The Dog and the Monkey (5)
Walton Walker.
A general in name and in fact, who served through the First World War and the Second, and fought in the Korean War as well.
He was named one of the four great heroes of the Korean War by the Department of Defense, and the story of how he personally flew a reconnaissance aircraft on low-altitude runs over North Korean forces to command the defense of the Nakdong River perimeter was the sort of tale told at the academy without fail.
In honor of his achievements and devotion, as he held the line against the North Korean and Chinese armies to the very end before dying in an accident, the Korean government named the area near Achasan Mountain in Seoul 'Walker Hill' — and in the twenty-first century, the five-star Walker Hill Hotel would rise there.
The Walker I met in person, in the middle of 1912 rather than in the pages of a history book, was a deeply passionate young man — but also a stubborn one, careful never to speak out of turn.
"That's right. Have you eaten?"
"No, sir. Not yet."
"Then let's eat first and talk over the meal."
Myself, Guo Songling, and Walker — three soldiers in the uniforms of three different nations took our seats at a restaurant in downtown New York, utterly out of our element.
Perhaps it was a sight not often seen, because people around us kept sneaking glances our way.
Once our food arrived, I sliced into the famous New York steak and turned to Walker.
"What's your branch of service?"
"Infantry, sir. My academy marks weren't anything to brag about."
Oh no, they're wonderful. Wonderful. Manchuria has no shortage of cavalry brats already.
"That's actually a point in your favor. Infantry is the very core of any army, wouldn't you say?"
"Thank you for saying so, sir."
On a whim, I ordered a bottle of wine and poured him a glass. For the first time, something like a smile crossed that stoic face.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel."
"The thanks are mine."
"Haha, what have I possibly done to deserve it?"
I'd love to tell you exactly what, but I can't, can I.
"Second Lieutenant Walker. The real work will begin once we're back in Manchuria, so consider this your final leave and enjoy yourself."
"Understood, sir."
As he savored the meat and wine, Walker suddenly seemed to remember something and looked at me.
"By the way, have you and Captain Guo been to New York before?"
"It's our first time."
"Mine as well."
"Then allow me to show you the sights. I spent four years at West Point, so I know this town inside and out."
"We'll be staying another two weeks or so, so that works out nicely."
And so, from that day on, the three of us went everywhere together.
"And here it is — the Statue of Liberty! The very spirit of the United States!"
"Wow."
"So, Lieutenant Colonel, how old are you, if I may ask?"
"I believe I was born in 1889."
"Pardon? If you were born in '89, you were born in '89 — what's all this 'believe'?"
"Well, I'm an orphan, you see."
"Ah — ahem. Ahem. So, then, born in '89 — that makes us the same age, sir. A lieutenant colonel at our age? Remarkable!"
After a few days in his company, I learned that beneath that blunt exterior was a friend overflowing with talent and passion.
A genuinely good man. Which makes him perfect to abduct back to Manchuria. Don't worry, I'll feed you three square meals a day, pay you double, and put you to work without any fuss. Heh heh heh.
With an instructor secured, it was time to buy weapons. I broached the subject to Walker as we took a stroll together, and the answer came back immediately.
"You mean firearms, sir?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. There's the Springfield Armory, which produces the standard-issue rifle of the US Army."
"Not bad."
Once the Great War broke out, German weapons would all become shiny rotten peaches — pretty on the outside, hollow within — but American ones would carry no such risk. And .30-06 ammunition circulated briskly in Manchuria too, so resupply would be easy.
Why does Manchuria have that kind of thing lying around? Hmm... I have far too many reasons to choose from. Anyway — check.
"What about squad support weapons or machine guns?"
"Honestly, I'm not entirely sure what that first term means, but we do have machine guns."
What Walker described was a water-cooled Vickers, quite similar to what we were already using. The handling was nearly identical, and only the cartridge differed — that would do nicely too.
Check.
Walker thought for a moment, then made me an offer of his own.
