Chapter 84
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 84
Chapter Title: Killing the Pigeon (6)
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Henry Ford—what kind of man was he?
A man who started with nothing but his bare hands and built an empire of massive wheels.
And right now, there was no need for change. Ford's sales were at an all-time high.
But that's when the chairman lost it, calling me a traitor and grabbing me by the collar.
"Did the Dodge brothers pay you off to piss me off?"
"I'm telling you, I'm innocent. I was just suggesting it might be time to think about a new model..."
He chugged glass after glass of ice water, struggling to regain his dignified air as a businessman and patron.
"Listen, Kim. You're a born soldier, so you wouldn't understand. Right now, one out of every two cars sold on American soil is a Model T Ford. A new model? No entrepreneur in their right mind would do that."
"Then why are Chevrolets and Dodges selling like hotcakes?"
"You trying to die by my hands today?"
"Calm down, calm down!"
"Just thinking about those bastards makes my blood boil, and knowing I sponsored and invested in someone who boosted their sales..."
The men who had been locked in a fierce battle for shares at Ford Motor Company's headquarters, fighting tooth and nail over money.
The Dodge brothers.
That's right—the owners of that very Dodge company I'd been advertising like crazy with my Black Rotors!
The Dodge brothers had entered the auto industry as parts suppliers for Ford, collaborating closely, even serving as vice presidents, and riding high.
But in 1913, due to friction with Henry Ford and other issues, they cut ties and focused on their own company—and hit it big with this war.
I felt wronged. Would I have driven around knowing about Ford shares?
But the chairman saw it differently.
"You expect me to believe you didn't even know we were suing those bastards in court?"
Saying I didn't know here would probably get me shot.
Luckily, he didn't wait for my answer.
"The verdict just came down. They ordered us to pay out about $25 million in dividends to shareholders. $25 million! Think of how much more we could have done with that."
"Whoa. Even hearing it makes my head spin—that's huge."
"Don't play coy. I know exactly how much money your brothers have raked in."
"That's their money, not mine."
"Don't make me laugh. Who doesn't know you're just a figurehead president?"
If he said that to Yushin or Yuin, he'd end up as a sack floating off the San Francisco coast. Come to think of it, I was the fire-attribute filial son who prioritized seeing my patron over my parents.
"Dodge brothers or Chevrolet—doesn't matter. Saying one in two cars is a Model T means the other 50% is up for grabs, right?"
"Exactly."
"So, if we develop a new model to capture that 50%—"
"Why? Just add another Model T line, and we can sell them cheaper."
"No, seriously, the Model T sucks."
"That 'sucky' car owns half the passenger market!"
"Sure, but you're not planning to sell Model Ts forever, are you?"
It felt like we were going in circles.
The chairman's resolve was ironclad.
No wonder in the original history, they kept peddling that Model T forever.
Then the door cracked open, and a sharp young man in a suit strode in.
"Father! How could you do this to me?!"
"We have a guest, you fool."
"Sorry. I see you're in the middle of something."
He stared at me blankly for a moment, blinking several times.
"If I'm not intruding... are you General Eugene Kim?"
"Yes, that's me."
"No way! Father, how could you not tell me General Kim was here? At least introduce us!"
"My worthless son. Say hello."
"I'm Eugene Kim. I owe your father a great debt."
"Traitor. Traitor."
Ignoring the chairman's grumbling, the son grabbed my outstretched hand and shook it vigorously.
"Edsel Bryant Ford. The poor son suffering under a bullheaded father! Now I have something to brag about. I've always wanted to meet you!"
"You're the same age as General Kim—"
"Do you know what this man said to me? Last year, out of nowhere, he calls me in and says, 'Eugene Kim's already a general at his age—you need to be president too.' And bam, he makes me president. But I'm just a figurehead."
This guy had a lot pent up.
Turns out we were both born in '93—'93 babies really are the best.
"Mind if I join the conversation?"
"Do what you want. It's company business."
"Then I have to! You dump the title on me then bench me here?"
"Perfect timing. I was just getting called Judas for buying a Chevrolet."
"Ah, well..."
True to the Ford castle, his eyes narrowed instantly.
"But Model Ts are everywhere. I want something sleeker, flashier."
"Exactly! Damn, is every 20-year-old general this visionary? Father, hear that? Still no urge to develop a new model?"
"Nope. None."
"Then I'll make one! A figurehead president's still a president! General Kim, got time for me?"
Who said chicken instead of pheasant? A pheasant chick's even better.
Pretending to give in, I let Edsel drag me out.
This might work out great.
1919 was a year of cataclysmic upheaval, where everything flipped upside down.
Even setting aside global events like the Treaty of Versailles, the March 1st Movement, and the May Fourth Movement.
Endless terrorism and strikes.
Women's suffrage, Prohibition, black war veterans.
Things unimaginable in American society before were crashing into reality.
And as change always brings backlash, resistance flared—fiercer than anyone, clinging desperately to the 'old ways' instead of accepting the new.
As a result,
John Miller's house was engulfed in raging flames.
"No, no!!"
"My God..."
The hometown atmosphere had changed completely.
Was it a mistake to leave for the big city to study?
The only one who'd changed was him.
His hometown hadn't budged.
A black kid heading to the city to study? He'd only gotten sneers and contempt.
