Chapter 124

The Collapse of Tokyo (4)

The world is truly a bizarre place.

As I absentmindedly toyed with the medal awarded to me by the Empire of Japan, I couldn’t help but let out a hollow laugh.

Right. It’s not like this is my first time receiving one.

I’m a so-called war hero of Asia—there’s no way those Japanese, who strut around claiming to lead Asia, wouldn’t have given me at least one medal before.

But now they’re giving me another one, saying my contributions this time were immense?

No matter how I think about it, all I did was encourage the Japanese military and help grow their cancer even further—but if they call that a merit, then I suppose it is. And of all things, the medal is the Order of the Rising Sun. The feeling is… truly something else.

The horrific chaos caused by the Great Kantō Earthquake was now gradually being brought under control.

Of course, refugees still wandering the streets remained in a daze, but with tens of thousands of troops patrolling and maintaining order through sheer force, at least the massacres had been prevented.

“Hey, you there! Why are you trying to leave the refugee camp?!”

“I-I buried some valuables at home—”

“Don’t give me that nonsense! You’re going to loot, aren’t you?!”

Though this “maintenance of order” being enforced entirely through beatings was, admittedly, very much a product of the 20th century.

Having seized control of disaster response, the Japanese Army suppressed ethnic conflict in a brutally straightforward way.

“We’re reorganizing refugee housing. Separate mainlanders and outsiders completely. Expel Okinawans, Koreans, and Chinese to the outskirts for separate management. Divide original Tokyo residents and migrants as well!”

The logic was simple: if they can’t see each other, they won’t fight.

Ridiculous—but in times like this, it worked.

After all, anyone wandering around just got their head smashed in.

Amid all this, a few soldiers went rogue and arbitrarily killed some socialists, and using that as a pretext, Yamanashi Hanzō seized the position of martial law commander.

Beyond that, I stopped trying to make sense of it. I’ve dabbled in politics myself, but the bizarre political structure of these Japanese is just too confusing to grasp.

It seemed like the Navy was also getting restless, but a wise man avoids danger. A good boy like me doesn’t jump into flames like that.

As for Edsel Ford, he scrapped his plan to build a factory in Tokyo entirely and left for Korea. After coming just to sign some papers and experiencing the most spectacular event of his life, there was no way he’d build a factory here.

The Japanese Army, for its part, raised no objections and even agreed to facilitate the purchase of land for my firearms factory and Ford’s tank factory.

The Thompson gun business, however, was already on the decline.

Even by 2020, how many knockoffs were flooding the market? In the 1920s, respect for patents was practically nonexistent.

And we’re not talking about trivial goods—it’s weapons, directly tied to military power. Britain, France—everyone had happily produced them, then quietly rebranded them as “improved models” or “similar but different” and began manufacturing their own domestically.

What’s worse, they were now trying to export them.

This international society truly has neither blood nor tears.

In that sense, being able to officially license production to Japan was highly encouraging. Sure, in a few years they’d probably replace it with their own domestic version, but still—at least it opened a new stream of income.

From the beginning, I had planned to use Japan as a middleman to sell weapons into China, so our firearms business ended up operating through a joint venture in Japan.

China, after all, was practically a demon-infested land.

From the Beiyang government to the Nanjing government, not to mention countless bandits and warlords—it was like a real-life Fist of the North Star world.

The U.S. government had officially banned arms exports to China… but according to reports from Ford employees, Thompson guns were already all over the Chinese mainland.

Funny how that works.

Even British tanks and M1917 tanks were rolling around. Apparently the French had sold them.

And I’m supposed to just sit back and accept that?

No chance. I’ll sell too—by any means necessary.

Grinding my teeth, I steadily prepared to wrap things up on my end while continuing to attend events as usual.

Seriously… it’s about time I head back home. Surely they won’t keep someone who’s gone through an earthquake stuck here for years.

“Thank you very much for visiting the Army Academy today.”

“No, I should be the one thanking you for giving so much attention to a mere major like myself.”

“My name is Major Hideki Tojo. I will be accompanying you today. I humbly ask for your valuable insights.”

…What?

Who did you say?

Tojo?

To think I’d meet the future architect of the Pacific War here. The world really is absurd.

Setting aside the distant future, I followed Tojo as he guided me around the academy.

“What do you think of the Imperial Japanese Army, General Kin?”

What is this? Does he not realize the only answer he’ll get is flattery?

“With strict discipline and order, it is a force that would be hard to match anywhere in East Asia.”

“Is that so? It seems the higher-ups only showed you our best side.”

Clicking his tongue, Tojo began openly criticizing his own army.

“I was dispatched to Germany three years ago. Even after the war, the German army maintained remarkable discipline.”

“I haven’t seen postwar Germany myself, but if someone like you says so, it must still resemble its former elite.”

“The Imperial Army, at best, is second-rate. Senior officers act as if they are medieval daimyo, enforcing meaningless discipline to maintain control. This is an age of firepower and logistics, yet they hide their incompetence behind the so-called samurai spirit. It’s a disgrace.”

