Chapter 26

Prelude (1)

“I’m so damn tired.”

In the cramped office of the War Department,
I roughly tossed aside the paperwork and leaned back in my chair.

Deployment to the Philippines

Air Corps

Weapons and doctrine development

Assignment to Japan

Of the four options brought by my father-in-law and Henry Ford, I ended up choosing number three with tears streaming down my face.

Japan?
Japan?!

It was the moment I once again realized—through my own skin—just how disastrously poor American understanding of Asia was at the time.
Those men probably thought, “Well, compared to being stationed in the Philippines, wouldn’t it be better to be in the somewhat ‘civilized’ Tokyo?”
Absolute madness.

Imagine me happily going off to Tokyo, laughing and bonding with Japanese officers. The independence activists, grinding their teeth in Korea even now with blood in their eyes, would gladly cross the Korea Strait just to put a bullet in my head.

It had only been five years since the country fell. Emperor Gojong was still alive. The Southern Righteous Army suppression campaigns weren’t even that long ago.
A man who looked Korean, wore a U.S. military uniform, and fraternized with Japanese soldiers?
Yeah—perfect target for righteous bullets.

It hadn’t even been ten years since Jang In-hwan and Jeon Myeong-un assassinated Stevens. Back then, my thoughts had been a mix of “Good, that bastard deserved it” and “Are we going to get caught in the backlash?”
But if men like that came for my neck… that would be a bit… a lot more serious. I had no intention of taking that kind of risk.

Sigh. What kind of “loyalty test” was that?
It was a medieval trial by water. If you float, you’re a witch; if you sink, you’re innocent. Either way, you die. That proposal was basically an execution order straight to the guillotine.

In the end, I had no choice but to report to the War Department, swallowing my pride. Only then did Ford and Congressman Curtis beam brightly and praise me for making such a “reasonable and excellent” decision.

Yeah. I’d been played.

What parent would want to send their newly married daughter all the way to distant Asia? Of course they’d want her to stay right here in Washington, D.C., close to her workplace.
There was no doubt Curtis and Ford had colluded. A father worried about his daughter, and a chairman eager to exploit labor—truly a model case of political-business collusion.

When I returned to the hotel after essentially signing myself up for forced labor, Dorothy greeted me with a bright smile and asked, “You’re going to work at the War Department, right?”
Everyone knew—except me.

And just like that, I became a ghost bound to D.C.

My daily routine was nothing special.

Most of my time was spent shuttling between paperwork in Washington and the tank factory in Detroit. The proposals I painstakingly drafted mostly ended up quietly disappearing into my superiors’ drawers.

“I’d like to propose improvements in machine gun operations—”
“Congress won’t buy more machine guns, so we can’t expand.”

“I’d like to propose using trucks for infantry transport—”
“Congress won’t buy trucks either, so there’s no solution.”

“I’d like to propose trench construction methods—”
“Hm. Let’s wait for reports from the Europeans who are actually fighting first.”

Damn the U.S. Army.
Less than five thousand officers commanding just over a hundred thousand troops—this so-called great power’s army. Expecting anything from them was my mistake. Always exceeding expectations in the worst ways—truly impressive.

…Of course, while the army was incompetent, after a few months I realized something else.

I was being isolated.

Naturally. It took several powerful figures just to decide my assignment. When you’re left alone in what looks like a former storage room of an office, staring into space, you can’t help but notice.

The only place where I saw even the slightest progress—the only thing that felt like real work—was that damn tank. So I focused on it instead.

The result of Henry Ford’s desire to sell tractors as a new business item, and my humble wish not to die in a trench, was steadily taking shape.

While I began my military life as a soulless bureaucrat, the world situation was shifting at a breathtaking pace.

March 9, 1916.
Mexican “rebels” led by Pancho Villa crossed the border and attacked New Mexico, killing 17 Americans.
It was the first attack on U.S. mainland territory since the War of 1812, and the entire nation erupted in outrage. President Wilson immediately summoned Brigadier General Pershing and ordered him to assist Mexico in capturing Pancho Villa.

March 24, 1916.
The passenger ship Sussex was attacked and heavily damaged by a German U-boat. Though it didn’t sink, 75 Americans were aboard, enough to remind the public of the Lusitania nightmare.
For Woodrow Wilson, who planned to run for reelection that November, it was a political nightmare as well. With both the southern and eastern fronts flaring up, he sent Germany a “polite” message along the lines of, “Do you really want to die?”
Once again, Germany backed down, apologizing profusely.

They promised:
No attacks on passenger ships.
Merchant vessels would only be inspected, not sunk if unarmed.
Even if sunk, the safety of crew and passengers would be guaranteed.

Hearing Germany’s pledge, Wilson once again held back—
because punishing Mexico came first.

Mid-March, 1916.
Detroit.

I had come on yet another meaningless business trip, running the same pointless routine—but an unexpected guest appeared.

“…So this is Ford’s new toy? An armed tractor?”

A young white man.
Judging by his civilian clothes, not military. He looked sharp-tempered, spoke with a strong American accent—so not British.
Then what? Some contractor? Or State Department? Probably the latter—those positions usually came through connections.

He looked wealthy, and the way he carried himself suggested someone important. So I decided to play the obedient subordinate for a bit.

