Chapter 83
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 83
Chapter Title: Killing the Dove (5)
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The first thing that came to mind when I heard about the terrorist attack was, naturally, the racists led by the KKK.
Those white trash cowards who didn't even have the guts to show their faces, throwing their mom's napkins over their heads and setting crosses ablaze. Come to think of it, burning crosses—isn't that total blasphemy?
But if you want to become an expert in one field, you have to respect the experts in others. The police, who were specialists in matters like this, had a different take.
“From what we've seen, it looks like the reds' doing.”
“The reds?”
“That's right. The reds are the ones who hate war but are always scheming up revolutions and stirring up trouble, aren't they? Those bastards would naturally be pissed off about the victory parade.”
“Hmm...”
“And the fact that the explosion happened at the J.P. Morgan Building is pretty telling. Terrorism always carries meaning in its location. Blowing up a symbol of American finance and capitalism—who else but the reds would do that?”
It made sense when I heard it laid out like that.
What reason would the KKK guys have to hold a grudge against J.P. Morgan? For not donating? If they tried that, they'd end up tied upside down in the basement of the Morgan Building, hood and all, slurping soup through their noses.
There wasn't much more I could do to help here, so the 93rd Division soldiers and I had to leave chaotic New York behind.
It was a bitter end.
In any case, after the victory parade, they didn't head straight home. Instead, they went to a place called "Clean Camp."
Clean Camp was exactly what it sounded like—a facility for demobilized soldiers waiting to be discharged. It was like a paradise packed with every amenity imaginable to keep furious troops from rioting over not getting sent home right away.
They handed out household goods, fresh clothes to everyone, plus hospitals, libraries, churches, banks, all sorts of eateries and shops—even a theater. And they even installed phones, the pinnacle of modern convenience, so soldiers could stay in touch with the outside world.
But that wasn't all. They'd set up a separate section right next to the camp where married soldiers' wives could stay too. It was so thorough that even the war bureaucrats and staff officers who'd been chewed out over it must have been in awe.
I pulled out the flyers I'd prepared for the 93rd Division troops.
“What's this?”
“What else? Insurance.”
The flyers had only the bare essentials printed on them.
[Notice to comrades who shoveled mud together in the trenches.
If you find yourself in a situation where no one can help,
where you can't trust anyone but desperately need aid,
don't hesitate—reach out below.
—93rd Division Commander Eugene Kim—]
At the bottom, I'd listed phone numbers, telegraph, mail, and various other contact methods.
“So why are we handing these out—”
“Let's be real with each other. Do you think the white civilian neighbors are gonna warmly embrace our brave Black comrades who fought for the United States? Or are they gonna try to teach those uppity nigger bastards a lesson?”
The ones tilting their heads suddenly all nodded in agreement.
Yeah, they couldn't trust it. Hell, I didn't trust those beloved Dixie boys in the Union one bit myself.
“This is the best I can do. I can't rush in and fix things even if they call... but if we pool all their cries for help, maybe something meaningful comes out of it.”
“You could get accused of raising a private army, Eugene!”
“Shit. A private army? Then they should at least give the kids their bonuses. Sixty bucks? You kidding me?”
A measly sixty dollars in combat bonus pay! Wow!
My patriotism for the United States was surging like crazy.
After the Revolutionary War ended in 1783, they'd given eighty dollars cash plus a hundred acres of land as a bonus.
During the Civil War in 1865, it was three to four hundred dollars cash, not to mention separate bonuses from each state.
But in 1919? Sixty dollars?
Who're they trying to stick this on? With a dozen eggs costing sixty cents, the price of blood at sixty bucks. The Union's generous spending really warms the heart—or shrinks the chest, more like.
“I'm not overflowing with interest in Black rights, and I'm sure as hell no red. But, well...”
I hesitated on my answer for a moment, let out a big sigh, and continued.
“I can look after a few soldiers who have to flee their hometowns or need a lawyer quick. Think of it as charity.”
“If it's just that much...”
“But aren't you being too pessimistic? Even if they're Black, they're veterans who bled for the United States. No way they'd go that far.”
Ike. You've still got some faith in humanity left.
I'd bet my entire pitiful paycheck against his and still come out ahead, but I didn't want to gamble on something like this.
The 93rd Division troops, especially the Black ones, had a lot of intellectuals among them.
If I could stably bring them into my businesses, it'd be a big help.
But before calculating personal gains like that, the tribulations facing the Blacks hadn't even truly begun yet.
How many would come to me bloodied and begging for help? It felt utterly daunting.
But putting worries about the Blacks' fate on hold for now, I decided to step into the most important battlefield.
Because it was time for me to embrace my own fate.
I was trembling.
My heart pounded like a double bass drum.
I am Eugene Kim, hero of Cambrai and guardian of Amiens. No enemy could bring me down—
“Long time no see.”
“You came?”
An angel descended from the heavens, making my humble deeds meaningless.
Seeing my better half, my lady, after so long felt like staring into the sun—my eyes dazzled.
“You really went through hell. Thanks for keeping your promise and coming back with all your limbs intact.”
“Heh heh. I'm a good man who keeps his word. Heh heh heh!”
“Sure, sure.”
Dorothy smiled brightly and gently nudged the child beside her.
“Henry. That's Daddy. Daddy.”
“Daddy?”
Oh my God.
