Chapter 35. To Europe (1)

I had no idea.

I couldn't even begin to guess what the hell was going on.

Dragged to Washington D.C. like so much baggage, I'd overnight become some schmuck scribbling reports amid blood, madness, and sky-high lunatics.

Sure, I'd beaten the tar out of McNarney and Stratemeyer, but that aside, the state of the U.S. Air... no, the Aviation Section of the Signal Corps was a total shitshow.

"What the fuck is this, an army?"

To be brutally honest, I knew jack shit about aviation or air forces.

Sure, I had a few scraps of knowledge—peanut-sized bits. But turning those fragmented, hazy future memories into something concrete and useful for the war right now? Fat chance.

Haha! You fuckers got played! I don't know shit!

And so, my unholy alliance with the aviation crew came together with shocking speed.

"Can't you just write up what we want under your name?"

"Hell yeah, haha. But send me to Europe for sure, yeah?"

"Of course! Worst case, I'll fly this bastard myself and drop you right in London."

"Uh, maybe not..."

Was a lowly lieutenant like me gonna stiffen up here and play prophet? "No, this ain't the path for the future U.S. Air Force!" Get real.

Future knowledge has limits, and these guys weren't really after prophecies anyway. Idiots like McNarney and Stratemeyer.

Anyway, the biggest win here was the budding friendship with Henry Arnold right in front of me. Everything else was just gravy.

So there I was, basking in what amounted to a honey-dripping vacation, when the call came from the War Department.

I had no clue then that the world was starting to call my name.

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠War Department.

The mood in the meeting chaired by Secretary Baker was grave as hell.

And the documents sitting primly before every attendee? That was the golden apple sparking this whole mess.

"Let's start the briefing."

"Yes, sir. Recently, AEF's General Pershing urgently requested transmission of this report."

The Chief of Staff tapped the "Armageddon Report" in front of him.

"After receiving it, British Expeditionary Force commander Field Marshal Douglas Haig requested several times that the report's author be transferred to the British Army."

"Those ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crazy bastards."

"Who the hell do they think they are, demanding we hand over our officer? Do they still think we're a colony?"

The room ignited in a flash.

Could you call Anglo-American relations good? At best, they were ambiguously fuzzy. Close, but not eager to get too cozy. A fateful community thrust together by circumstance. That summed up the current U.S.-UK vibe.

"Those pricks are the ones always demanding our men and materiel, noses so high they could double as Big Ben."

"General Pershing must've been pissed."

"Ahem. Anyway, when we rejected it, a similar request came in the name of current British PM Lloyd George. Guaranteeing personal safety, they want him sent over."

The heat cooled a bit. This might be okay? That thought wrapped the brass party.

"Any other conditions?"

"General Pershing sent a separate wire. He notes the Brits seem to want to stick Lt. Kim in London for propaganda purposes."

"Propaganda?"

"Yes. Like, 'The great shaman who predicted this war now foretells another victory for the British Empire—'"

"Those sons of bitches! After all this back-and-forth, what the fuck do they think a U.S. officer is?!"

Finally, with someone's roar, the volcano erupted.

Incredibly, the U.S. Army that Eugene Kim had so desperately wanted—transcending racial barriers—was being forged right here. The shared humiliation of being lumped in and dismissed by the Brits was stripping the racism filter from eyes hardened by lifelong service.

"So? What's your plan, Mr. Secretary?"

"The Brits must think it'd help the war effort, right? So then—"

"This is about our honor! Honor!"

The uncles pounding the table lacked a star's dignity, but right now, they glowed with radiant halos.

Their patience had hit its limit. Even Pershing "brigadier general" meeting Haig "field marshal" twisted their guts.

Why the hell are we going over there to take this shit?

"Mr. Secretary. You're not thinking 'we can afford to yield this much,' are you?"

"Anyway, a U.S. Army talent would be safe—"

"Safe? Sure. But is this real safety? Can you swear a U.S. officer suffering horrific insults from the Brits ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is less dangerous than bullets?!"

"Absolutely not. We won't hand over a single soldier to those bastards!"

"No officer would stomach this humiliation! We'd sooner shove a bullet in our skulls!!"

The Secretary was starting to confuse whether war had been declared on Germany or Britain.

But even he felt the twist in his gut. Civilian or not, this smacked of insulting the United States.

After enduring the Army stars' frenzy, Baker could speak once the room calmed.

"Don't worry. I get your views. We'll accept the British request—but in our own way."

"What do you mean? Accept how?"

The room's sole civilian spoke.

"Let me quote their last request exactly: 'The British Empire guarantees all personal safety; we politely request you send "that lieutenant" on the next transport ship.'"

"Right."

