A New Age (2)
The Minister of Military Affairs, Yang Heon-su, hesitated a fraction at my question, then let out a sigh and gave a weary shake of his head.
"I still don't quite understand, Your Excellency. I suppose at my age the mind grows rigid — I'm rather slow to take in the new currents Your Excellency proposes."
"Is that so?"
"What concerns this officer is whether it is advisable to permit civilians — and foreign war correspondents, no less — onto the battlefield."
He went on to add that the tide of war had not yet swung decisively in our favor, and that our army was hardly so flush with men that it could spare troops to protect foreign correspondents in a dangerous theater. If they had escort troops to spare, he said, they would have used them to raise another reserve regiment in preparation for the northern advance.
"Moreover, war is cruel, and horrific. It will surely have an adverse effect on public opinion—"
"Ah. I know perfectly well what you're worried about, General."
At Yang Heon-su's confession, the officers discussing operations in the Wolf's Lair — and even the signalman idly tinkering with the telegraph — froze, watching my face. I felt their glances and their caution, and fell into thought.
Right. War correspondents.
We haven't even fully seized Liaodong, and we haven't scored a decision against heavyweights like the Beiyang Army. They might think I'm counting unhatched chickens.
Or, from the standpoint of Joseon people who were not even used to newspapers yet, let alone social media, the measure might seem truly incomprehensible. Why war correspondents, all of a sudden? The war was not over. They had not won some great victory that would let them proclaim Manchuria as Korean soil.
That's how it looks if you take it at face value.
But that did not mean I could send back the war correspondents I had invited early from America and Japan. There was only one reason I had invited them — foreigners especially — as spectators to this war.
New Order.
A new order.
In this war, Korea had to be defined as the line that stood for a new order, and the Qing as the corrupt evil that must be judged and erased.
And that is precisely what the Tripartite Alliance is. A great alliance of republics that have broken from the old order, sharing the same ideals beneath the banners of liberty and equality.
Having ordered my thoughts, I opened my mouth toward Yang Heon-su and the men of the General Staff, who waited in silence for my answer.
"You could call it a media play."
"A media... play, Your Excellency?"
Unfamiliar expressions crossed their faces at the relatively novel term. Of course, anyone who needed to know already knew that the latter half of what I had said was English. That scrap of English you picked up naturally enough if you worked alongside the French expeditionary forces and correspondents who came and went through the Ministry of War and the administrative offices. Even Yang Heon-su, back when the ports were opening through the two Western Disturbances, had strained every sinew trying to communicate with foreign officers by gesture alone.
"Put simply, it is the propaganda and agitation the Alliance Association I once led was so good at. The only difference is that the audience has widened — to Japan, America, France, and even the people of our enemy, the Qing."
"The people of the Qing... this officer finds it difficult to fathom Your Excellency's insight."
"Let us think of it this way."
I pushed the strategic maps and wooden figurines aside on the table and began to explain what I was driving at.
"When we must bring down a nation more powerful than ourselves, what must we consider?"
"The enemy's exact military strength, I would imagine. The size of their army, their supply, their weapons systems, their defensive plans, and so forth."
"Yes. But that is the old battlefield — the kind that was current a hundred years ago."
"The old battlefield, you say."
"The easiest method is to make them forget why they are fighting at all."
At my peculiar answer, Yang Heon-su narrowed his eyes and swept a hand across the beard on his chin. A faintly puzzled look sat on his face, as if the thrust of my argument were almost — but not quite — within his grasp. I smiled lightly and added an explanation.
"If this were an army from the age of cold steel, or an age when war was borne by only a tiny sliver of the people, those four considerations would have been enough to prepare for war. But look at the reality of our Republic."
"Ah."
That was it. In the immediate aftermath of the revolution that had executed a tyrant, the Republic had not merely reorganized the army, sounded out alliances, and poured itself into importing weapons in the run-up to war with the Qing.
"Land reform and administrative reform. The establishment of the Constitutional Committee and the emergence of the Public Security Committee. Tax restructuring, and even the founding of an Immigration Bureau to settle foreign investors and technicians. Our Republic has driven a sweeping transformation of society for the sake of victory in this war. War no longer belongs to warriors alone. That is what I mean."
Modern war, in every sense, could be said to represent the society that waged it. Supply reflected a nation's economic circumstances and structure. The adoption of communications and weapons reflected its science, its technology, and its rationality.
