Chapter 26. Overture (1)
“I'm fucking exhausted.”
The cramped office in the War Department.
I tossed the paperwork aside roughly and leaned back in my chair.
1. Dispatch to the Philippines
2. Air Force
3. Weapons and doctrine development
4. Japan
Out of the four options my father-in-law and Henry Ford had brought me, I had no choice but to pick number 3, tears streaming down my face.
Japan.
Japan!
It was yet another moment that drove home just how abysmal American understanding of Asia was back then.
These guys figured that instead of shipping me off to some garrison in the Philippines, stationing me in "civilized" Tokyo would be better. Pure insanity.
Picture me prancing into Tokyo, chumming it up with Japanese army buddies, haha-ho-ho style. The independence activists grinding their teeth in Korea right now—still shedding bloody tears—would gladly swim across the Pacific to put a bullet in my skull.
It had only been five years since the fall of the nation, King Gojong was still kicking, and the Great Han Empire Suppression Operation wasn't ancient history.
A Korean-looking guy in a U.S. Army uniform, cozying up with nothing but Japanese officers. Oh yeah, prime target for a bullet of justice.
It hadn't even been a decade since patriots Jang In-hwan and Jeon Myeong-un assassinated Stevens. Back then, my reaction was a mix of "good riddance" and "hope we don't get lightning-struck too." But if those kinds of patriots came for my head... well, that'd be a bit much. No need to take that risk.
Sigh. What kind of loyalty test was this? Straight out of the medieval trial by water—float and you're a witch, sink and you're innocent. No-win either way. Their proposal was a one-way ticket to the guillotine.
In the end, I choked down the mustard and chose to clock in at the War Department. Only then did Ford and Senator Charles Curtis flash their sunny smiles, praising my "excellent, sensible judgment" in the most infuriating way.
Yeah. Fooled me good.
What parent in the world would want to send their newlywed daughter off to some far-flung corner of Asia? Naturally, they wanted me parked right here in Washington D.C., close to home and work.
Senator Curtis and Chairman Ford had definitely colluded. A worried dad and a CEO seeing untapped labor potential. Textbook case of politics and business in bed.
After I signed my voluntary indenture papers and dragged myself back to the hotel, Dorothy Curtis greeted me with the same sunny smile. "You're heading to the War Department, right?" Everyone knew but me.
And so, I became a D.C. ghost, bound to the place.
My routine was mind-numbingly simple.
Paper-pushing in Washington and bouncing between Detroit's tank factories—that was most of it. But every proposal I scraped together with my brainpower? Straight into the boss's drawer.
"A proposal on machine gun operations—"
"Congress won't buy us machine guns, so we can't expand."
"On using trucks for infantry transport—"
"Congress won't buy trucks, so no dice."
"Suggestions for trench line construction..."
"Hmm. Let's wait for field reports from the boys fighting in Europe."
Fucking U.S. Army.
My bad for expecting anything from an overstuffed superpower army where fewer than 5,000 officers commanded just over 100,000 troops. The U.S. Army always exceeded expectations! Impressive!
...Of course, the Army being incompetent played a part, but after a few months, I figured it out.
I was being sidelined.
Obviously. Why else would big shots swarm just to assign me a post? Alone in what used to be a warehouse office, zoning out, you notice things.
At least there was some progress crawling along—and since it involved those damn tanks, focusing there felt rewarding.
The result of Henry Ford's lust to sell tractors as a new product line and my humble wish not to croak in a trench? It was growing like wildfire.
While I kicked off my soulless bureaucrat military career, the world was churning at breakneck speed.
March 9, 1916.
Pancho Villa's Mexican "rebels" crossed the border and hit New Mexico, killing 17 Americans.
First attack on U.S. soil since the War of 1812. The whole country lost its shit. President Wilson immediately summoned Brigadier General John J. Pershing and ordered him to "help Mexico" capture Villa.
March 24, 1916.
The passenger liner Sussex was crippled by a German U-boat. She didn't sink, but with 75 Americans aboard, it was enough to revive nightmares of the Lusitania.
For Woodrow Wilson, eyeing the November election, it was a nightmare too. With the south and east both aflame, he sent a polite "You really wanna go?" Germany's response? The usual groveling apology show: "Won't happen again! No more neutral ships!"
No attacks on passenger liners.
Merchant ships inspected if needed; unarmed ones won't be sunk. If sunk, crew and passengers guaranteed safe.
Wilson swallowed it—again.