Brushing that off, he'd graduated college, become a lawyer—no reason to return. What ties left?
But after Europe, medals, and now a woman he loved...
Coming home was the fatal mistake.
"Over there!"
"Ugh!!"
A dog hung upside down from a tree, bleeding out.
The one that should've greeted him from his house—now a ragged lump of meat dangling.
"Q-quick. We have to run."
"How?"
"Sent a telegram. Th-they'll help. I'm not the only one who contacted them—just hold on a bit longer...!"
When he left, it was just phlegm-laced insults: "A nigger like you won't amount to shit."
But a successful nigger? Unforgivable to the townsfolk.
Nearby veterans beaten, lynched—even murdered.
They had to flee.
Get out now.
But how?
He sensed it instinctively: the moment he tried to run, they wouldn't let him go nicely.
And doom arrived.
"Hey, John. Looking sharp."
"Nigger got promoted, huh."
"That whore there. How's nigger dick? Feel good?"
One by one, villagers sauntered out, blocking their path—plows, pitchforks, shotguns in hand. No coincidence.
"Wh-what's wrong with you all?!"
"What's wrong? You kidding?"
"I bled for the Union! Look—my medals! The government recognized my service!"
"Don't care what those fat-ass D.C. morons say, John. We just... don't like a nigger acting human."
Click.
That ominous metallic sound thundered in their ears.
"I-I'll leave town. Won't take anything. Just quietly go!"
"Then you shouldn't have come back."
"Know how shitty you've made our town? Act like a nigger, not fucking your old master's kin."
"Guys like you corrupt our kids. They're talking nonsense now—all your fault."
"Let's beat him first. Like that dog—whip him good, maybe he'll respect masters again."
No reasoning.
His love, Emily Evans Miller, pushed him back gently and stepped forward.
"Please, everyone. We'll just leave quietly. This work for you?"
"Crazy talk. Then you two shouldn't have fucked!"
"Her too! Burn the bitch!"
"Drown her in the river!"
They're going to kill us.
Clear intent to murder.
As darkness closed in on Miller and Evans,
A roar of engines echoed from afar.
"What?"
"Car? Sounds like engines."
Three black vehicles barreled down the rutted dirt road.
Finally reaching the blaze, burly men piled out.
"Hey, folks."
"Wh-what? We're busy teaching a lesson! Outsiders butt out!"
"Cut the bullshit even a dog wouldn't buy. Smile for the camera first."
"Don't worry. Damn, they're all crazy."
Eight men.
Strange metal things in hand—unfamiliar, but they knew pulling the trigger meant lead flying. Not that dumb.
Confused by the mix of black and white, they addressed the white leader.
"Who the hell are you, barging in like this?!"
"Us? U.S. Army 93rd Division Veterans Association. Don't care if you school the nigger, but he ate mud under me—can't let him die here."
The man, Dwight D. Eisenhower, looked down pitifully at the vermin.
"We'll just take these two and go quietly. Or we shoot it out, and you get front-page glory."
"That photo! Promise to trash the film, and we'll let you!"
"Fine. Eject the film, load those two in the cars."
"...Understood."
"We can't allow that!!"
A booming voice—and another man leaped from the driver's seat.
Patton, fuming, raised his pistol high.
"Able-bodied punks dodging the draft, persecuting frontline heroes? Hear that, junior? They're communists! No real man harasses warriors who bled!"
"Calm down."
"Calm? Traitors like these need tank treads!"
As Eisenhower soothed Patton, others helped the trembling Miller and Evans into the back seats. The villagers froze before the medieval knight raging in their faces.
Only when the nightmare town's flames faded from sight did tears flow.
"Wh-why... why kill me?"
"Sorry. Didn't expect this bad. And you're a colonel—"
"No, thank you. Saved our lives—I'll never forget."
"Save it for Eugene."
Ike gritted his teeth, staring at the couple.
Already two dead in his 369th Regiment.
Subordinates Germans couldn't kill, slain by fellow citizens.
Why?
He knew, but this bad?
Even for those who gave all for country?
They were lucky—barely.
'Ike.'
'Yeah?'
'That Miller in your unit...'
'The panty guy? Heard he ran laps all day.'
'His girl's a white nurse who followed him.'
'Stud.'
'Think our dear Americans will let him live?'
Answer: no. He'd been wrong.
Always, but on this shit? Eugene was 100% right.
And that drove Ike half-mad.
Patton, driving intently, glanced back and muttered.
"Hey, soldier."
"Yes!"
"Remember me?"
"Y-yes! Thanks to your advice—"
"Never saw this coming?"
Miller hung his head, fists clenched.
"I thought... but not this bad."
"Me too. Regretting stirring the pot."
"No! Even if back then, no regrets!"
"Good. A warrior responsible for a woman—don't snivel. Chin up, face this fucked world."
"Thanks. If you hadn't returned first and prepared, we couldn't have saved them today."
Patton scratched his ear at Ike's words.
"Just doing your hotshot buddy a favor. All talk, that guy's too perceptive. And trash like that in the Union? They deserve to die—my motto."
"Um... where are we headed?"
"San Francisco. Start over there."
He knew it wouldn't comfort, but that's all Ike could say.
Arkansas's pastoral view through the window looked more horrific than Meuse-Argonne.