Killing Pigeon (4)
The Paris Peace Conference unfolded exactly as everyone had expected.
Woodrow Wilson, in pursuit of his own idealism, refused to allow France to carry out what he considered "excessive revenge."
Of course, as mentioned before, this was also tied to various national interests—but the atmosphere of the conference was obvious, given that Georges Clemenceau reportedly shuddered, saying, "Whenever I speak with Wilson, it feels like I'm talking to Jesus Christ."
Wilson had many enemies even across the Atlantic.
Without sufficient consultation with Congress, he had boarded a transatlantic passenger ship almost immediately.
Until then, the world had been in the midst of an unprecedented great war, so under the justification of wartime necessity, Wilson had been granted many concessions. At least, the opposition factions within both the Republican and Democratic parties believed they had no choice but to concede.
In reality, the Republican Party had a completely different vision from Wilson's.
"Germany must pay in blood. Disarm them, impose massive reparations, and strip their territory as compensation!"
"One great war is enough. There must not be a second."
"Exactly. Why should we care if those Europeans slaughter each other again? A League of Nations? If we create something like that, we'll just get dragged into another European war in the name of 'peace'!"
Despite having public support, the Republicans had handed power to Wilson due to the split between presidential candidates Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft.
And Wilson and the Democrats had effectively coasted through eight years using the war as an excuse.
Now, the opposition was fed up with playing the minority, and while Wilson crossed the Atlantic, they moved swiftly.
"Everyone! Support the Republicans! At this peace conference, our party will fight for Ireland's rights!"
"Wilson isn't going to demand territory from Germany at this conference! Esteemed Italian-American citizens! Our Republican Party firmly insists that our ally Italy must receive greater territorial compensation!"
"Republicans! Republicans!!"
At its peak, this even included a form of sabotage aimed at the Paris Peace Conference.
"Remember this. If Wilson gets drunk on his ideals and starts doing something foolish, exclude him and negotiate separately."
"Understood."
"This is the Republican position. Deliver it secretly to Britain and France—and make sure they understand we will soon be the ruling party."
Not a single Republican in the U.S. congressional delegation!
Wilson must have gone mad after being a wartime president for too long. Since when did we install a Kaiser in the White House?
While the Republican blade was aimed at the White House—
Wilson, unaware of it all, ran tirelessly around the conference hall, wishing only for peace.
***
Late March 1919.
At last, the withdrawal of the 93rd Division was decided.
The day before departure, we rented out an entire large bar, drank French wine, and spent one last enjoyable night in France, chatting away.
People who had heard about our withdrawal joined us from all over, making it feel like an all-star gathering of my connections—Douglas MacArthur, George Marshall, and even Colonel Parsons, whom we had met at Cambrai. My condolences to George S. Patton, who had already returned home.
Of course, there would be plenty of work waiting once we got back, but just the fact that we were returning was enough to fill everyone with excitement.
"Now that the Great War is over, there'll probably be disarmament."
"Still, given our service records, they won't make us take off the uniform, right? Haha!"
"Yujin. How does it feel knowing you'll be going back to being a lieutenant soon? Heh heh."
"Ugh, you bastards. Just thinking about putting lieutenant bars back on makes my head spin. Still, with this damn First World War finally over, I should at least try to live like a human again."
Silence.
Suddenly, everyone around me shut their mouths.
The band kept playing, but no one spoke.
Shit. Did I screw up while drunk?
"What do you mean…? First World War?"
"Fuck! That cursed mouth just made another prophecy!"
"Someone kill that bastard! Throw him into the Atlantic right now! Offer him to Neptune!"
"Wait, wait. It was a slip, a slip! Easy, easy. Everyone calm down."
"Don't give me that bullshit! If you expect us to believe that, you shouldn't have written that damn report in the first place!"
As the commotion grew, even those drinking elsewhere joined in, whispering among themselves—"First?" "Then there's a second?"
This is beyond fixing. Even if Jesus came back to life, he couldn't fix this.
Well, no choice. I'll just abandon everything and go back to being Cassandra.
I casually took a sip of wine and shamelessly said,
"Why do you think there won't be a second?"
"He's insane. Seriously."
"I'd like to hear your reasoning."
Marshall approached, not a trace of drunkenness on him. This is getting scary. I feel like I might actually get thrown into the harbor.
"Self-determination of nations. Truly admirable. The Ottoman Empire that oppressed the Arabs, the Austrian Empire that ruled over countless Balkan peoples—they'll all be shattered."
I paused for a moment.
"So then—into how many pieces will the German Empire, which covered Europe in blood and ash, be broken?"
"Are you saying Germany will rise again?"
At some point, MacArthur was beside me, nodding with interest.
"Richelieu split Germany into hundreds of pieces, and Prussia stitched it back together in 1871. In roughly forty years, it was able to declare war on the world. If this time it isn't broken apart and that bulk remains intact… then within about thirty years, it could set the world ablaze again."
"I'd like to introduce you to a good psychiatrist… but I'm not sure anymore. Maybe Cassandra has spoken again. In that case, shouldn't we stop Wilson from running wild like this?"