“Hello, sir. Second Lieutenant Yujin Kim, U.S. Army, currently serving as an advisor on the development of this weapon.”

“…I see. So you’re Yujin Kim.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from—”

“If you’re curious, five dollars.”

“…Excuse me?”

“What the hell is with this guy?”

He gave me a quick once-over, then suddenly started talking nonsense.

“Five dollars is too much, right? Fine, you don’t need to know. Just tell me a story instead.”
“Uh… what exactly would you like to hear?”
“Everything. Tell me what this armed tractor is all about.”

“We call it a ‘tank.’ Would you like to observe a field test first?”
“Sounds good! Let’s go, hurry!”

The man slapped my shoulder repeatedly and shoved me forward. Damn, he was impatient.
If he turned out to be some random civilian who snuck in, I’d have every right to plant a bullet in his face. Totally justified.

After a short walk, we arrived at a site where a tank was rolling around diligently.

“As you can see, it’s fairly agile and performs well even in rough terrain.”

“A cavalry unit could do that just as well. And I hear the European battlefields are full of shell craters far worse than this. Does this even count as a proper test?”

“The Army won’t lend us artillery for realistic conditions, so what can we do? We’ve sent a few prototypes to Europe—field test results should come back from there.”

He watched the movement for a while, then frowned again.

“It’s not stylish.”

“…Excuse me?”

“The engine noise is unnecessarily loud, and it’s not even that agile. A cavalryman can just twist his waist and fire instantly to the side—what is this supposed to be?”

Are you some Little Prince from asteroid B-612 or something?
I really wanted to put the tank in a box and say, “The tank you want is inside here!”
But I was a responsible adult, so I held back.

“The turret on top can rotate 360 degrees, allowing for all-directional attacks—”
“Show me. Let’s see how fast it turns.”

…What a pain in the ass.

I waved a signal flag to halt the tank and showed him the turret rotation.

“Well?”

“Slower than a human.”

Obviously. What exactly are you expecting, you nitpicking bastard?

“But cavalry can’t carry artillery. Wouldn’t a single shell be far more effective than a single bullet?”

“…That’s true. Infantry would love having artillery support right next to them.”

He nodded, then walked up to the tank and knocked on the armor plating.

“The armor thickness is limited by engine output—”
“Not that. Have them get out.”

“…What?”

“I want to ride it. Just watching is making me restless.”
“It’s a two-seater.”
“Then you ride too! Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

Before I knew it, I was climbing into the tank with him.
As I moved toward the driver’s seat, he raised his hand to stop me and took it himself.

“…Damn, this is stiff. Weak-armed guys would start whining for their mother’s milk halfway through driving.”
“Haha…”

“The ride’s worse than cavalry. Horses are still the best. Smarter than people, those creatures. This chunk of metal has no feeling—no soul.”

If it did, that’d be a machine spirit, you young fossil.

After finishing his little joyride, he moved to the commander’s position, spun the turret, handled the shells, pretended to load—putting on a full performance.

“So… what do you think?”

“I’m satisfied! Still not better than cavalry, in my opinion, but this has its own kind of charm. But how are you planning to supply fuel?”

“Fuel? Well… we just supply it.”

“What nonsense! Do you know how much of a headache it is every time you add a new supply item? Haven’t you ever been to a logistics site?”

“If they won’t send me, how would I go? I’m here because they won’t let me.”

“Hahaha! Yeah, the War Department bastards are stiff as hell! So—you’ve given no real thought to fuel supply?”

Fuel?

Honestly, I hadn’t thought much about it. Fuel was going to be essential anyway.
What—were we not going to use trucks either just because they needed fuel?

“How is it any different from cavalry? You can’t just have warhorses graze on roadside grass. In fact, replacing horse feed with fuel could simplify logistics rather than complicate them.”

“Replacing cavalry entirely?! That’s insane! You’re a dangerous one, haha!”

He slapped my shoulder again. That hurt.

“Alright then, our fiery Lieutenant Kim.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t you want to go to the battlefield? Don’t you want to ride this damn metal beast you helped create and blow the heads off the enemies of this great United States?”

“If I didn’t, why would I be in the army?”

“Gooood. I like that. Go home and pack your bags right now!”

…What?
Was this guy actually important?

“I’m not quite sure what you mean—”
“I mean let’s take this damn hunk of metal and smash those taco bastards! General Pershing told me to come take a look at this thing. It’s not quite my taste yet, but give it some time—I might end up best friends with these metal beasts. But—”

His eyes were blazing like a man possessed. What the hell… that was scary.

“Right now, I’m more interested in you than this scrap metal. I’ve been curious—just how impressive are you, for those fossilized fools in the War Department to commission a yellow-skinned officer like you?”

“So—what do you think?”

“Not sure yet. A man understands another man best after smelling gunpowder together on the battlefield.”

He flung open the hatch. Sunlight poured in, making it look like a halo had formed around his head.

“Together with this Lieutenant George Smith Patton Jr., let’s earn glory and distinction in that cactus-filled taco land!”

…Who? Patton?
More importantly, you’re the same rank as me, you bastard. Try saying that after you actually have authority.

“Wahahahaha! What are you waiting for, junior?! Hurry up and get ready!”

…Great.
I’d gotten tangled up with a lunatic.