"Would you care to visit the Ordnance Department? As a member of a diplomatic mission, a tour request should be approved without trouble."
"Excellent. Exactly what I was hoping for."
"I'll pass word along in advance. Once they reply, give it a few days before you go."
A few days later.
"So this is the American Ordnance Department...!"
"Take a good look, and if anything clever catches your eye, we pocket the idea."
"Understood, sir!"
"Ah, one thing to note in advance — no copying things down by hand or anything of the sort. They're worried about leaks."
Which means: memorize it all with your eyes. Got it.
Thanks to my future-knowledge cheat — and the fact that I had been a soldier, after all — I could mostly judge at a glance whether something was worth having or not, so this wasn't a difficult task.
...Hmm.
I see. I see indeed.
Conclusion: the US Ordnance Department of 1912 was nothing more than a garbage dump.
Benét-Mercié? What on earth were they doing with that thing? It would misfire the moment dirt got into it.
Everything these men proudly presented was either a licensed European design or a shamelessly degraded copy of one, and the pieces they offered with confidence fell short of even my最低 standards — every last one.
"Doesn't look like there's much worth salvaging here."
"I apologize, sir."
"Why on earth are you apologizing, Lieutenant Walker? It's simply that nothing suits my taste... hold on. What in the hell is that?"
"Pardon? Which item do you mean?"
I slid Walker gently aside and walked up to a light machine gun resting neatly on display on a table.
"Didn't you tell me there were no squad support weapons?"
"I have no idea what that is, sir."
"Then what do you call this light machine gun?"
"A... light machine gun? I've never heard the term."
Not just Walker — the Ordnance officer shrugged his shoulders as if he didn't understand either.
Then what exactly is this thing sitting in front of me? It's the Lewis gun. The finest light machine gun of the Great War.
"Ah... that thing? Colonel Isaac Lewis, who serves at the Brooklyn coastal artillery defenses, built it — but General Crozier, the Chief of Ordnance, rejected it outright."
"Why would anyone reject this?"
The officer put on an embarrassed look, as if to say he'd explained all he could.
"So this isn't under the Ordnance Department's jurisdiction right now?"
"No, sir. Colonel Lewis holds all the rights."
"And where is he at this moment?"
"On duty at the Brooklyn coastal artillery defenses, sir."
"Okay. Thank you."
So when things are meant to work out, this is how they work out.
Here is how it happened.
Isaac Newton Lewis, a colonel of coastal artillery in the US Army, woke up one day with a truly amazing idea.
A portable, easy-to-reload machine gun that automatically feeds from a circular pan magazine and fires dozens of rounds.
And Brigadier General William Crozier, who had served as Chief of Ordnance for eleven years, tore that idea to pieces without mercy.
Why?
Because it had been barely two years since he'd personally championed the adoption of the M1909 Benét-Mercié machine gun.
Because the air intake meant for cooling was unbecomingly ugly.
And because, after his rejection, the audacious gun-scrubber of the coastal artillery had dared to write letters to a general as lofty as the heavens, demanding answers with increasing heat.
And yet — Crozier the Chief of Ordnance was a gentleman.
Rather than spitting vulgarities at that nobody gun-polisher — that's insubordination, strip your rank and get out — he succeeded in creating a world-line where no one got hurt, by slyly rigging the tests instead!
What's that? How could a mere one-star brigadier do such a thing?
Why, because even Leonard Wood, Chief of Staff of the entire US Army, was a mere two-star major general. When the army's highest rank is major general, a brigadier is naturally the absolute monarch of his own little domain.
No, wait. Eleven years in that post — he'd be less a monarch and more a god.
And so the Colonel Lewis I found had been battered senseless by a meteor shower of falling one-stars, left in a state of utter devastation.
"You would be Lieutenant Colonel Theodore Lee?"
"That's correct."
"And what brings you to this coastal battery at the far edge of Brooklyn?"
"I saw your light machine gun at the Ordnance Department and came straight here."
"...I have nothing to say. It's a failure."
