Chapter 34: Opening (5)
US Army Signal Corps Aviation Section.
Major General George O. Squier began the meeting in a rare upbeat mood.
Aviation had always been the neglected stepchild.
An independent air service? A pipe dream. Officers pushing for aviation autonomy drowned in endless disputes, legal battles, and military red tape.
American aviation industry competitiveness? Nonexistent. The behemoths like Boeing that would one day dominate the world were nowhere to be seen, even if you scoured the horizon.
Europe's aviation sector exploded in quantity and quality thanks to massive wartime demand, while America—the Wright brothers' homeland—had nothing substantial running in aviation. At least not yet.
"War's broken out, and Congress plans to pump extra funds into expanding aviation personnel soon."
"So we're getting some freedom out of this?"
"Nope."
"Figures."
Business as usual.
And it would stay that way.
But what could they do? Those boys spilling blood across Europe were proving firsthand that the age of air power was coming.
The air service would bulk up eventually, and someday they'd find their voice, bit by bit.
"What do you think we need most right now?"
"Personnel recruitment, first and foremost."
"No, we need to order aircraft first. America can't produce enough fighters or bombers domestically yet. Train pilots here, source planes from Europe—"
As the debate heated up, he glanced—uncharacteristically—at the low-ranking scrubs shoved in the corner.
They had the gall to poke each other in the ribs and whisper furiously while the high-and-mighties hashed it out.
"Hmm. Time to hear from the young bloods, I suppose."
He rose slowly and ambled toward the corner.
"Gentlemen."
"Lieutenant! McNarney!"
"Lieutenant! Stratemeyer!"
"Looked like you had something fun brewing."
"No, sir!"
"Come on, you're at the front lines. You must have wants. What do you think we need most?"
McNarney and Stratemeyer exchanged a glance.
A brief flicker of eye signals under the general's nose. Then resignation—and they spoke in unison.
"What we need right now is Eugene Kim."
"...And that's why I'm asking your thoughts on the matter."
Were all these so-called aviation pioneers out of their goddamn minds?
Out of nowhere, some rattling World War I-era crate lands, they kidnap me for a quick briefing.
The only reason I pegged this guy as not a full psycho—but just "a bit nuts with some social skills left"—was his name: Henry H. Arnold.
Future Chief of the Air Force. Father of American air power. The bedrock of the sky-dominating US Air Force.
"No beating around the bush—it's frustrating. We need you in the aviation section."
I couldn't fathom how that crazy report of mine ended up in Captain Arnold's hands. Wasn't it buried by the brass?
Arnold flashed a sunny grin at my question.
"Remember Lieutenant Stratemeyer?"
"Yeah. My West Point roommate."
"He transcribed the whole damn thing! Of course he'd share gold like that. Your vision of aviation's future? Impressive as hell."
No aviation for me.
Hard pass.
If I went, my father-in-law would show up with a double-barrel shotgun: "Listen, son-in-law. Planes crash and you're dead for sure, but this? Just loses your legs and you live." Boom. Dorothy'd probably cheer, "Yay! No legs means no more flying!"
Hell no. These era's planes were flying coffins from the start. No parachutes, engines conking out mid-flight. No. Fucking. Way.
Arnold nodded gravely at my vintage rejection.
"Understood. Since you're dead set against it, we'll stick you on rear-echelon duty."
What?
Did you hear a word I said? I'm not joining aviation at all!
"Sorry, but non-pilots have issues in the section too, don't they?"
"True enough. But your classmates rave about your knowledge and insight. They say you're the guy to build the bones of this matchstick outfit."
Jesus Christ.
That cliché "enterprising" for aviation? Cross it out. Replace with "batshit insane."
"Wait, did you take what I said as a suggestion?"
"Huh?"
"Don't worry. I flew here on a whim. Your transfer orders are already cut."
He chuckled, pulling a paper from his pocket. What the hell was this illegitimate assignment?
"Promised not to hog you long. No flying, per your wish. Just consult a bit. Tell us what we need, what to cut."
"Who'd listen to a yellow monkey like me?"
"Relax. War Department never listens to us anyway. We know the sting of being ignored. Won't brush you off. Trust me!"
I pondered.
Orders were orders—looked like I was hooked to the future Air Force.
Time to wash this red hat, ditch the owls. Not a bad deal.
