Chapter 131
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 131
Chapter Title: The Fall of the Giant (1)
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December 31, 1924.
General of the Armies John Joseph Pershing retired.
Under current U.S. military regulations, a soldier's mandatory retirement age was 63, so Pershing should have originally retired on September 13, his 64th birthday.
But... we all know how that goes.
By the time the massive whirlwind of World War I finally came to an end, a horrific scandal involving the nation's president, Woodrow Wilson, erupted, plunging Congress into a collective state of anomie for nearly a year.
In America, where presidents getting shot and dying isn't exactly a one-off occurrence, even that couldn't compare to this unprecedented fiasco of "an organized attempt by the First Lady and her secretary to cover up the president's incapacity to perform his duties." The executive branch and Congress alike had their spirits shattered, leaving massive tasks like military reorganization and cleanup completely stalled.
As a result, the miraculous logic of "Pershing is the one and only General of the Armies, so he's fine" was invoked, delaying his retirement. And just like that, Pershing added yet another historic first to his resume. Who else but a man of his caliber could clean up such a monumental mess?
But that old man seemed awfully grumpy about it.
Amid the gleaming golden four stars—no other U.S. soldier had ever worn them—Pershing delivered his farewell address.
"—Right before our very eyes, Congress has enacted staggering disarmament measures."
Yeah. That disarmament.
This whole mess started because of disarmament. Sigh.
"We fought bloody battles to break free from British oppression, and those oppressors even came back to burn down the White House. Armies may seem useless for decades, but without one, a nation stands on the brink of survival. Yet those politicians spout economic indicators to ignorant, foolish, and reckless fools, engaging in dangerous demagoguery."
The faces in the audience began twisting in bizarre ways.
Man, he's going out with no filter on fire. Did Harding clean out his wallet at poker or something? Or since he's done with politics, is he just letting loose?
Of course, sensitive and empathetic souls like me were shocked by his unbridled words, but sadly, the military isn't full of sentimental, sensitive types. Everyone looked like they'd just chugged a refreshing soda—pure satisfaction.
Can he handle the backlash?
Anyone else would have to watch their step, but Pershing can. Only Pershing could unleash this barrage of fire. A 64-year-old's final blaze in his lifetime? It swells the chest with grandeur.
"In these harsh times, never shirk our duty to safeguard freedom and peace. In the history of the United States, times without need for guns have been short. Do not be disheartened if the nation ignores our efforts. As always, we must simply fulfill our roles."
Say what you will, this great soldier who commanded an era worried for his juniors, subordinates, and country until the very end.
Does outdated knowledge mean a lack of wisdom?
He deserved a salute as a marshal and great general.
And so Pershing departed.
For those left behind, calamity struck.
With Pershing—the unshakeable war hero with immense influence—gone, we had no choice but to scream in agony under the merciless blade of disarmament.
Major General Hines had served in the Spanish-American War and the subsequent Philippine War. I'd first crossed paths with him during the Mexican Expedition.
And during Pershing's time as Chief of Staff, he'd worked alongside him as Deputy Chief of Staff.
"It's been a while. Last time I saw you was right before Meuse-Argonne, I think."
"Yes, that's right. After that, the 93rd Division pulled back from the front lines and returned home early, so I didn't get a chance to see you, sir."
"Having Cambrai and Amiens's hero as my aide—probably no Chief of Staff has ever been this luxurious. Ha ha. Let's work well together."
"Yes, sir!"
He grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously.
"Who could've guessed that crazy second lieutenant who came back with those bandit leaders' heads would grow up like this?"
"No, that was Patton. George Patton Jr."
"Same difference. Birds of a feather flock together."
Unfair! This is so unfair!
You've planted a massive tumor in my life, senior. I'll abuse my aide powers to the fullest for revenge.
Honestly, what I was most curious about was how he'd picked me despite the subtle Asian barrier, no matter what I'd accomplished.
Sure, Marshall had recommended me, but that's separate, right?
To my humble question, he answered without batting an eye.
"I'm Irish-American. Both parents pure Irish. You can imagine the crap I've heard."
"Ah, yes, sir."
Irish folks get called fake whites plenty. I nodded without protest.