Mexico's bloody reckoning came first.
Before the Sussex incident,
Mid-March in Detroit.
Out on another pointless business trip, spinning the hamster wheel, when an unexpected guest showed up.
"Hmm. So this is Ford's new toy, the armed tractor?"
Young white guy.
Civilian clothes, so not military. Looked hot-tempered at first glance, but his thick American English ruled out Brit.
Contractor rep? State Department? State guys usually pulled strings, so probably that.
Moneyed vibe, high-class bearing—time to butter him up.
"Good day, sir. Lieutenant Eugene Kim, U.S. Army, advising on this weapon's development."
"Uh... yeah. You're Eugene Kim, huh."
"If I may ask, where are you from—"
"Curious? Five bucks."
"Pardon?"
What the fuck?
He glanced me over and spouted nonsense.
"Too pricey? Skip it then—tell me the story anyway."
"Uh... what would you like to hear?"
"Everything. Spill on this armed tractor."
"We call it a 'tank.' Care to watch a field test?"
"Sounds good! Let's go!"
He slapped my shoulder and shoved me along. Hot-blooded guy.
If he was just some sneaky civilian, I'd plant lead in his face. Self-defense, no question.
We walked to where a tank was rumbling around.
"As you see, nimble speed, handles rough terrain fine."
"Cavalry could do that easy. Europe's battlefields are way worse—shell craters everywhere. This pass?"
"Army won't loan field guns. We sent prototypes to Europe; results incoming."
He watched the maneuvers, then scowled.
"Not flashy enough."
"Pardon??"
"Engine's too loud, not agile. Cavalry wheels and shoots sideways; what's this clunker?"
Are you the Little Prince from Asteroid B-612?
Wanted to box it up and say "The tank you want is inside!" But as a good, diligent adult, I held back.
"The turret rotates 360 degrees for all-around fire—"
"Spin it. Let's see the speed."
Fucking nitpicker.
I flagged the tank to stop and showed him the turret turn.
"How's that."
"Slower than a man."
Obviously. What do you expect, complainer?
"But cavalry can't tote cannons. One shell beats a bullet any day, right?"
"Hmm... true. Direct fire support? Grunts'll love it."
He nodded, approached, and rapped the armor with his knuckles.
"Armor thickness limited by engine power—"
"Nah. Get these guys out."
"????"
"Lemme ride. Watching's making me antsy."
"It's two-seater."
"Hop in too! Hurry, hurry hurry!"
I hopped in after him, dazed.
As I aimed for the driver's seat, he blocked me and took it.
"Hmm. Stiff as hell. Weaklings'll whine for mom's milk."
"Heh heh..."
"Ride rougher than cavalry. Horses are best—smarter than people. This scrapheap's got no soul."
If it did, it'd be machine spirit, you young know-it-all.
After joyriding, he hopped to commander seat, spun turret, fondled shells, mimed loading—full circus.
"Uh... thoughts?"
"Satisfactory! Still no match for cavalry, but fun in its way. Fuel supply?"
"Fuel? Just supply it."
"Idiot! Extra logistics item is hell! You seen the front?"
"They won't send me, that's why I'm here."
"Hahaha! War Department pencil-pushers are blocked-up pricks, yeah! So no fuel plan?"
Fuel?
Honestly, tanks need it anyway—no biggie. Trucks too, right?
"Cavalry horses forage roadside grass? Nah. Unify horse feed to fuel—solves logistics."
"Ditch cavalry?! Crazy talk! You're dangerous, huhaha!"
He pounded my shoulder again. Ow.
"Alright, blood-boiling Lieutenant Kim."
"Yes sir."
"Don't wanna hit the battlefield? Drag this scrapheap through war, blow enemies' heads off for the Union?"
"Why join otherwise."
"Goooood. Pack your shit now!"
What? Brass?
"Not following—"
"Blow taco-eaters with this heap! Pershing told me to check it. Not my taste yet, but might buddy up later. But."
His eyes burned like a tweaker's. Scary.
"Right now, more curious about you. How good to get a yellowskin past those denture fucks?"
"So, verdict?"
"Dunno yet. Real men bond over gunpowder."
He flung the hatch open. Sunlight flooded; halo on his head like God's own.
"With Lieutenant George S. Patton here, let's seize honor and glory in cactus-filled taco-land!"
Who? Patton?
You're a lieutenant too, asshole. Save that shit till you got pull.
"Hahaha! C'mon, junior! Hurry up!"
Stuck with a weirdo.