Dogs and Monkeys (6)
July 1912.
"Then I'll head to Manchuria to coincide with your return home at the end of this year, Colonel."
"Very well. We'll see each other then, Second Lieutenant Walker."
The Debt Delegation, myself included, boarded the ship bound for England that departed from New York.
I was enjoying the salty scent of the sea from the bow when Chen Jindao came shuffling over.
No, wait. Why are his dark circles so much worse than before?
"So. Did you all enjoy yourselves?"
"We certainly played and ate our fill."
Because the contract bearing Colonel Louis's signature is sleeping snugly in the travel bag under the bed in my cabin, that's why.
The moment the Great War breaks out, everyone and their grandmother will be screaming at us to sell—so a pile of money is guaranteed. Jackpot, baby!
Of course, that wasn't something I could say out loud.
Guo Songling and I regaled Walker with tales of our sightseeing around New York—the Statue of Liberty, the skyscrapers, all of it.
"Glad to hear you enjoyed yourselves."
Chen Jindao, looking for all the world like a panda thanks to those dark circles, offered a faint smile.
Good grief. Can a man really waste away this badly?
What kind of battles have you been fighting, sensei?
"Well, you see—one side demands this interest rate, that deadline. We lie down and flatly refuse to pay. They threaten to seize the ships outright. Then I growl back: even if you do seize them, will it net you more than what I'm offering you? And so on, and so on..."
"Truly, you've suffered."
"It's what I've always done. No need to look at me with such pity."
He brushed a hand through his brittle, thinning hair.
"And now, England! Whew... I can hardly imagine what fresh torments await me in the City of London."
"Is that so."
"You military men would do best to go straight on to France. England's a naval power—there won't be much for you to see. France, on the other hand, is an army nation. Go on ahead and absorb as much as you can into those heads of yours."
"What about our security detail?"
"However much creditors may hound their debtors, it is the custom to protect their persons rigorously. If you're injured or killed, you can't repay the money, can you? Nothing will happen."
How cynical.
No—given the nature of his work, if he weren't like this, he'd probably have gone mad by now.
A pitiable man in so many ways.
"Then we'll sightsee for a day or two and cross over to France ahead of you."
"Do that. I'll wire ahead to Paris."
Chen Jindao returned to his cabin to beg for the sleep he so desperately lacked, and I stayed alone at the bow for a while, gazing out at the sea.
The passenger liner's prow cut through the calm swells of the Atlantic, and now and then shattered them outright.
"France. France, hm."
What was it that I could gain in France?
Ever since the nation got stomped flat by Hitler's magnificent panzer corps in six weeks and declared surrender, right up until the twenty-first century, everyone had mocked France as "surrender monkeys." But the French army of today—the French army of the Great War—was, beyond all dispute, an elite among elites.
The artillery above all.
When it came to gunnery and the employment of artillery, France was unquestionably the strongest in the world.
We couldn't keep relying on rifles going bang-bang and machine guns rattling away like we had during the bandit suppression campaigns, after all.
The enemies we would face in Manchuria from now on would be proper, regular armies.
For wars fought between armies, a genuine artillery arm was indispensable.
And if I were to name one more thing: fighter aircraft.
Every aviation company in the world, regardless of nationality, was staging cup after cup of aerial competitions, showing off their technological prowess and pouring truly staggering sums of money into research and development.
Of the companies on the list Hans had given me—of the ones I'd invested in—Blériot Aéronautique's value had shot up fortyfold in barely two years.
Ahh, I'm stuffed. What a feast! *Gulp.*
Come to think of it, isn't all this oddly familiar to a modern man?
It was just like the AI companies of the twenty-first century, locked in their cutthroat rivalry—ChatGPT, Gemini, Grok, Claude all squaring off with "Well, WE can now solve question 30 on the CSAT math section!" and "Oh yeah~? Well WE can now draw pictures!"
And just as that AI war always had its contingent asking, "Okay, but can I use this to make cursed memes?", this era had its own people asking, "Okay, but can this be used for military purposes?"
The place with the largest crowd of soldiers asking exactly that question was France—ground down in ignominious defeat by the Franco-Prussian War, now busily sharpening its knives.
Back in Napoleon's day, Prussia had been a favorite chew toy France would summon and smack around whenever it got bored. Then the tables turned: French pride and dignity lay in total ruin, beaten bloody by that former loser Prussia—while the very nation that had thrashed them gathered up its lackeys, ascended to glory as the mighty German Empire.
Is it any wonder the French high command's eyes rolled back at the mere word revenge?
In any case, that was the backdrop against which the world's finest aviation companies all stood on French soil.
If it helps, think of it as Boeing and Lockheed Martin both being located in France.
As a yellow monkey—and not just any yellow monkey, but a suspicious-smelling one from China—if I wanted to serve as a pilot, I would need to plant my seeds well in advance.
August 1912.
We arrived in London.
"The very air here is filthy."
"It's a wonder anyone lives in a place like this."
A city drowning in gloomy drizzle, humidity, and smog.
"Fitting home for the bastards who started the Opium Wars."
"Rank and reeking—exactly the sort of place those miserable sons of bitches deserve."