And—
"That is also why I supported the raising of volunteer militias among the people, with the Alliance Association as the backbone. When the people's opinion becomes one, the question of who has the right in this war — of who ought, as a matter of course, to win — becomes what matters."
Silence held the room.
And the true meaning of total war, which could also be read as post-fascism. An age in which the people — without distinction of sex or age — all take part in war, directly or indirectly.
"Was our victory at Jiuliancheng simply a matter of a disparity in the Republican Army's combat power, combined with the advantage of surprise? No. It was because every stratum of the Republic's people did not hesitate to give their full-throated support and cooperation so that our army could win. Why? Because there is a reason we must win!"
The reason the army of our Republic's people wins is simple. They know why they are fighting. Whether that reason is the product of forcibly injected indoctrination, or a fighting spirit born in direct connection with the true meaning of survival.
Once again the atmosphere had shifted strangely, as if into a speech — but no one pointed out the overheated mood. From Yang Heon-su, who had posed the question, and the staff generals discussing operations, to the couriers who came and went through the Wolf's Lair bearing news — everyone looked at me with one heart and one mind.
Tell us the answer.
"The Qing is a kingdom of contradiction, inhabited by two groups."
Rising to their expectations, I slightly unveiled the grand strategy I held regarding China. At my words, Yu In-seok, who had been quietly reviewing supply plans in the corner, swallowed a low sound.
"A kingdom of contradiction."
"It could be divided further still. It's an exceedingly complicated neighborhood."
I shrugged and went on.
"The current ruling class are nomadic peoples who came down from the north, but the ruled are the original inhabitants — the Han. The Manchus, masters of the Great Qing, would of course have been displeased by our northern advance. They believe Liaodong and Manchuria have been theirs since time immemorial, the land of their ancestors — just as their forebears believed. But to the Han, Liaodong and Manchuria are nothing more and nothing less than the front line from which nomadic peoples have always plundered and invaded. To them it is a troublesome land, one that will only breed conflict again no matter how long they hold it. Hence, a kingdom of contradiction."
"Ah — so the value of Liaodong and Manchuria appears entirely opposite to the Han and the Manchus."
"Precisely."
Pleased by how readily Yang Heon-su understood, I gave a short clap, wet my throat, and continued.
"And our Republic has shattered that contradictory system and come forth bearing, of our own accord, the very value of a republic that the Western powers — who congratulate themselves on being the earth's only civilized people — have so loved to flaunt. And this from a hermit kingdom that opened its ports less than ten years ago."
No one spoke.
"Now look at the other side. The Qing, which once symbolized Asia's absolute power — no, Zhonghua itself — is today nothing more than a sick man addicted to opium. Rather than protect and care for their own people, they do not even care that those people collapse and die steeped in opium. They might say they are sacrificing the small for the sake of the great, for survival — but in my eyes they are nothing but a husk that has lost even the true values of Zhonghua."
Those who most fiercely empathized with what followed were the former Confucian literati officials, Yu In-seok among them. From their standpoint — or from a Neo-Confucian perspective — the Qing had long since been, quite literally, a kingdom of contradiction.
Having persuaded everyone from the staff generals who had long nested in the Wolf's Lair to the government officials on assignment, I finally produced the answer to the gambit of including war correspondents.
"There are two interpretations. From the standpoint of the Western powers, it is an initiation rite certifying that our Republic is a true member of civilized society, a member faithful to its duties and responsibilities."
That was why the foreign war correspondents attached to the northward-advancing regiments had been granted access to the telegraph office established at Uiju, so they could dispatch their articles with ease, and to the resident offices in Busan, Incheon, and Hanseong.
So that the Japanese could carry Korea's exploits to the Eastern world, and France and America to the West on the far side of the globe — along with the gentlemanly attitude of showing generosity and mercy even to the civilians of the enemy Qing. And, while they were at it, if they reported on the Qing army that abandoned its own people to plunder, and on their corruption, drawing the starkest possible contrast — all the better. Compared with us, who had established the Public Security Committee to smash corruption and were now in something of a security-state atmosphere, the effect would be doubled.
"That is why I have strictly forbidden the plundering and massacre of civilians, the execution of enemy prisoners, and the like — and why I have dispatched to the front Political Officers, the Instructors rigorously selected by the Alliance Association and the Public Security Committee, to prevent such things. Our Republic has guaranteed freedom of the press and of publication to the world; that same standard must of course apply equally to foreign journalists."
Of course, assigning Political Officers to each regiment also served as a form of military surveillance.
There's no place as riddled with origins and factions as the army right now.
