Killing Pigeon (5)
When I first heard it was a terrorist attack, the first thing that came to mind was, of course, racist groups like the Ku Klux Klan.
White trash who didn't even have the courage to show their faces—running around with napkins their moms tied on them, setting crosses on fire. Come to think of it, burning crosses… isn't that outright blasphemy?
But if you want to become a master in one field, you have to respect the expertise of others. And the professionals in this line of work—the police—had a different opinion.
"We believe it's the work of the Reds."
"The Reds?"
"That's right. Those bastards hate war, yet all they ever do is stir up trouble in the name of revolution. Of course they'd be furious about a victory parade."
"Hm…"
"And the fact that the explosion happened at the J.P. Morgan Building is significant. Terrorism is always symbolic. Planting a bomb at the very symbol of American finance and capitalism—if it's not Reds, then who else could it be?"
Now that I think about it, that makes sense.
Why would the KKK have a grudge against J.P. Morgan? Because they didn't get donations? If that were the case, they'd be tied upside down in the Morgan Building basement with their precious hoods, forced to drink soup through their noses.
There wasn't much more I could do here, so I and the soldiers of the 93rd Division had to leave New York, still in chaos.
A bitter ending.
After finishing the victory parade, instead of returning home, the men were sent to a place called the "clean camp."
The clean camp was exactly what it sounded like—a holding area for soldiers awaiting discharge, essentially a "land of happiness" fully equipped to prevent angry troops, unable to return home, from rioting.
They provided everything needed for living—household goods, new clothes for everyone, hospitals, libraries, churches, banks, restaurants, shops, even a theater. On top of that, they had installed telephones—the cutting edge of modern civilization—so soldiers could contact the outside world.
And that wasn't all. A separate sector was set up right next to the camp so that married soldiers' wives could stay there as well. It was enough to inspire awe at the War Department officials and staff officers who must have worked themselves to the bone to prepare all this.
I handed out a leaflet I had prepared for the men of the 93rd Division.
"What's this?"
"What do you think? Insurance."
The leaflet contained only simple, straightforward information:
To my comrades who shared the trenches and ate dirt together.
If you ever find yourself in a situation where no one will help you,
If you ever find yourself in desperate need of aid, unable to trust anyone,
Do not hesitate to contact me.
—Yujin Kim, Commanding Officer of the 93rd Division—
At the bottom were various contact methods—phone numbers, telegram addresses, mailing details.
"But why would you—"
"Let's be honest among ourselves. Do you think white citizens will warmly embrace the Black soldiers who fought bravely for the United States? Or will they try to 'teach a lesson' to what they see as uppity Black men?"
Those who had been tilting their heads in confusion suddenly fell silent.
Yeah. Honestly, it's hard to trust. Even I don't trust those 'beloved Dixie boys' of the United States one bit.
"This is about all I can do. Even if they contact me, I won't be able to respond immediately or fix everything… but if we gather all their requests together, maybe we can come up with something meaningful."
"If this goes wrong, people might say you're raising a private army!"
"Damn it. A private army? Then maybe they should give the men proper bonuses. Sixty dollars? Are you kidding me?"
A grand enlistment bonus of just $60! Wow!
My patriotism for the United States is just overflowing.
After the Revolutionary War ended in 1783, soldiers were given $80 in cash and 100 acres of land.
During the Civil War in 1865, they received between $300 and $400 in cash, plus additional bonuses from individual states.
And now, in 1919—$60?
What is that supposed to cover? Eggs cost 60 cents a dozen, and the price of blood is $60. The generosity of the United States is truly… humbling.
"I'm not exactly overflowing with concern for Black civil rights, and I'm definitely not a Red either. But…"
I hesitated for a moment, then let out a long sigh and continued.
"I can at least take care of soldiers who have to flee their hometowns, or those who urgently need lawyers. Think of it as charity."
"If it's just that much…"
"But aren't you being too pessimistic? No matter what, they're veterans who bled for the United States. Surely it won't go that far."
Ike… you still have some faith in humanity left.
If I made a bet, I could easily take every last cent of Ike's modest pay—but I don't want to gamble on something like this.
The soldiers of the 93rd Division—especially the Black troops—include many intelligent men.
If I could steadily bring them into my business ventures, they'd be a great help.
But before even considering such calculations, the hardships that awaited them had not even begun.
How many would come to me, bloodied and desperate for help?
The thought alone was overwhelming.
Still, I pushed aside worries about their fate for the moment and stepped toward the most important battlefield.
Because it was time for me to face my own destiny as well.
My heart pounded.
I am Yujin Kim—the hero of Cambrai and the defender of Amiens. No enemy has ever been able to bring me down—
"Long time no see."
"You're here?"
An angel descended from the heavens, making all my trivial achievements meaningless.
Seeing my other half—my master—after so long, it was like staring directly at the sun.
"You've worked so hard. Thank you for coming back alive, just like you promised—with all your limbs intact."
"Haha. I'm just a reliable adult who keeps his promises. Haha!"
"Of course you are."
Dorothy smiled brightly and gently nudged the child beside her forward.
"Henry. That's your dad. Dad."
"Dad?"
My god.
The kid can already walk.
I couldn't believe it.
The last image I had was of him sleeping peacefully in a cradle.
The entire crawling phase had somehow disappeared.
While he was learning to walk and beginning to speak, I had been too busy firing guns at Cambrai and Amiens.