…Wait.

Is this the same person?

Was there another Hideki Tojo?

Aren’t you supposed to be the one famous for banzai charges?

“I, too, as a man of the military, have studied your strategies and tactics in depth. By combining Western material civilization with Eastern spiritual philosophy, you have achieved an invincible art of war. I believe your capabilities stand above all generals of this era!”

…This doesn’t sound like mere flattery.

The intensity in his eyes is something else. Sure, I may have made some waves—but can a person really change this much?

Well, who knows.

Maybe he’s sharp like this now, only to become just another washed-up general decades later.

After all, twenty years is more than enough time for a person to completely lose their mind.

“I’m truly grateful for such high praise.”

“So, if I may be so bold, could I ask you one question?”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

“If you were not commanding a nation like America, backed by limitless industrial power, but instead leading the army of a much weaker country… what do you think you would do?”

Just say it outright. What would you do if you were in charge of the Japanese Army?

What exactly am I supposed to tell this future giant, Hideki Tojo?

My record is already being studied, tanks are being developed… the future is already starting to shift shape.

And besides, the Pacific War isn’t something that can be started just because one war-crazed lunatic decides so. Whatever I say probably won’t change much.

“The best option is not to go to war in the first place.”

“Isn’t that the responsibility of politicians?”

Oh. He understands civilian control quite well. Then what happened twenty years later?

“I haven’t given it much thought, but I don’t think there’s any clever solution. It’s always difficult and dangerous for a small nation to confront a great power. If I could come up with an answer after thinking about it briefly, it wouldn’t be such a difficult problem, would it?”

“That’s true. It’s about time—we’ll guide you to the auditorium now. We look forward to your lecture.”

…Whew. I can barely breathe.

No matter how much the Japanese rack their brains, there’s no correct answer to this.

Anyone in their right mind would already know that the very idea of trying to hit it big through military force is fundamentally flawed—but organizations don’t work that way. They move by inertia.

With the military already deeply entangled in politics, there’s only one path left: charging headlong into a war they cannot win.

After all, they’ve already won both the First Sino-Japanese War and the Russo-Japanese War. Why would they even consider the possibility of losing?

It’s the same psychology as a gambler who’s won not once, but twice—when money runs short, they’ll head right back to the casino.

So go on, keep thinking with those slow brains. Maybe if you invent anti-tank bamboo spear tactics, you’ll somehow win.

***

— Major Kim and Captain Hodge’s mission will soon be concluded.

At last, a welcome message arrived from the mainland, now that communications had been restored.

Messages full of concern also came from my family, and naturally, I had to spend quite some time writing letters to reassure them. Any soldier living abroad inevitably discovers a hidden talent for literary expression.

After news of the earthquake spread, I began receiving updates from all over the world.

— Glad you’re safe. Nothing much happening here in the Philippines.

A message from my old senior, Vicente Lim. His life story is almost as dramatic as mine.

When World War I broke out, the poor man happened to be in Berlin, and had to pull off an incredible escape—traveling from Germany through Russia just to make it back to the Philippines. A suspenseful adventure that could rival Around the World in 80 Days.

Then Anastasio sent a message practically dripping with curses.

— MacArthur! That insane workaholic! Jin! Why didn’t you warn me this demon was coming?! Why?!

Well, you did fight bravely leading the 93rd Division Rangers—you’ve already earned the “competent” stamp.

There’s no way someone like Douglas MacArthur wouldn’t make full use of a capable workhorse. Anastasio’s going to rack up plenty of achievements. I’m so jealous.

As I cheerfully wrote back, one day, the shadow of a grim reaper fell over me.

— To Major Yujin Kim.

A letter from George C. Marshall had arrived.

I was afraid to even open it—but I couldn’t exactly toss it into the fireplace either.

Trembling like a drenched dog, I opened what felt like a death sentence.

— I’m glad to hear you’re safe. It seems you couldn’t help causing trouble again, even there, but since things turned out well, I won’t nag you this time.

Terrifying.

Seriously terrifying! What do you mean “this time”?! That makes it sound like there’ll be a “next time”!

Marshall worries far too much. Is there anyone who knows how to act according to the situation as well as I do? If he’d just trust me, everything would sort itself out.

The rest of the letter went on about Marshall himself—written in a calm, almost bureaucratic tone, describing how buried he was under an overwhelming workload. None of that was my fault. Being General Pershing’s aide would do that to anyone.

— General Pershing plans to fulfill his role as Chief of Staff until next year before retiring. You wouldn’t want to return before then, would you? So I’ve been making some arrangements. As an “Asia expert,” I believe you’ll welcome this.

No. I want to go back. I just want to live in America, damn it.

— General MacArthur in the Philippines has requested you specifically. I’m glad—truly glad—that I can finally grant your request, even if it’s a bit late.

I could almost see Anastasio, thousands of kilometers away, grinning and beckoning at me.

Marshall’s memory was far too good.