Chapter 45
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 45
Chapter Title: The Butterfly's Wingbeat
-----------------------------------------------------------------
At that time, the United States hadn't yet introduced censorship, so Eugene's letter arrived in San Francisco without any issues.
Even if someone had peeked inside the letter, finding someone capable of reading a missive written in the language of a minority ethnic group—totaling fewer than ten thousand, including those in Hawaii—would have been quite the chore.
"Hold a rite?"
"Bro's got shot in the head or something! Wait, did he catch syphilis over in Europe? Should we tell sis-in-law to give him hell?"
"Sis-in-law might shoot you first before she goes after big bro."
"......Shut your mouth."
Yushin laughed in disbelief, but his father's lips remained firmly sealed, showing no sign of opening.
"Rites. Rite booze. Goodness."
"Dad. You're not seriously swayed by that nonsense, are you?"
"You fool. Do you know your brother? The kid who holed up in school staring out at the horizon ten thousand miles away. He made a nose-picking punk like you get called 'President,' and instead of being grateful...... Tch."
"But how the hell does he know America's situation from Europe?"
"Being far away might let him see it even clearer."
Prohibition was an unmistakable tide of the times.
In fact, the Volstead Act, aimed squarely at banning alcohol, was raging through Congress, but with the majority Republicans pushing it hard, passage was only a matter of time.
After much deliberation, he decided this wasn't a call he could make alone and took the letter to the Korean National Association.
And An Chang-ho replied with baffling simplicity.
"Do as your son says."
"What do you mean? Weren't you a devout churchgoer too?"
"Church is church, and rites are rites. We're not old-school Catholics who have to obey the Pope in Rome. Besides, gathering our Korean people through traditional events and strengthening our bonds can only do good."
"Then—"
"Let's give it a try. Mr. Park is on his last legs anyway; preparing the funeral in the old Korean style might please him."
"Well. Guess we should do it right then. That old gentleman's time has come sooner than expected—time is a cruel bastard."
The "Mr. Park" they referred to was one of the pioneering twenty who first settled San Francisco, a pillar of the Korean community.
And so, Kim Eugene's modest wish to sneak a little honey from some booze took flight as a massive butterfly effect.
"Aigo, aigoo!"
"When~ will you~ come~ again~ now~"
"What's that procession?"
"One of the Korean leaders died."
"That's why they're yelling 'I go'?"
The Kim family had become overnight millionaires, rich enough to light cigarettes with burning cash. When such a household threw money around lavishly, the funeral naturally ballooned into a local event.
And Eugene's father donned an old hanbok coat that had gathered dust in his closet for decades since arriving in America.
"So, Koreans honor their ancestors every year?"
"Well...... Not sure if this is rude, but is this some kind of pagan—"
"Idol worship?! You dare insult me, a faithful servant of the Lord? The great Eastern philosopher Confucius declared there are no such things as ghosts. This rite isn't about serving spirits."
"Then what's the meaning?"
"When do you think a person truly dies? When they get shot? Wrong. It's when people forget them. Descendants reflecting on ancestors and remembering the departed is no different from you folks visiting graves to pay respects—just a different form."
"I see. But you haven't held these 'Je-Sa' rites before, right?"
"Of course we have. Back then, we were poor and ragged, so we quietly offered a cup of cold water at home. Now that we're secure enough, it's only right to fulfill our duties properly."
They nodded, watching the traditional funeral with fascination.
"But that altar setup has hardly any Korean traditional food."
"It's custom to offer what the deceased enjoyed in life. He loved this country more than anyone, spending decades trying to blend in as a true American after crossing the Pacific for freedom. We just put out what he liked."
"Poker...... at a funeral?"
"Told you, it's all tradition."
The foreigners were left speechless by his logic, transformed from an enlightenment pioneer into a Confucian Taliban after decades. Nitpicking a funeral tradition wasn't just tacky—it wasn't harming anyone.
Thus, San Francisco's elite bowed in place of incense, offered condolences to the bereaved, and sampled whiskey and snacks while experiencing this curious event.
Before long, the Korean custom—which absolutely wasn't some heathen ritual but a vitally important tradition that banning it would feel deeply insulting—settled in as merely intriguing.
What fruits this would bear was unknown even to a certain major groaning from overwork across the Atlantic.
Meanwhile, in Maryland on the opposite coast from San Francisco.
The state of Maryland, infamous for Annapolis—the seal den breeding filthy, vulgar, manners-lacking seals—had just opened a new U.S. Army tank training school.
And the school's most renowned and capable instructor, Captain Dwight Eisenhower, was nursing a headache these days.
"Good morning, Captain! Slept well?"
"Ah...... Yeah......"
"Another fine morning! Haha! Who're we cracking skulls today?"
"I'm not cracking any."
