead this attack from the front."
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Didn't you already inhale gas once doing that? Show some restraint."
"My men need me. If I sit around clutching a telephone that cuts out every time the shelling starts, I'll only be issuing orders after they're all dead. I'm going myself."
Ignoring all objections, he climbed back into his vehicle.
"Waaaaah!!"
"MacArthur! MacArthur!!"
A cap worn at a jaunty 45-degree angle instead of a helmet.
A stylish deep-purple scarf draped around his neck.
A gleaming gold-plated cigarette case and a pipe clenched in his teeth.
Instead of a standard uniform, a West Point baseball sweater, riding breeches, and boots. And in his hand—not a pistol, but a riding crop.
Seeing this young brigade commander, who seemed to flip off military convention with his entire being, the soldiers cheered wildly as always.
"168th Regiment! My proud regiment!"
"MacArthur! MacArthur! MacArthur!"
"That's right! My father was MacArthur, I am MacArthur, and so are you! Just as my father fought with your predecessors in the Philippines for freedom and justice, I entrust my life to you! Are you ready, comrades?!"
"YES, SIR!"
"Then let's go! Let's show those Jerries that we are the finest unit—the unit that represents the United States!"
The climax of the three-day bloodbath fought by the 42nd Division.
On that day, MacArthur and the 84th Brigade finally captured the ridge.
MacArthur was gassed for the second time in his life.
The 42nd Division had to write 3,000 casualty notices in just three days—and gained three Medal of Honor recipients.
At last, the road to Sedan—paved with blood and corpses—was opened.
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