The kid could already walk.
I couldn't believe it.
The last image I remembered was him sleeping innocently in his cradle.
He'd skipped straight past crawling on the floor.
While he was wobbling around practicing his first steps and starting to talk, I'd been too busy shooting at Cambrai and Amiens.
As a soldier, who knows—but in Dad 101, I'd get an F with no excuses.
I stared wide-eyed at the kid, who was eyeing me curiously like I was some strange contraption.
“Hi, Henry? It's Daddy.”
“Dada? Dada!”
Thank goodness he didn't cry or run from the strange uncle. If he had, I'd have sobbed for three days straight without sleep.
He toddled slowly toward me and grabbed my pant leg tight.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, yes. Daddy.”
I scooped him up—damn, he was light. Lighter than a machine gun.
“Wheee!”
“Oop, oop. Did you behave? Daddy's not going anywhere now.”
“Look at you, talking big.”
Dorothy clicked her tongue watching us.
“No injuries anywhere, right?”
“Of course. Feel how spry I am. You doing okay? Nothing happened while I was gone?”
“Mm, lots happened. I thought about you the whole time I was in Europe and studied all sorts of things.”
Studied? Did she go to college or something?
“What'd you study?”
“Oh, Mr. Ford helped me learn to drive a tractor.”
Something felt off about the story. Time to change the subject quick. The Thirty-Six Stratagems say pivot when things get sticky and retreat if it doesn't work—that's the art of war.
“There's an amazing restaurant here in camp. Let's take the kid—”
“I heard you were driving that tractor all over dangerous places? Now I'll drive for you, so don't worry.”
Dorothy's smile was too beautiful.
Forget medals and brave soldier bullshit.
Here, I was just a capital criminal.
I was dead.
Spanning April and May of 1919, the shadow of terrorism fell across the entire United States.
Dozens of bomb packages were delivered to the homes of prominent figures in politics and business.
Panicked authorities inspected every package at the post office and uncovered dozens more bombs.
Likewise in Germany, bloody clashes erupted between the Social Democrats trying to hold onto power, far-left communist revolutionaries, and right-wing groups.
The new Soviet Union lurked with sinister intent, seemingly backing revolutions worldwide on the sly, stoking public fear.
Whether true or not, rumors spread among the masses: "Those ink-stained Slavic intellectuals are popping up everywhere yelling that society's rotten."
Meanwhile, workers who'd been silenced throughout the war with claims that "strikes are red sabotage undermining the war effort" had reached their limit.
Prices had doubled since before the war.
But wages hadn't budged.
Workers rose up everywhere, demanding a chance to live, launching massive strikes. Naturally, the authorities cracked down with batons on the wicked malcontents.
Getting beaten unilaterally only made the protests more radical, and the escalating flames looked to the public just like the final days of the Russian and German Empires.
The euphoria and cheers of victory fizzled out like beer foam,
and the Red Scare began to grip America tight.
Just as this hair-raising public security crisis was warming my heart, I finally met my steadfast benefactor, Mr. Ford, after a long time.
“Y-you bastard!”
“Whoa, what's with the sudden anger?”
“Traitor! I fed you, raised you, did everything—and now you toss me aside like an old rag! You bastard! Oh man, oh man. Shitty newspapers calling me a red, and now even the guy I trusted and backed betrays me!”
Mr. Ford was so choked up he kept thumping his chest.
“What betrayal are you talking about? Want me to shoot a commercial? 'Eugene Kim trusts and rides Ford' or something?”
“That's more like it! So why the hell were you cruising battlefields in that damn Dodge?”
“Because it was a military vehicle.”
Better not mention Patton lent it to me. Anyway, Dodge did supply the military, so it wasn't wrong.
“Everyone else rides Saatchi vehicles just fine, but you ignore the ones I make and stick to military rides? Nonsense! Was it so hard to ask me for one?”
“Come on, you know I was shipping out to Europe like crazy back then.”
The old man's rage was no small thing.
And finally, with fury boiling over, he roared.
“Then! Then why are you driving that goddamn Chevrolet today!!”
Busted.
“Oh, that? Not my choice—my wife, the missus, wanted it. Heh heh.”
“Don't lie! Since when does a husband listen to his wife and buy a car of all things? Say you bought a fishing rod on her say-so, you con man. Why listen to her on cars!”
Busted again.
No helping it. Our chairman only listens to the sycophants around him, so this dentist Dr. Eugene Kim will have to speak the truth again.
“Mr. Ford.”
“What!”
“Like you said, I did buy that Chevrolet.”
“Yes! Finally showing your traitor colors. Did Chevrolet slip you thirty pieces of silver? Should I call you Judah Kim now?”
“No, no. Why would the company approach me first? I just bought it because I liked it.”
Mr. Ford's eyebrows twitched.
He already knew what I was gonna say. As expected of the man who built an empire with his bare hands—sharp as ever.
“But the Model T's gotten kinda boring. It's, what, outdated? Old-fashioned?”
“Grrr...”
“For a fashionable young pioneer like me, not even thirty yet with a bright future—it's just a bit tacky—”
“Y-you!!”
And finally, he grabbed me by the collar.
But old man, hear me out.
You need to keep living large and have my back forever, but at this rate, you're gonna get dumped at the bottom for real.
Selling nothing but that damn Model T is gonna let GM lap you, I swear.