"Why?"
I let out a faint laugh.
I can't tell if he's pretending not to know or genuinely doesn't.
"Do you realize how much the United States' position has risen because of this war? In the next war, Europeans will fight each other desperately again—and in the end, they'll cling to the United States for help."
"…True."
"And then, the United States will become the ruler of the world."
Pax Americana.
A superpower that reshapes the global order.
Of course, another superpower—the Soviet Union—would rise from the ashes as well, but the world has something called hostile symbiosis.
I added that this was merely my personal opinion and asked them not to spread it around.
Of course, I didn't believe for even a second that it wouldn't spread.
***
"Yujin Kim! Yujin Kim!"
"General Kim! Thank you!"
"France will never forget the 93rd Division!"
Amid a thunderous farewell, we arrived at Saint-Nazaire, boarded the prepared transport ships, and after several weeks of travel, finally returned to the United States.
Unlike when we had departed, the Atlantic was calm.
There were no longer any U-boats lurking beneath the waves targeting convoys, and there was no need to move in constant fear day after day.
This peace, returned at last.
After arriving back, the process of returning home began according to procedures hastily prepared by the higher-ups.
If it were as simple as, "You've set foot on American soil, here's your travel allowance, head home—thanks for your service," like some kind of reserve training, how convenient that would have been—but reality wasn't so kind.
In fact, it was only the beginning.
Nearly 30,000 soldiers of the 93rd Division disembarked in formation, boarded prearranged military trains, and after marching again upon arrival at the station, entered the so-called "dirty camp."
"Lice! Fleas! We absolutely do NOT bring those damn European bugs into U.S. territory!"
"369th Regiment, all units—charge toward the showers!"
"Wash every scrap of cloth! Your uniforms, socks, underwear—everything! Even the handkerchiefs you got from flirting with women! The underwear you snuck away! EVERYTHING! If it's made of fabric, wash it ALL! I swear, if I find even one item hidden in your locker, I'll shove it straight into your mouth!"
This is exhausting. Damn exhausting.
Why the hell am I working even more now that the war is over?
"Corporal John Miller. Why was women's underwear found in your pack?"
"I'm sorry! I forgot!!"
"Do you have a death wish?"
"No, sir!!"
"Already letting your guard down after your trip to paradise? Want to hang from a Black Lotus bonnet that badly?"
"Please spare me!!"
My head was already pounding from directing this hardcore decontamination process, when the chief medical officer approached me with a bright smile.
"Division Commander?"
"Is there… some additional procedure required?"
"Well, there's still one soldier who hasn't been disinfected yet."
"Then we do it. Not a single man should be left out of the process."
"Thank you. Boys—he's a contaminated division commander. Grab him."
"Wait—what?!"
This can't be happening. Me, an infected Terran? I'm a clean freak!
I, too, was dragged away by the merciless hands of the medics and subjected to the same treatment. Aaaagh!!
After passing through the dirty camp and achieving a 100% disinfection rate, the soldiers of the 93rd Infantry Division moved again, heading to New York.
"Waaaaaah!!!"
"93rd Division! 93rd Division!!"
Once again, there was a victory parade.
"General Yujin Kim! This is the Washington Post! Please give us a statement—"
"Chicago Tribune here! Henry Ford has filed a lawsuit against us—has he ever made anarchist or communist remarks before?"
"General Kim! Is it true that you've been recommended as Chief of Staff of the Imperial Japanese Army? Please clarify!"
"If Black Americans unite and take up arms, could that lead to a communist revolution?"
"Are you considering entering politics as the first Asian? Was your alliance with Senator Curtis meant to pave the way for that?"
Damn it. I'm going to die at this rate.
These flies—are they the ancestors of kamikaze or something? They latch on with the most absurd nonsense imaginable.
Haji and Omar tried desperately to shake off these hyenas, but they wouldn't budge.
"Alright, everyone, please calm down. If any reporters are interested in me, I'll arrange a separate interview or press conference. However, I don't think I can work with those who disrupt this event."
"Ahem…"
"This is a moment where men who shed blood for a long time return proudly to declare victory to the citizens of New York. Rather than focusing on me, wouldn't it be better to give your attention to these proud sons of the United States?"
"You're saying these Black men are sons of the United States?"
"They were your sons when you sent them to Europe, weren't they? Now that they've come back alive, they're suddenly your sons?"
As I snapped back cynically, unable to hide my irritation, the reporter seemed at a loss for words.
Same everywhere—once they've been used, they become your sons in an instant.
And just as the parade reached its peak—
BOOM!!!
"Aaaahhh!!"
"An explosion?!"
"What the hell was that?! Calm the troops and secure the civilians first!"
Utter chaos.
The 93rd Division, already hardened to explosions to the point of numbness, immediately shoved civilians into nearby buildings and worked alongside the mounted police to contain the situation.
"Thank you for your help, General Kim."
"No problem. What exactly happened? Was it an accident?"
"No. It was terrorism."
The police chief, who had come running over, said with a pale face:
"A bomb went off at the J.P. Morgan Building."
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