Chapter 45
The Butterfly’s Wingbeat
At the time, the United States had not yet introduced a censorship system, so the letter Yujin wrote arrived in San Francisco without any trouble.
Even if someone had opened and read the letter, it would have been no easy task to find anyone capable of reading a language used by a minority of fewer than ten thousand people, even including those living in Hawaii.
“Hold a memorial rite?”
“I think my brother got shot in the head! Or wait—did he catch syphilis while he was in Europe? Should I tell my sister-in-law?”
“Wouldn’t your sister-in-law shoot you first before she kills your brother?”
“…I should just keep my mouth shut.”
Yushin let out a dumbfounded laugh, but their father kept his lips tightly sealed, showing no sign of speaking.
“A memorial rite. Ritual liquor. Good grief.”
“Father, are you seriously being swayed by something like that?”
“You brat. What kind of man is your brother? He’s the type who shuts himself up in school and sees ten thousand miles ahead. Instead of being grateful he turned a snot-nosed kid like you into someone people call ‘boss’… tsk.”
“But how on earth could he know the situation in America while he’s in Europe?”
“Sometimes you see things more clearly from a distance.”
Prohibition was clearly the tide of the times.
In fact, the Volstead Act—intended to ban alcohol—was fiercely debated in Congress, but with the Republican Party, the majority, pushing it forward, its passage was only a matter of time.
After thinking it over for a long while, he decided this was not something he could decide alone and brought the letter to the Korean National Association.
Ahn Chang-ho gave a surprisingly simple answer.
“Do as your son says.”
“What are you talking about? Aren’t you a devout believer too?”
“A believer is a believer, and a memorial rite is a memorial rite. We’re not Catholics who must obey the Pope, are we? And gathering Koreans together through traditional events to strengthen unity doesn’t seem like a bad thing either.”
“Then—”
“Let’s test the waters. Elder Park is on his last legs—if we prepare his funeral according to Joseon customs, wouldn’t he be pleased?”
“Huh. Then we should prepare it properly. To think it’s already his time… how cruel time is.”
The “Elder Park” they referred to was one of the first twenty Koreans in San Francisco and a leading figure in the Korean community.
And so, Kim Yujin’s modest desire—to enjoy a bit of alcohol—began to flutter into a massive butterfly effect.
“Aigooo, aigooo!”
“If you go now~ when will you return~”
“What on earth is that procession?”
“One of the leaders of the Koreans has died, it seems.”
“So they’re shouting ‘I go’ because of that?”
By now, the Kim family had become so wealthy overnight that they could practically burn money to light cigarettes. With such a family pouring out money on a grand scale, the funeral naturally grew into a full-fledged community event.
Yujin’s father donned an old dopo he had kept tucked away in his wardrobe for decades after arriving in America.
“So Koreans honor their ancestors every year?”
“Um… I hope this isn’t offensive, but could this be some kind of pagan—”
“Pagan worship?! Are you insulting me, a faithful servant of the Lord? The great Eastern philosopher Confucius declared that spirits do not exist. This ritual is by no means about worshipping ghosts.”
“Then what meaning does it have?”
“When do you think a person truly dies? When they’re shot? Wrong. A person truly dies when they are forgotten. Remembering the deceased and reflecting on one’s ancestors—though the form may differ—is no different from how you visit graves and pay your respects.”
“I see. But you haven’t held this ‘Je-Sa’ before, have you?”
“That’s not true. We were simply too poor and destitute, so we quietly paid our respects at home with just a cup of water. But now that we can at least ensure our own well-being, we are fulfilling our proper duty.”
They nodded, watching this traditional funeral with fascination.
“But there’s almost nothing traditionally Korean on that offering table?”
“It is proper to place what the deceased enjoyed in life. He loved this country more than anyone and spent many years striving to become part of the United States that embraced him warmly when he crossed the Pacific in search of freedom. We have simply placed what he liked.”
“…Do you play poker at funerals?”
“Well, it’s all tradition.”
Having, after decades, transformed from a pioneer of enlightenment into something like a Confucian zealot, his reasoning left the Westerners speechless. After all, it was a funeral—complaining about it would be in poor taste, and it wasn’t causing anyone harm.
Thus, the prominent figures of San Francisco followed the customs of the Korean community: instead of bowing, they inclined their heads in respect to the deceased, offered words of comfort to the bereaved, and experienced this curious ceremony while being served whiskey and refreshments.
Before long, in San Francisco, this Korean custom—“not a pagan ritual at all, but certainly an important tradition that would feel deeply insulting if banned”—came to be accepted as a somewhat curious but recognized practice.
What consequences this would bring was something even a certain lieutenant colonel, groaning from overwork across the Atlantic, could not have known.
***
Meanwhile, on the complete opposite side of San Francisco—in Maryland.
In this land also known for Annapolis, a den of filthy, uncouth “seals” with no manners, a training camp for United States Army tank crews had been established.
And Captain Dwight Eisenhower, the most outstanding and capable instructor at the camp, had been suffering from a headache lately.
“Did you sleep well, Captain!”
“Ah… yeah…”
“Another wonderful morning! Hahaha! Whose skull are you planning to crack today?”
“I said I’m not cracking any skulls.”
“What? Is there training that doesn’t involve cracking skulls?”
The heroes of Cambrai.
When Eisenhower heard that some of them would be assigned to the training camp as instructors, he had been full of anticipation.
The only American troops with real combat experience! And a tank battalion, no less!
But as if to mock his longing for the battlefield and admiration for heroes, they began committing all sorts of bizarre antics the moment they arrived.
“We would appreciate it if you could share as much as possible of what you learned through real combat.”
“KILL!”