"Well then, you two enjoy London a bit and go on ahead to France. I'll be off to the City of—"
"Mr. Chen? We've come to collect you."
"Damn it all. Already?"
Chen Jindao was dragged away once more by a pack of men in tailored suits.
I could practically hear his scream echoing in my ears. Ah, so that's what my Korean teacher meant by a "silent scream."
"...Sometimes I think being too clever simply condemns a man to a wretched fate, Colonel."
"Which is exactly why my fate is so wretched."
"?"
"Nothing."
Rather than answer, Guo Songling just rolled his eyes around in his head.
He's grown up quite a bit, this rascal.
Like in New York, we checked into a hotel, then wandered here and there on the pretext of sightseeing, hunting for anything worth our while.
But the few days we spent in London yielded precious little of value.
The British Aircraft & Manufacturing company, later known as Bristol—no wait, the founder of Bristol, England's rising star of aviation, was a colossally wealthy man who'd won the contract to supply the City of London's tram lines. There was simply no financial angle to work on him.
Short Brothers, the seaplane firm, had already locked in a proper customer and a healthy cash cow by delivering seaplanes to the Royal Navy.
I wanted to pick at the scraps, but there wasn't even scraps to be had. Truly.
In the end, I crossed the Dover Strait with nothing to show for it and set foot on French soil.
"Welcome to the French Republic!"
Wait. You're welcoming us this warmly?
The French government had dispatched diplomats all the way to Calais, the port where we disembarked.
Truly—love them or hate them, this was the fountainhead of European culture, the heart of Europe, the first nation to enshrine the rights of man.
"And where might Delegation Chief Chen Jindao be?"
"He remains in London for now. We've come ahead of the chief as an advance party—"
"...Ahh. I see."
The moment the French diplomat learned Chen Jindao wasn't with us, his face curdled like he'd bitten into something foul. Then, briskly checking his pocket watch, he said:
"Ah, my apologies. On reflection, I have an important business meeting. The remainder of your itinerary will be handled by this Ministry of War official here."
There it is. Pure European manners.
Unless a twenty-first-century cosmopolitan gets reincarnated during the French Revolution and rewires those bastard bigots' brains, what else could you expect from the French?
And let's be honest—even in 2025, walk into a restaurant as an East Asian and some of them won't even bring you a menu for two hours.
Freedom, equality, fraternity—for whites only. Fitting, really.
So go on, Paris, get trampled by that paranoid lunatic with the bad mustache. It's all karma. Karma, I tell you.
Thus Guo Songling and I were unceremoniously shuffled off not to the Foreign Ministry but to the French Ministry of War.
"A pleasure to meet you. You say you're military men?"
"That's right. I serve as chief of staff of a division."
"Had you remained in that damned English land, your tongue would surely be paralyzed by now. But first—dinner!"
"Gladly."
Perhaps because we were fellow soldiers at heart, the French officers and civil servants at the Ministry of War treated us with a fair measure of goodwill.
They even took us to their favorite restaurants in Paris.
So there is a little hope left in this country after all.
Once we'd grown reasonably friendly, I told the Ministry officials that I wished to learn about French army artillery doctrine, and they arranged a short audience for me with Louis Baquet, Director of Artillery at the Ministry of War.
Absolutely not because I'd bought them expensive dinners. It's called friendship.
"An honor to meet you, General. I am Lieutenant Colonel Theodore Lee, chief of staff of the 27th Division of the Republic of China."
"Brigadier General Louis Baquet, Director of Artillery. I trust you'll understand that my duties leave me with only a short while to spare."
General Louis Baquet, with his gentle schoolmaster's face, made a fine first impression.
That is—his first impression was fine.
"I believe that the center of gravity in all future wars will be artillery."
"Hmm. A most discerning observation."
"Therefore, each unit should field light guns capable of delivering fire support at any moment, while simultaneously deploying heavy guns to hammer the decisive breakthrough sector—"
"Ah, one moment."
He cut me off and chuckled heartily.
"It seems being out in China has left you a touch behind the latest trends."
"Ah... does it?"
"Modern warfare is warfare of movement. It's a bit awkward to say this, but the reason we lost the Franco-Prussian War was that the Prussian army's rapid maneuvering swallowed us whole in the blink of an eye."
None of that is technically wrong, but...
"Heavy guns are far, far too ponderous. That is precisely what makes them unfit for modern war. The offensive spirit—Élan Vital! Swift, relentless attack is the very answer of modern warfare, and so the only answer is the 75mm rapid-fire gun, light enough to keep pace with the frontline troops."
"...But if the enemy digs in behind trenches and holds fast, wouldn't those rapid-fire guns struggle to do any real damage?"
"Then so much the better! If the enemy entrenches himself, we simply bypass the works in full, pin the wretches in a pocket, and wait until they starve. Problem solved."
This man... we are not communicating at all.
He looked like a kindly schoolmaster, but it seems the stuffiness and the fossil-aged condescension just naturally follow a face like that.
The French artillery of the Great War was unmistakably world-class. So why in God's name was this blundering relic sitting in the Director of Artillery's chair?
