Chapter 79
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 79
Chapter Title: Killing the Dove (1)
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I kept my mouth shut tight as a clam the whole way back from London.
"General, are you alright?"
"Yeah. I'm fine."
"Did His Excellency the President say something...?"
"He told me to drop dead."
"What do you mean? Telling you to die?"
That son of a bitch.
I'd figured a trip to Japan was unavoidable.
The higher my position climbed, the more fame piled up, the more my very existence would provoke the Japanese Empire.
Even back when I was just a fresh second lieutenant, talk of sending me to Japan had already surfaced. Nothing had changed now.
But this was too much.
For now, I'd fed Wilson some smooth, lip-service platitudes to wrap up the meeting.
"This guy's bloodline really won't let go, huh."
"...You've been through a lot in every way."
What promises I threw at Wilson now wouldn't matter much anyway.
The end of Joseon, the dawn of the Republic of Korea.
The March 1st Movement was just around the corner.
In the face of that massive wave of independence shouts that would set the nation ablaze, did the Japanese Empire have the guts to summon me?
It wasn't about whether I offered lip service or not.
Word about me had spread over there too, and the fact that a Korean had risen to general in the U.S. military stepping foot on Joseon soil would pour fuel on anti-Japanese sentiment.
And that was just the start.
Wilson's mention of the Shandong Peninsula issue would spark the May Fourth Movement in China.
In this endless anti-Japanese atmosphere, my invitation was far more likely to fizzle out quietly.
I'd take all the upfront benefits from Wilson first, then play dumb: "Oops, the host says he doesn't want me there—what can I do? Haw haw!" And that'd be that.
Of course, delivering a solid gut punch to Wilson was a separate matter.
Even in original history, Wilson's hollow idealism couldn't convince his fellow Americans.
He'd collapse, end up half-paralyzed, bedridden in the White House, and his second wife would arbitrarily wield presidential powers in his stead.
To Koreans, it was the familiar taste of a shadow ruler pulling strings.
In original history, that insane truth never fully came out... but things would be different here.
Precisely because I planned to change history.
"Kehhehehehe!!"
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Kehhehehehe!!"
"You look like you're plotting some vile scheme again, but I trust you haven't gone so mad as to pick a fight with a nation's president."
"What, doubting my loyalty to the United States? No such thing. Never."
She's getting sharper by the day.
Ah, don't worry.
By then, Wilson wouldn't be president anymore.
Kick him out of the White House, and my loyalty obligations vanish too, right?
The trick is figuring out how to oust him while sucking the most honey.
"Get back to work. Any urgent news from headquarters?"
"Nothing in particular. Oh, hospitalizations among the troops are spiking."
"Why? Didn't I order thorough precautions to avoid civilian casualties during support ops?"
"It's STD cases exploding."
"Fuck. What am I supposed to do about that? Tell General Pershing."
We'd clamped down under wartime excuses before, but even in this armistice, if they kept blocking it, I wouldn't survive. The troops griped several times a day: "Why can the Brits and French do it, but not us?"
It was truly infuriating. Civilian watchdogs crossing the Atlantic to monitor U.S. soldiers' brothel visits and harangue Pershing had me horrified.
One thing I'd felt living in America as a second-timer: "Land of the Free" was only half true.
The United States was a land of freedom.
Specifically, freedom to make money.
Beyond that, cultural and social freedoms were nowhere in sight.
It was incredibly repressive and stuffy, with escape hatches only for the upper crust—especially men.
If I had to pick the perfect analogy, I'd call it:
The "Christian Taliban" nation.
Racial barriers went without saying.
But that Puritan ethic gripped society tight—I could feel it. No wonder Prohibition passed.
Just look at Dorothy. When we first met, I offered a smoke, and she freaked out.
Movies I'd seen set in old America showed women smoking, drinking, doing it all, so I'd thought nothing of it. But Dorothy later said it was a massive culture shock. I'd unwittingly become the archetypal bad boy.
Clothes showing skin? Sleeveless in summer was the limit.
Bobbed hair? Only for reds dissatisfied with society.
Corsets mandatory.
Makeup, especially colored? Bar girls only.
Stockings: cotton, black only. Lightning-struck fools who didn't know silk's virtues.
Even movies set in 1960s-70s Korea felt less suffocating. No wonder they're called pseudo-imperialists—choking atmosphere.
But it clashed hugely with the movies and docs I'd seen.
That meant one thing.
The iron walls of Christian ethics would crumble soon.
And...
If I prepared now, I could rake in money by the truckload.
Maintain my pioneer reputation with new business ventures? Eat the pheasant and the egg too, right?
Normally, I'd follow the changing world.
But to this world's people, it'd look like I was leading the change.
Corporal John Miller was on the verge of discharge.
As a member of the 93rd Division, he'd bravely charged from Amiens to the Meuse-Argonne through every fierce battle, only to be wounded in the final one and hospitalized.
To the end, he'd been saved by the Yellow Jesus.
Their revered division commander had prioritized evacuating the wounded the moment fighting stopped, keeping him from dying in the mud and getting him safely to the hospital.
Just make it home safe, fulfill every order from the division commander perfectly, and he could discharge honorably.
Now he could proudly declare:
I served in the U.S. Army's 93rd Division and fought for freedom.
So treat us poor black folks a bit more like humans.
Even if crazy racists shoved guns to his head and yelled, he'd have the guts to yell back: "Pull the trigger!"—just like facing Jerry's machine guns.