Colonel Lewis, whose face looked remarkably kind, said this and lit a cigar.
"Hoo. It would be a lie to say I have no lingering regrets. But I've grown weary. I gave everything for my country, and to see it end this way... my drive is simply broken. ...I've even been considering submitting my retirement papers next year."
"With all due respect, sir — your light machine gun is far better than that lunatic Benét-Mercié piece of junk."
"Heh heh. Kind words, even if only words. Having someone come all this way does ease the heart a little."
"It's no flattery."
I lit a cigarette of my own, took a drag, and held it between my fingers as I spoke.
"I am completely serious, Colonel Lewis. I want to invest in your gun."
"Heh. You must have money to burn, eh? Even to waste on a failure like this."
Oh, cut it out with the 'failure' talk already.
"Never mind that. Name your figure."
"Name it? And if I named ten thousand dollars, what then?"
"Is ten thousand dollars enough?"
"......?"
Colonel Lewis looked at me as though I were insane.
Well, what can you do.
"I asked if ten thousand dollars would be enough."
"...Have you lost your mind?"
"If I were you, I'd be running the numbers right now instead of gawking like a fool."
"Hold on — hold on, hold on."
"What's so complicated about it? It's investment capital. You simply give me equity in proportion — that's the whole deal."
"......"
He burned through his cigar in quick puffs, then pulled out a fresh one and bit down on it.
"What's your reason?"
"Does investing money in a venture that looks like it'll succeed need any other reason?"
"Dammit. Can't argue with that. ...Eight thousand dollars. With eight thousand dollars I can produce a handful of prototypes and take them to Europe. Europeans with their backs to the wall over Germany will recognize what my gun is worth."
"Where are you planning to go?"
"Belgium! I hear even Mr. John Browning is treated like royalty there. If it's Belgians, they'll gladly invest in my work."
"How much equity will you be giving up?"
"...How does twenty percent sound?"
"Then I'll also require production rights."
"You mean to manufacture it yourself?"
"Production will happen only under my own name."
"...That much is acceptable."
He drummed his foot against the floor as though agonizing over it, then looked up at me.
"Hell. Fine. I'll admit — sticking it to that bastard Crozier has my heart pounding already."
"The money will be waiting at Deutsche Bank's New York branch. Come collect it whenever suits you."
"Much obliged."
"And once production facilities are established in Belgium, send me a few skilled workers in Manchuria."
"You intend to run that factory you mentioned?"
"That's right."
"Heh. Understood. Truly — truly — thank you, sir."
What are you talking about? The thanks are all mine.
Thanks for the meal — gulp!
July 1912.
"Just when exactly do you intend to move the capital to Nanjing, Grand President Yuan Shikai?"
"Well, surely it should wait until this tangled situation is resolved, the people have returned to their livelihoods, and the unrest has been fully settled — would that not be right?"
"What kind of nonsense is that?! Move the capital to Nanjing now!"
Sun Yat-sen was furious.
Yuan Shikai, who had swallowed the Grand Presidency whole, was keeping none of the promises he had made to Sun — except, of course, the one about erasing the Qing dynasty.
Worse still, that Qing imperial household was still squatting in the Forbidden City, squandering the Chinese people's money — money like their very blood — as if it were water!
Why on earth wouldn't Yuan Shikai drive out Aisin Gioro? What was he playing at — an ornamental goldfish kept in the aquarium of the Forbidden City?
Bastard. A bastard through and through!
"We must ignite the revolution again."
"General Cai E of Sichuan reportedly stands with us."
"This time we must take Beijing for certain, and put a bullet in the head of that Manchu emperor!"
Grand President Yuan Shikai merely sneered.
"Typical Chu rabble — squawking away like a monkey and nothing more."
"The Beiyang Army stands ready to obey Your Excellency the Grand President's command at any hour!"
In barely a few months, the once-warm alliance of dog and monkey was turning into the feud of rooster and weasel — sworn enemies at a single glance.
Concealing their true hearts, quietly but surely, they prepared for war.