Maybe I was a good soldier—but as a father, I'd get an F with no excuses.
I stared wide-eyed as the child examined me, as if wondering what kind of object I was.
"Hello, Henry? It's Daddy."
"Da… da? Dada!"
Fortunately, even with the sudden appearance of a strange man, the child didn't cry or run away. If he had, I probably wouldn't have slept properly for three days and nights out of sadness.
The child slowly walked up to me and tightly grabbed the hem of my pants.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, yes. I'm Daddy."
When I lifted him up, he was incredibly light. Lighter than a machine gun.
"Waaah!"
"There we go, there we go. Have you been good? Daddy's not going anywhere anymore."
"Yeah, right. Easy for you to say."
Dorothy clicked her tongue as she watched.
"You're really not hurt anywhere, right?"
"Of course not. Look at me, I'm perfectly fine. How have you been? Nothing happened while I was gone?"
"Well… a lot did happen. I did some studying too, thinking about someone who went off to Europe."
Studying? Did she go to college or something?
"What kind of studying?"
"Oh, that? I asked Chairman Henry Ford to teach me how to drive a tractor."
Something about this conversation felt… off. I needed to change the subject quickly. When things don't look good, retreating is the essence of survival.
"There's a really amazing restaurant in this camp. Why don't we take the kid and—"
"I heard you were riding tractors around all sorts of dangerous places. Don't worry, I'll do the driving from now on."
Dorothy's smile was dazzlingly beautiful.
All my medals, all my battlefield glory—
Here, they meant nothing.
I was just a criminal awaiting judgment.
I was dead.
***
Throughout April and May of 1919, a shadow of terror spread across the United States.
Dozens of prominent political and business figures received bomb packages at their homes.
Alarmed, authorities conducted a full inspection of postal shipments and uncovered dozens more explosive packages.
Meanwhile, in Germany, bloody संघर्ष erupted between the ruling Social Democrats, far-left communist revolutionaries, and right-wing groups—all fighting to the death.
The newly formed Soviet Union exuded an ominous and inscrutable presence, seemingly supporting revolutionary movements across the world, whether openly or secretly—fueling public fear.
Whether true or not, rumors spread among the people:
"Educated Slavic intellectuals are popping up everywhere, shouting that society is rotten."
At the same time, workers—whose voices had been suppressed throughout the war under accusations that strikes were treasonous sabotage by Reds—had reached their limit.
Prices had doubled compared to before the war.
But wages hadn't moved at all.
Workers rose up across the country, launching massive strikes in an effort to finally live better lives. Naturally, the authorities responded with batons, brutally cracking down on these "dangerous agitators."
As they were beaten down unilaterally, the protests grew more violent, and day by day, the escalating unrest began to resemble—uncannily—the final days of the Russian Revolution and the collapse of the German Empire.
The cheers of victory faded like beer foam.
And the Red Scare began to tighten its grip on America.
Just as this fragile, ice-thin atmosphere of public security began to weigh on my chest, I met once again with my steadfast patron, Chairman Ford.
"You—traitor!"
"What? What are you talking about all of a sudden?"
"Betrayer! I fed you, supported you, did everything for you—and now you throw me away like trash! Those filthy newspapers are calling me a Red, and now even the one I trusted betrays me!"
The chairman pounded his chest repeatedly, clearly frustrated.
"What betrayal have I committed? Should I shoot a commercial or something? 'Driven with trust by Yujin Kim—Ford'?"
"You said it yourself! Then why the hell were you driving around the battlefield in those damn Dodge cars?!"
"Well, those were military vehicles."
Better not mention that Patton lent them to me. Anyway, it's not wrong—they were army-issued.
"Everyone else was using civilian cars just fine, and you're telling me that even with me around, you obediently stuck to military vehicles? That's nonsense! Was it that hard to ask me for a car?!"
"Come on, you know I was rushed straight off to Europe at the time."
The old man's anger was no small thing.
And finally, at the peak of his fury, he roared:
"Then why—WHY—is the car you came in today that damned Chevrolet?!"
Ah. Busted.
"Oh, that? It wasn't my decision—my wife… I mean, my mistress—my wife wanted to buy it. Haha."
"Don't lie! What kind of man listens to his wife when buying a car?! If anything, say you bought a fishing rod because your wife told you to, you fraud! Why would you listen to your wife about buying a car?!"
Busted again.
Well, nothing to be done. Seems like the chairman has only been listening to his sycophants—time for Dr. Yujin Kim to deliver the truth once more.
"Chairman."
"What?!"
"You're right. That Chevrolet—I bought it."
"Good. Finally showing your true colors, traitor. Did Chevrolet pay you thirty pieces of silver? Should I start calling you Judas Kim?"
"No, no. Why would the company approach someone like me? I just bought it because I liked it."
The chairman's eyebrows twitched.
Looks like he already knows what I'm about to say. As expected of a man who built a giant corporation from nothing.
"But honestly… the Ford Model T is getting a bit boring. You know… kind of outdated? Old-fashioned?"
"G–Gaaaah!!"
"For someone like me—a fashionable, not-yet-thirty, forward-looking pioneer—it feels a bit… shabby—"
"You—YOU!!!"
At last, he grabbed me by the collar.
No, no, Chairman, listen to me.
You need to keep thriving forever as my powerful backer—but at this rate, you're going to sink.
If you keep selling nothing but the Model T, you're seriously going to get overtaken by General Motors.
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