"Still—there must be someone in the French army experimenting with heavy guns and artillery employment, wouldn't you say?"
"I take it my answer did not please you?"
"Ah, no, not at all—ah, aha! It's only that in China, we are frequently called upon to breach fortifications built in ancient times, so..."
"...Fine, very well."
Though he clearly believed not a word of it, Brigadier General Baquet picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed somewhere.
"Hello? It's me. Who is this? The Director of Artillery, you imbecile, the Director of Artillery! You're a liaison officer and you can't distinguish your superiors' voices!?"
"······."
"Tsk. Forget the correction, never mind. Connect me to the 33rd Infantry Regiment."
Huh. Strange.
Why do I suddenly see the Republic of Korea Army before my eyes?
Louis Baquet drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. Soon the line evidently connected, and he spoke again.
"Hello? The commander of the 33rd Regiment? This is Brigadier General Louis Baquet. I have a guest here at the Ministry of War at present—may I send him your way for a visit? Yes. Yes, quite. Understood."
- Click.
He set down the receiver and turned to me.
"The 33rd Infantry Regiment is stationed at Arras, not far from here. Its colonel is conducting precisely the sort of... research you described. As it happens, the colonel himself is in Paris at the moment, so I'll have my taxi summoned. Take it and be off."
"Thank you, General."
"Then go about your business."
"We've arrived."
"The Paris station?"
"Yes, sir. The Ministry of War instructed us to bring you here."
I nodded and stepped out of the taxi to find the man I was looking for—
"You would be the guest the Director of Artillery mentioned?"
—not that finding him proved necessary. An East Asian man in a military uniform is, all by itself, an astronomical aggro magnet.
I turned toward the voice behind me and bowed in greeting.
"The pleasure is min—what the hell."
"Is something the matter?"
The matter?
Yes. Yes, actually. One just appeared, out of nowhere.
As I stood there stammering, the old soldier who'd hailed me extended his hand first.
"Colonel Philippe Pétain, commanding officer of the 33rd Infantry Regiment, Grand Army of the French Republic."
"······."
"And you are?"
"...Lieutenant Colonel Theodore Lee, chief of staff of the 27th Division of the Republic of China."
"Heh heh. A lieutenant colonel? You look terribly young. I only made colonel at fifty-six—how amusing."
A colonel at fifty-six, is it.
How fascinating, listening to a man grumble who in six years' time will be a Marshal of France.
Philippe Pétain.
The supreme commander of the First World War. Marshal of the Grand Army.
And the man who would one day become head of Vichy France—a collaborator, a traitor to his own nation.
"I hear that you, ah, study artillery doctrine."
"That I do. Everyone else clicks their tongue and calls it outdated. You seem to have somewhat peculiar tastes yourself, young man."
"I heard that Director of Artillery himself, and in my considered judgment, that so-called 'modern artillery doctrine' of his is garbage among garbage."
"A man of some standing, then. One of my adjutants is a fellow of that same stripe. The two of you would get along splendidly, I should think."
Pétain's adjutant, hmm. Now whoever could that be?
"So. Would you like a tour of the 33rd Regiment? Or shall we settle for pastries and coffee at a nearby café and call it a conversation?"
"I'd like to see it with my own eyes."
"Young people these days detest anything that requires effort. You truly are a strange one."
If I could leave a firm mark on Pétain's memory now, it would pay enormous dividends when the Great War came.
Because as far as he'd be concerned—his homeland bleeding out, skin color be damned—if you were capable, he'd cover for you by any means necessary.
And so the two of us entered the Paris station and waited for a certain train.
"Ah, there it comes now. That one will have us at Arras in no time."
The train glided to a halt, and the passengers began to disembark.
...Hold on. What the hell is that?
A giraffe?
A man in uniform, nearly two meters tall, stepped down from the train—and the face of Pétain beside me flooded with consternation the instant he saw him.
"I say. Second Lieutenant."
"Hm? Why, if it isn't Colonel Pétain!"
"...What are you doing here?"
At Pétain's words, the lieutenant snapped to attention and saluted with impeccable precision.
"Second Lieutenant Charles de Gaulle! In Paris on official business, sir."
"...What business, exactly?"
"Why, it's a holiday, isn't it? One must rest, sir!"
Pétain closed his eyes for a long moment, seemingly assembling some thought, then spoke.
"So. As I understand it, you committed some infraction and were ordered confined to quarters, were you not?"
"Yes, sir! That's correct!"
"······?"
What. What is happening right now?
"Then why are you here?"
"I judged the disciplinary action unjust, and so I went out!"
"······?"
Those eyes. Those are the eyes of a man asking, 'And how exactly is any of that my fault?'
What is this? Is the French army's 33rd Regiment actually a summer camp for wayward children?
But wait—did he just say de Gaulle?
De Gaulle... If it's that de Gaulle, isn't he the man who saves France in the Second World War and becomes its president?
What? Seriously, what is happening right now?
"...Young people these days, so unlike my own generation—brimming with spirit, aren't they."
Pétain. Why are you saying that while looking back and forth between that beanpole and me?
Leave me out of this.
Please.