"So let's do exactly that. Send Lt. Kim. Can't refuse a request in a prime minister's name."

"Secretary! You mean we're—"

"But the last wire didn't say London, did it?"

Baker declared triumphantly.

"The Brits have tested our patience multiple times. They say they need our help, then trample us and hurl insults. This time, we'll hammer home that the United States is not beneath them."

"Damn right!"

"So, we'll assign Lt. Eugene Kim to the AEF and send him to France. Still helping their war, right?"

"They've got no grounds to complain."

"Serves ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the bastards right."

This was the United States of America.

A land where "Do it!" triggers the spine before the brain to spit "Hell no." Built by rebels.

When war hit and they demanded National Guard, folks balked with pig squeals. Making that country cough up on demand? No hope of smooth sailing.

"Gotta make it look good, so bump his rank. Answering London with 'Lt. Eugene Kim' looks cheap."

"Agreed. Looking like we can't spot talent tarnishes the Army's honor too."

"Major? Too low?"

"Needs field grade for face. Aye."

"Posting? Armor? Aviation?"

"Aviation? Don't be ridiculous."

"Aviation in that blink? Can't waste talent on flying coffins."

"Leave it to Pershing. It's an unplanned dispatch anyway. He knows the officer; toss him in, he'll use him."

Eugene would've raged "Don't half-ass my posting like that!" But he wasn't level for this room.

Thus, amid fiery resolve, temporary major promotion and France posting for Eugene Kim were set.

"Come in."

"Pardon? Isn't there some mistake?"

"Lt. Eugene Kim?"

"Yes."

Called to the War Department, I figured something big.

Logically, months after assignment, another order? Nah. Personnel changes come via paper, not summoning to the Department. Promotions too.

But shit was going sideways.

Why the Secretary's office? A pipsqueak lieutenant waltzing into the boss's lair? No way normal.

"Lt. Eugene Kim, entering—"

The guy there. Unless my eyes were fried—

"Lt. Eugene Kim?"

"Yes, sir."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Newton D. Baker, Secretary of War."

No fucking way. Not the secretary's aide or adjutant—the man himself waiting.

"Sit down quick. I'm swamped lately."

I took the seat as guided.

What the hell are you doing here, bro?

That doc I'd flung years back on pure guts, pride, and fear of yellow monkeys swarming? It blanketed the secretary's table.

How many headaches had this cursed thing caused?

After creepy small talk with the exalted one, Baker briefed the Atlantic spat between America and Britain.

Summary:

1. Somehow the Brits know your report.

2. Pershing requested it.

3. You're going to Europe!

4. Join the AEF and spin your wheels!

5. Fulfills the Brits' order sorta—sent to France, but dispatched. Checks out.

The more he talked, the madder I got.

This was straight-up Captain America hawking bonds. Nah, he was WWII; I'm the前辈.

Shaman America Eugene Kim, launch! Dizziness just thinking it. Worse: not domestic promo, but clowning abroad. Was that war? Circus act.

Brits see foreigners as second-class. Top-tier assholes.

The "masterpiece novels" they peddle? Fu Manchu series with Chinese villains rampaging. Shaman American? Lucky. Might make me dress as a chink. If so, I'd Joker-up and go on a spree instead.

Brits still had far to go. Cultural cluelessness? Not American—Anglo-Saxon trait.

But the wise U.S. Army brass offered perfect solution. No UK shaman gig? Bliss. Deployment? Double bliss.

Join AEF, opportunity comes. Staff or whatever—getting there first. Then cling to Pershing for front-line post.

Thus, I got my first shit sandwich.

Glistening major insignia.

Bestowed by the Secretary himself.

Temporary till war's end, but that promotion moment? Face control failed hard.

Deployment set, I hustled.

The Aviation Section lost their report-printing machine overnight, left as dazed scarecrows.

Consoled poor Major Arnold, then courtesy calls to the honorable elders—

Dead already—how kill again? Planning a posthumous execution?

Last, saw Dorothy and Henry, wired San Francisco for prepped "cargo."

Then, New Jersey, Hoboken.

Home to North German Lloyd's port.

Name screams it: German firm. War on, seized by feds for Atlantic troopship duty.

Gigantic transports stuffed with countless tanks.

America's hot gift, shipping with me.

But handlers balked at my personal cargo.

"Too heavy."

"All this as personal baggage?"

"A, it's military gear really. Military. Cut me slack."

"Can we inspect?"

"Guns. Guns."

"How's this a gun—"

"Wanna know? Eat one. Just load it! Gotta get to Europe."

After wrangling, the big ornate crate finally boarded.

With that primo oil sprayer, I'd deliver Europe's second shock.