"What? Training without skull-cracking?"
Cambrai's heroes.
Hearing some would join the school as instructors had filled Eisenhower with anticipation.
America's only combat-deployed troops! A tank battalion no less!
But mocking his battlefield dreams and hero worship, they arrived and immediately started all sorts of antics.
"Please share as much as you can from your combat experience."
"KILL!"
"Uh......? Kill who?"
"It's our salute motto. Tanks are weapons of destruction and slaughter. The precious teaching to shred and kill anything in sight—roe deer or Germans."
Something's off.
They spouted lines fit for medieval knights from a thousand years ago with such swagger, it was almost convincing.
And their first order of business...... hats.
"Kuhuhu, finally I get to wear one of these."
"Can't wait to stomp on those fuzzy baby bird heads."
"Major Kim's boot-shine on high hats was top-notch."
"Heavens! Scarlet hats?! You're a heretic! Hats must be that deep, blood-red black—that's orthodox!"
"What're you on about? Don't you know Lieutenant Colonel Patton made one from a German's heart? Heart-colored hats are the true way."
Eisenhower's precious training school was being defiled.
These guys aren't right in the head.
That bastard's the one.
The demon who could twist so many minds—it had to be him!
'Eugene! What the hell did you do to these people!'
Cursing his friend sucking honey alone in Europe while stacking merits, he still picked up a hat to blend in with these weirdos.
"Did tankers wear these during training?"
"STOP!!"
"What now......"
The hat he'd just grabbed had 'CAMBRAI', '326', and a tank emblem embroidered on it. The tankers glared like he'd groped their little sister.
"That hat is only for the glorious 326th Light Tank Battalion who fought at Cambrai. Would you mind wearing this one instead, Captain?"
The new hat they offered had a simple skull emblem.
They had some nerve. Profanity bubbled to Eisenhower's throat but sank back down. Not because he feared losing a cursing contest—not at all.
No matter his presidential qualities, embracing the genuine lunatics these two nutjobs had lovingly raised was still a bit much for him.
"What did you say?"
"I'd like my next posting somewhere unrelated to tanks."
Patton's neck swiveled like a nutcracker doll at my words.
"Listen, Junior Kim!! What the hell?! Didn't we swear to bury our bones in tanks?!"
I never swore. What's your deal.
"I've thought it over, and as you said, Colonel Patton, tanks will inherit and advance the cavalry's role going forward."
"And?"
"So, as an original infantry branch guy, it makes sense for me to step aside."
"What nonsense! Branch means nothing—switch it! You gonna abandon that mighty engine roar, those battlefield quakes, Junior?!"
"But even Cambrai's lessons show tanks support infantry, right? No real reason to pull out now."
Ignoring Patton, I shook my head at Colonel Rockenbach's question.
"I think I've done my part by writing the combat report."
No need to stay tied to armor anymore.
I could play tank dad here forever and live happily, but until WWII, things would dry up.
My instincts were still sharp.
To climb higher, lots to prepare. Staying here narrows options.
Me leaving won't diminish influence. They'll still 'reference' my views informally. After WWI, I'd drop to lieutenant anyway—better wield power from behind than stagnate here.
"I understand your wishes. We'll reflect them in your next assignment."
With Rockenbach's approval, it should be smooth sailing.
Or so I thought—
"Major Kim, dinner together?"
"You're glowing lately. How about we discuss future ops plans among ourselves—"
"Heard you're an East Asia expert. Fancy a study session?"
"There's a killer bar next door."
Who are you people.
I only have one body. Since when are we buddies?
They called HQ a viper pit of politics, and sure enough, promising free agent Eugene Kim drew a flood of scouting offers.
Turning down meals? Not the Korean way.
"Of course, I'd love to! My treat tonight."
"I've always been into ops. Mind if a lowly staff weasel joins—"
"Everyone hustling to build knowledge—respect as a junior. I'll help however I can!"
"Love booze. Let's go!"
Grab every connection possible.
To keep the uniform on unscathed for decades between wars, expand networks ruthlessly.
Talent? Who cares. Talent matters in war; peacetime rewards smooth, accident-free schmoozers with great relations.
With my innate handicap, I must network harder to survive.
Sorry, Patton-senior...... You're abysmal at it. Him keeping uniform is one of the U.S. Army's great mysteries. Can't let a straight-thinking, mild guy like me get bundled with Patton as a burger set. At least treat me as a separate cheese stick.
Everything's going smoothly.
Family business cruising.
Ford's letter full of joy.
Father-in-law goes without saying; Dorothy's fine too. If the shooting news spread, her letter would've been icy—no word means it hasn't leaked.
As I basked in happiness with everything falling into place,
"Heard you're ditching armor postings. Finally ready for the 42nd Division!"
The final boss arrived.