"Then... could I go to Europe?"
"Eh?"
"I really want to go to Europe..."
"Haha, sure! Three months tops. Tour the section, dash off a report. We'll adopt the good stuff, bury the rest. You nailed that wild prediction—brass'll pour cash into aviation on your next one! Haha!"
You bastard.
Was I bait for investment?
Whatever. If it got me to the front...
Fortune smiled from the damnedest place.
First order: kick that Jap bastard and my roommate's asses.
1917.
Every empire in Europe teetered on annihilation.
In November 1916, Austria-Hungary's spiritual pillar, Emperor Franz Joseph—who embodied the empire—died. His passing shook the vast multi-ethnic union to its roots.
Successor Karl I secretly opened peace talks with France in March 1917, behind Germany's back. It leaked, enraging Berlin over their unreliable ally.
Late 1916, Germany's Kaiser sacked Falkenhayn, butcher of Verdun and Moltke's Europe-conquering bluster. The Reich's mighty army got new timber: Hindenburg.
January 1917: Germany risked US entry, resuming unrestricted submarine warfare. It choked Britain's lifeline.
Meanwhile, Britain saw moves to impeach wartime PM Lloyd George. Brave patriots turned trench fodder; conscription was now inevitable to hold the line.
France: Joffre out, Nivelle in. Verdun's Falkenhayn-slayer promised one massive blow to end it. But Hindenburg prepared the hellish "Hindenburg Line."
March 1917: Russian Revolution. One empire crumbled. The Provisional Government doubled down on war. Germany countered by shipping bald-headed Vladimir Lenin home in a sealed train.
April: Nivelle Offensive flopped disastrously. Mutinies erupted; rear strikes paralyzed. Successor Pétain stitched the shattered French Army back together.
This mad war raged on.
Europe's peoples seethed. No compromise—fight to the last man or exterminate the foe.
Then America set foot in Europe.
US Navy reps in London heard Britain's grim warning: "We're done. Surrender by October."
Pershing in Paris endured French briefings. Proud Gauls clutched him, wailing "Nothing left." It choked him.
Yet British and French envoys in Washington displayed astonishing incompetence.
Separate delegations from allies, with outrageous demands.
"We welcome US entry, but... can your army fight a real war? Send infantry—we'll fold 'em into the British Army for the front."
"US has right to independent units, but why reinvent the wheel? Best under French command."
Pershing's stance: rock-solid.
'Fuck that.'
No ceding command.
No spilling blood under asshole Brits.
Thus, Pershing's first sit-down with British Expeditionary Force commander Field Marshal Douglas Haig.
"We thank America for its resolve."
"To defend freedom and democracy from autocratic tyranny, America fights to the end."
Pieties done, down to brass tacks.
Front plans.
Chaotic politics.
Flickering candle of the age.
Mid-ramble, Haig noted:
"Speaking of, impressive book from your country."
"Book?"
"Yes."
Haig gestured; an aide placed a worn volume on the table.
"No idea if it's your Indians' shamanism, but pre-war and it prophesies this mad war like a seer. US might? Whatever. Send this prophet to the Empire instead?"
"Not the plea from someone begging aid."
Pershing flipped it politely.
Then Patton—statue-still behind him—fidgeted like a nutcracker.
3 seconds.
Debate.
Done.
Patton didn't deliberate; he charged past bounds into sacred commander turf.
"Sir."
"Hm?"
"Sir, five minutes—"
"US Army lets aides interrupt commanders? Rustics."
Haig sneered. Pershing eyed only Patton.
"Sir, please—"
"That urgent? Piss and come back."
"Not piss. Just five—"
"Got it. Marshal, incontinence—be right back."
"Do. Mind your health. Don't shit mid-command."
Pershing rose, dodging Haig's glare.
Three minutes later, he returned beaming like post-dump bliss.
"This book."
"Intrigued? Make him royal astrologer."
"Royal? Gives Americans hives. Not a shaman—our Army's young gem with unmatched foresight."
Watching Haig crack, Pershing pressed.
"He penned a classified report... If it aids the Empire even slightly? Priceless. Interested?"
If the unseen "report" was bunk, Pershing'd shoot the fool subordinate gladly. But trust till then made a great general.
He glanced at frozen Haig, lit a smoke. Victor's smirk full bloom.