The Capital Guard Front Camp and the officer cadets from the Enlightenment Party; the Chung-ui-gye; the Capital Guard Left and Right Camps, which still bore the Sadaedang's fingerprints; the Capital Camp and the Police Bureau; the Gyeonggi provincial garrison; the Three Armies Command gunners from the Daewongun years; the Vanguard — and so on. They had purged some of the officers and units from the old royalist army, Hong Gye-hun's former command among them — but if one did not ignore the fact that last year's revolution had been a complex victory of various councils and coalitions, the military factions and organizations above would be readily understood.
"The war correspondents are a form of surveillance. They are my carefully considered decision, made so that our people may exercise their rightful right to know — to see whether our army superbly upholds military law and protects the weak."
"This officer's thinking was truly shortsighted, Your Excellency."
When the explanation was finished, Yang Heon-su bowed his head in apology. Turning my gaze from the fully persuaded general, I took in the faces of several officers who had long been studying the operations map with ambitious eyes.
War, to some, was opportunity. I could not fault them for that — yet I knew better than anyone that it had to be watched, and so I spoke with a warning in my voice.
"Conduct that brings shame upon the Republic's honor cannot be tolerated above all else. It is no different from spitting in the faces of the people, who are the masters of our Republic. Bear that in mind, all of you."
About two days after the battle of Jiuliancheng had ended.
"Is it up?"
"It's up!"
People of every race, of every shade of skin and color of hair, gathered as one before the notice posted on the Uiju government office, let out cheers, and fell in together, dancing for sheer joy. All except the Republican soldiers, who looked on as if the whole display were something outlandish, and shot them sour glances.
"Heh heh heh!"
But these foreigners had every reason to leap for joy. They had left their homelands at the Korean government's invitation, traveling from Japan and America and beyond to this strange foreign land — only to receive standby orders at Uiju Fortress and kick their heels. And now, at last, the provisional headquarters' press permits — the border passes — had been issued!
"The scoop is as good as ours!"
Among the war correspondents embracing one another in their joy, a middle-aged man with a heavy camera around his neck and a tripod slung roughly over his shoulder smiled bitterly.
"Damn Asians. This picky about everything."
Worn down by the stubbornness and fastidiousness of these oddballs who — unlike other Asians — would take neither bribes nor threats, the man shook his head at the permit in his own hand. His mouth grumbled, but his face was bright. His name was William Howard Russell. He had first made his name as a war correspondent in the Crimea, becoming the talk of London, and had gone on to follow the Austro-Prussian and Franco-Prussian Wars, publishing nothing but the unvarnished truth of combat. He was a hero of Ireland besides.
"Still, it's a stroke of luck. Not even forty-eight hours have passed since the fighting. Even if they're tidying up the battlefield, it isn't enough time to hide everything."
Just then a British boy popped up beside him, greeting him familiarly and glancing sidelong at the temporary press permit Russell had received.
Wait — a British boy, in this Far Eastern nation a half-turn of the globe away?
"Haha, Ernest."
Russell, who had lived and suffered alongside this sole countryman of his for the past month, let out a hearty laugh.
"What about your nanny?"
"She's not my nanny! I came along as an apprentice, I tell you!"
"Haha, and you lied about your age, too. You're still a greenhorn, you little rascal."
"I'm not a kid!"
Russell grinned mischievously and ruffled the boy's hair, drawing a yelp from Ernest. In fact, Ernest Bethell, who had settled in Kobe, Japan, had heard that a revolution had broken out in a country called Joseon, and had begged Inoue Kakugoro — a young Japanese journalist of his acquaintance — to let him come along. He had lied that he was fifteen and visited Joseon as an apprentice attached to the Asahi Shimbun.
"I-I followed the interview and apprenticeship procedures properly, as an apprentice attendant of the Asahi Shimbun—"
As Ernest babbled on about how he had come to Korea perfectly legally, Russell grinned and pointed behind him.
"Oho — look, the lobsters are going by!"
"Where?!"
Ernest spun around in a hurry, and both his and Russell's vision filled with a heavy presence.
The walking lobsters Russell spoke of were the Republic's elite infantry — the armored infantry.
"The more I think about it, the more it sticks. Lobsters."
"Woooow!"
Infantrymen advancing in silence, clad in the armor of a bygone age, in a nineteenth century of nothing but guns and cannon. The nickname "lobsters" that the war correspondents had stuck on them certainly carried a somewhat comical image.
Though in the eyes of Ernest, who was still a child, they looked magnificent.