But right now,
that infinite confidence and courage was nowhere to be found.
"Hoo..."
"You scaredy-cat."
"But, y'know, it's kinda..."
An impromptu racial harmony session in the hospital backyard.
Two whites. Two blacks.
One black from the 93rd Division's 369th Regiment and two whites from the tank battalion smoked heavily, listening to Miller's whining amiably.
"So, you like her or what?"
"Like her..."
"Then go hit on her. Ask her out for a show on pass."
"You damn white boys wouldn't get it. This is a delicate, sensitive issue."
A nurse he'd met at the hospital.
She, Evans, had unwittingly scorched a black man's heart black. Whether she knew it or not was anyone's guess.
"Y'know, with race and all—"
"What'd our boss always say? He'd open the future. Doesn't that include scoring white girls?"
"You spooks haven't seen Cambrai. We tankers fought every battle with General Kim—we know him inside out. Bet if you snitch to him, he'll order 'Load one love letter!' One hundred percent."
"Unless you're crazy and misreading it, she likes you back."
Like all barracks talk, girl chatter had them spouting every wild idea.
But Miller found their "advice" distasteful. They were grinning like idiots yelling "Go for it! Rape her!"—just amusing themselves at his expense.
So engrossed, they missed the man approaching from afar.
"Hey. Having a fun chat, eh?"
"Huh?"
"Mister wants in too— Eek!!"
"Shit!"
The tankers clammed up first.
"Who's this guy?"
"O-our old CO."
"Old COOO? Carter! Barnes! Weren't you crybabies shitting yourselves 'cause you couldn't start the engine, and I wiped your asses just yesterday? Switched units and already forgot respect for superiors? Once 326th, always 326th—where'd that go?"
The newcomer pulled a cigar from his pocket and puffed deeply.
"If you're my prized junior's troops, you're mine too! The love master George S. Patton Jr. will personally teach you how to snag dames!"
Can't believe a word. First, how to fix that dame luck?
Thanks to the sky-high brass's urging, Miller hemmed and hawed through what happened with him and Emily.
"What a moron under Eugene!!"
"Why the sudden outburst?"
"Anyone can see she's dripping with interest! Drag her behind the warehouse tonight—no one'd bat an eye! Why haven't you asked her out yet, Corporal?!"
"B-but even if she says yes, there's, like, huge practical problems, right?"
Miller snapped and blurted it out, colonel be damned.
"Corporal Miller. Were you an accountant or lawyer before?"
"Pardon? Y-yes, lawyer."
"Yeah. Knew it from that inkwell bullshit."
But Patton didn't sweat the small stuff.
He thrust his hand skyward and launched into a speech.
"Real love doesn't whine 'can't do this, can't do that' over bullshit obstacles! Turns out it was just blue-balls laziness! Take a pass, bust a nut, done!"
"No! I'm serious!"
"Then smash that bullshit reality! You enlisted to smash reality—why whine here? Real love means facing down a pissed-off subordinate who got cheated on by your sister, gun-ready, to meet another girl!"
"Wait, Colonel, your sister's fiancé—"
"Shut your traps, you bastards! Wanna take the bullet?!"
Patton grumbled on, but enlightenment dawned in Miller's mind.
He'd come for the future but hadn't changed himself.
"I'll go right now!"
"Oh, goin'?"
"Yeah. Gotta try, right?"
"Attaboy! If it's all in your head, crawl back—we'll laugh together!"
Patton and the troops cackled like street thugs watching him go. No colonel dignity in sight.
"Pretty bored, huh? Even caring about a grunt's love life."
"What're you saying. Worried sick about the country and future all day."
"Sure. So, think that guy's got a shot with the nurse?"
"How should I know. Men's and women's hearts are the world's biggest mystery. War's easier. Damn it."
A knight seeking a lady should fight dragons or whatever. Cowards slinking away don't deserve under Eugene. Cut off those useless balls.
Patton deftly clipped his cigar but nicked his finger absentmindedly.
Blood beaded. It stung.
"Your sky-high division commander even married a white woman."
"That's different."
"What's different about turning the world against you?"
Hope it's just the kid's delusion.
This war changed too much.
Blacks on the battlefield.
Women on the battlefield.
And the Asian commanding them.
Wartime allowed everything.
But now "normalcy" seekers would overflow, and the bloody vs. the rights-losers would clash predictably.
"Easier to just shoot 'em all."
Would his proud United States watch a "nigger" with a white woman?
His gut screamed.
His homeland was another battlefield.
She was alone, by chance.
Miller swallowed, advancing slow like ordered to charge a German machine gun nest.
"Miss Evans?"
"Oh, Mr. Miller. Something bothering you?"
She smiled faintly. Heart attack incoming.
"No. Almost healed—discharge soon."
"Ah, I see."
"Would you... go out with me this weekend?!"
Didn't matter.
Seemed to hear his familiar squad leader yelling from afar: "Miller! Don't charge alone, dumbass!" But whatever now.
"Thought you'd slip out quietly. Unexpected."
"Y-yes?"
"No weekend, no time before rejoining your unit, right?"
She gathered her tools and stood.
"I'll be waiting."
"Yes! Yes!! Thank you! Thank you!!"
"Don't thank me too much. Thought you were clueless—surprise."
She left with those words.
Miller clutched his bursting heart, leaning on her just-vacated chair.
At least now, no fears of the future.