“…Excuse me? Kill who?”
“It’s our salute slogan. Tanks are weapons meant for destruction and slaughter. It carries the noble lesson that whatever you see—whether it’s a deer or a German—you tear it apart and kill it.”
Something felt off.
It sounded like something a medieval man born a thousand years too late would say—yet they spoke with such confidence that it almost made sense.
And the very first thing they set out to do was… order hats.
“Heh heh, at last I get to wear this hat.”
“I can’t wait to stomp on the heads of those soft little chicks.”
“Colonel Kim’s helmet-smashing skills were truly exceptional.”
“What?! A bright red hat?! You heretic! A proper hat must be a deep, dark crimson!”
“What are you talking about? Don’t you know Major Patton ripped out a German’s heart and made a hat out of it? Of course the proper hat is the color of a heart.”
Eisenhower’s precious training camp was being defiled.
These guys were not in their right minds.
It’s him.
There’s only one demon capable of twisting this many people’s minds in such a bizarre way!
Yujin! Just what the hell did you do to these people?!
Cursing his friend who was off in Europe racking up achievements and living comfortably, he still picked up a hat, trying to get along with these lunatics.
“So tankers wore these hats during training?”
“STOP!!”
“…What is it this time?”
On the hat he had just picked up were the words “CAMBRAI” and “326”, along with a tank emblem. The tankers’ eyes burned with hostility, like men glaring at someone about to lay a hand on their little sister.
“That hat may only be worn by members of the glorious 326th Light Tank Battalion who fought at Cambrai. With all due respect, Captain—would you wear this one instead?”
The hat they handed him this time simply had a skull drawn on it.
Unbelievable. A stream of curses surged up to Eisenhower’s throat before he forced it back down. It wasn’t that he was afraid of losing a shouting match with these lunatics.
No matter how much potential he had to one day become president, it seemed he still lacked the capacity to embrace the genuine madmen carefully cultivated by those two crazies working together.
***
“What did you just say?”
“I’d like my next assignment to be somewhere unrelated to tanks.”
At my words, Patton’s head turned with a creak like a nutcracker.
“My dear junior Kim!! What on earth are you saying! Didn’t we swear to be buried with tanks?!”
I never swore that. What’s wrong with you?
“I’ve given it a lot of thought, and as Major Patton said, tanks will likely inherit and develop the role once held by cavalry.”
“And?”
“In that case, as someone originally from the infantry branch, it would be appropriate for me to step away.”
“What nonsense is that! You can just switch branches! Are you really saying you’d abandon that majestic engine roar—the vibrations that shake the battlefield?!”
“But even looking at the lessons of Cambrai, weren’t tanks primarily supporting infantry? There’s no real reason for you to step away at a time like this.”
Ignoring Patton for the moment, I shook my head at Colonel Rockenbach’s question.
“I believe that by writing the combat report, I’ve done everything I can in this field.”
There was no need to tie myself to armored forces anymore.
I could stay here forever, basking in the title of “father of tanks” and enjoy a comfortable military life—but until World War II broke out, there wouldn’t be much for me to do.
My instincts weren’t dull yet.
If I wanted to rise higher, there was still much to prepare. Staying here would only narrow my options.
Would my influence diminish just because I stepped away? Absolutely not. Even unofficially, they’d still want to “refer” to my opinions. Once the war ended, I’d be back to being just a lieutenant anyway—so rather than stagnate here, it would be far better to exert influence from behind the scenes.
“I understand your intentions. I’ll take your wishes into account when assigning your next post.”
With Rockenbach’s approval secured, things should have proceeded smoothly—
Or so I thought.
“Colonel Kim, care to join me for dinner?”
“You’re looking well these days. How about it? We’re thinking of discussing future operational plans among ourselves—”
“I heard you’re well-versed in Eastern history. How about organizing a study group?”
“There’s a fantastic bar right next door, you know.”
Who are all these people?
I only have one body. Since when were we this close?
They said headquarters was a den of political maneuvering—and the moment a promising player named Yujin Kim hit the free-agent list, an overwhelming flood of recruitment offers came pouring in.
And refusing an invitation to a meal goes against the principles of a decent Korean.
“Ah, of course I’d love to! I’ll pay today.”
“I’ve always been interested in operations as well. I just hope someone of my low rank won’t be intruding—”
“It’s admirable to see you all striving to broaden your knowledge. As a junior, I’d be happy to help in any way I can!”
“Drinks sound great. Let’s go right away!”
I had to make connections with as many people as possible.
If I wanted to survive through the decades of the interwar period without being forced out of uniform, I needed to expand my network by any means necessary.
Ability? What does ability matter? That’s for wartime. In peacetime, the ones who survive are those who don’t cause trouble, who are flexible, and who maintain good relationships with everyone.
And in that regard, someone like me—born with certain disadvantages—had to work even harder to build connections in order to survive.
I felt a bit sorry for Senior Patton… but in that respect, he was a disaster. The fact that he’d managed to stay in uniform at all was practically one of the greatest mysteries of the U.S. military. Someone like me, with upright thinking and a gentle disposition, couldn’t afford to be lumped together with Patton as some kind of “set menu.” At the very least, think of me as a separate side dish—maybe a mozzarella stick.
Everything was going smoothly.
The family business was thriving.
Chairman Ford’s letters were full of cheer.
My father-in-law was doing well, and Dorothy too. If news had spread that I’d been shot, her letters would have been icy by now—but since there was nothing unusual, it seemed it hadn’t gotten out yet.
Just as I was smiling contentedly, thinking everything in my life was going perfectly—
“I hear you’re stepping away from armored assignments. So you’ve finally decided to come to the 42nd Division!”
The final boss had arrived.