"No more General of the Armies Pershing. Which means... our most urgent task is begging for budget."
"Suffocating, sir."
"That's why your talents are in the spotlight now. You went toe-to-toe with Congress and kept the tank flame alive."
It connects like that, huh.
Of course, he doesn't know about my backroom dealings, but I did bare my teeth desperately, so he's valuing that.
And so I moved to Fort Myer in Arlington County, Virginia, across the river from Washington D.C.
"Here's the house key."
"I'll take good care of it."
"We did some repairs while living there, so it shouldn't cost much. Being a cavalry post, there's a decent riding course. Your thighs are getting thicker—ride a horse for exercise."
"Y-yes, sir..."
Quarters No. 3, where Marshall had lived, became home for me, Dorothy, and the kids. Marshall headed off to China carefree with his wife and mother-in-law. Thanks for all the backup, sir.
I figured no big deals for a while.
Sure, we'd struggle against disarmament, but who can defy the tide of the times?
But the world is truly unpredictable, even an inch ahead.
Mid-January 1925.
I received a discreet summons and headed to Woodbrook in Washington D.C. for the first time in ages.
This solemn funeral home, barely three years after the original owner's passing, already had a new bereaved family moving in... or up? Capitalism's madness is terrifying.
"You came."
"Yes."
"Got what I asked for?"
"...No, seriously, isn't this abuse of power?"
"Nonsense. I bought them fair and square."
The man who won reelection last year—President Harding—took the envelope I offered like Gollum craving his ring.
"My... my precious..."
This guy really is Gollum. What am I supposed to do with eyes sparkling like that over paper scraps?
"Sigh, we couldn't touch the production line, so I opened the card packs myself."
"Thank you. Truly. Now I might finally win. This country's a mess. All the cabinet secretaries carry four Black Lotus cards, and I only had two. What kind of law is this? Being president means I can't even go buy packs without drawing eyes."
"Ahem..."
"Heh heh. These days, this is my only joy. I never should have run."
Harding slumped into his chair, utterly drained.
"Honestly... couldn't we just put one of these cards in the White House instead? In terms of prestige and value, they're not so different."
"Cards can't talk, sir. And they're not handsome."
"Kuh huh! True. Talking the talk is the president's job. Since you're here, want a game?"
We inhaled cigar smoke like oxygen and played intense rounds. Harding, with his freshly slipped-in cheats, threshed my soul.
"This a game? Real talk? This garbage trash game..."
"Guess game creators aren't always pros. Even my White House win rate isn't great. You... aren't good at this, are you?"
Did this guy just call me trash? Man, he's making me flip out.
I slammed my hand down in rage, whining about my luck sucking today. Harding grinned wider, mocking my ugly tantrum.
But strangely, his smiling face looked utterly exhausted.
"God must be smiling on me today. Cards I need popping out, things going smoothly—rare occurrences."
"Tough times lately, sir?"
"You've led tens of thousands young, so you get this vaguely. Authority and responsibility given, but when I try to steer my way, my power vanishes, and the world fills with 'can't do it' reasons."
Harding gulped whiskey like water, breathless.
"I'm incompetent."
"Mr. President."
"I know myself clearly. I'm not cut out for president. Neighborhood buddies, arm-in-arm outings, occasional bragging—that's my level."
He stared not at me, but some distant place.
"Since I entered the White House, my friends split into two. Those who sold me out for nonsense, grabbed by the scruff and crushed traceless by D.C.'s monsters. And those griping I don't look after friends."
"Success draws relatives even from the eighth cousin. Unavoidable."
"Exactly. That's why. Rather than presidential power's allure, losing friends breaks my heart."
"Four years wishing to feed my pals good meat, but that minimal conscience saying I can't makes it sadder."
No, you've got four new years left—don't say that already.
Sadly, decades my senior, I couldn't truly comfort this pitiful man.
Because what he missed most seemed to be the people from before the White House.
We spent the night like that and parted.
"I'll use the cards well!"
"Wishing you victory, ha ha."
"Yeah. When I become the White House's top dog, I'll mention you in my statement. I'll never forget this favor till I die!"
Don't make it so grand over two stickers.
But looking back now, wasn't that a prophecy?
Two months later, Harding's obituary swept America.