Killing Pigeon (6)
What kind of man is Henry Ford?
A man who built an empire of wheels from nothing.
And it wasn't even a time when change was necessary. The Ford empire's sales were at their peak.
Yet somehow, things escalated to the point where the chairman grabbed me by the collar, shouting that I was a traitor.
"Did the Dodge brothers pay you a few bucks to get on my nerves?"
"I swear, that's not it. I just thought it might be time to start thinking about a new model…"
He gulped down cold water repeatedly, struggling to regain the composure of a dignified businessman—and my patron.
"Kim, my boy. You're a soldier by nature, so you may not understand. Right now, one out of every two passenger cars sold in the United States is a Ford Model T. And you're talking about a new model? No businessman would do such a thing."
"Then why are Chevrolet and Dodge selling so well?"
"Do you have a death wish today?"
"Calm down, calm down!"
"Just thinking about those bastards makes my blood boil—and then I remember I invested in someone who helped boost their sales…"
The Dodge brothers—men who had fought a fierce financial battle within the Ford Motor Company itself.
Yes, the very same Dodge Company whose Black Lotus I had enthusiastically "advertised."
They had first entered the automobile industry as parts suppliers to Ford, worked closely with the company, even rising to vice-presidential positions—before breaking away in 1913 due to conflicts with Ford and going independent. Then the war came, and they struck gold as well.
From my perspective, it was unfair. It's not like I drove cars while tracking Ford's internal shareholder disputes.
But the chairman saw it very differently.
"You're telling me you didn't even know I was fighting them in court?"
If I say I didn't know, I might get shot.
Fortunately, he didn't wait for my answer.
"The ruling came down recently. About 25 million dollars ordered to be paid out as dividends to shareholders. Twenty-five million! Do you know how much more I could have done with that money?"
"Wow… that's an enormous amount, even just hearing it."
"Oh, come on. I know full well how much money you and your brothers have been raking in."
"That's not my money, though."
"Don't be ridiculous. Everyone knows you're just a figurehead."
If he said that to Yushin or Yu In, I'd probably end up floating in a sack off the San Francisco coast. Come to think of it, I came to see my patron before even seeing my parents. What a dutiful son I am.
"Whether it's the Dodge brothers or Chevrolet, if one out of two cars is a Model T, doesn't that mean the other 50% of demand is being taken by others?"
"That's right."
"Then if you develop a new model that captures that 50%—"
"Why? If I just add another Model T production line, I can sell it even cheaper."
"No, seriously—the Model T is outdated."
"That 'outdated' car holds half the market!"
"But you're not planning to sell the Model T forever, are you?"
A conversation going in circles.
The chairman's resolve was ironclad.
No wonder, in the original timeline, he kept selling the Model T forever.
Just then, the door creaked open, and a well-dressed young man strode into the room.
"Father! How could you do this to me?!"
"There's a guest, you fool."
"Oh—my apologies. I didn't realize you were in the middle of something."
He stared at me for a moment, blinking a few times.
"…Excuse me, but are you General Yujin Kim?"
"Yes, I am."
"My goodness! Father, how could you not tell me General Kim was here?! You should at least introduce us!"
"My useless son. Go on, introduce yourself."
"Yujin Kim. I'm always indebted to the chairman."
"Traitor, more like."
Ignoring Ford's muttering, the young man grabbed my hand enthusiastically and shook it vigorously.
"Edsel Bryant Ford! A pitiful son suffering under a bullheaded father! I finally have something to brag about—meeting you! I've always wanted to!"
"You're the same age as him—what's with the fuss—"
"Do you know what that man told me? Last year he suddenly called me in and said, 'Yujin Kim is already being called General—shouldn't you at least be called President?' Then he just handed me the position. But I'm nothing more than a figurehead."
Looks like he's got a lot bottled up.
Turns out we were both born in '93. Figures—people born in '93 are exceptional.
"Mind if I join this discussion?"
"Doesn't matter. It's company business."
"All the more reason I should join. You can't just throw a title at me and then exclude me from conversations like this."
"Perfect timing, actually. I was just being called Judas by the chairman for buying a Chevrolet."
"…Yeah, that's a problem."
You can tell he's a Ford just by how his eyes darkened instantly.
"But the Model T is too common. I want something sleeker, something that stands out."
"Exactly! That's what I've been saying! See, Father? Even a general in his twenties understands this! Doesn't this make you think about developing a new model?"
"No. It doesn't."
"Then I'll make one myself! A president is still a president, even if he's a figurehead! General Kim, could you spare me some time?"
They say "a pheasant instead of a chicken"—but if it's a young pheasant, that's even better.
I let myself be dragged away by Edsel, pretending I had no choice.
This might actually turn out quite well.
***
The year 1919 was a time of upheaval, when everything was turned upside down.
Even setting aside global events like the Treaty of Versailles, the March 1st Movement, and the May Fourth Movement—
There were endless terrorist attacks and strikes.
Women's suffrage, Prohibition, Black veterans—
Things that American society had never even imagined were becoming reality.
And as always, change brings backlash.
Instead of accepting change, some cling more fiercely than anyone else to the old ways.
As a result—
John Miller's house was engulfed in massive flames.
"No… no!!"
"My God…"
His hometown no longer felt the same.
Was it because he had left for the city to study?
No—
The only thing that had changed was him.
The town itself had not changed at all.
When he first left to pursue education, all he received was contempt and mockery—"What's a Black man going to achieve anyway?"
Yet he had ignored that scorn, gone to the city, graduated from university, and even become a lawyer. He had thought there would be no reason to return.
But then he went to Europe, earned honors, even found someone he loved.
And so, he returned home.
That was his fatal mistake.
"Over there—over there!"
"Ugh!!"
A dog, hanging upside down from a tree, bleeding.
It was unmistakably his dog—the one that should have come running to greet him. Now it hung there like a lump of torn meat.
"W-we have to run. Now."
"How?"
"I sent a telegram. Th-they'll help us. I wasn't the only one who reached out… if we just hold on a little longer…"
When he left his hometown, all he had heard were curses dripping with contempt.
But a Black man who succeeded—that was something the townspeople could not tolerate.
Nearby veterans were beaten, lynched—some even killed.
They had to run.
They had to get out of here immediately.
But how?
He instinctively understood—if he tried to run, the townspeople would never let him leave peacefully.
And then, the catastrophe arrived.
"Well, well, John. You're looking mighty fine."
"A Black man making it big, huh?"
"Hey, you whore. How was it, sleeping with a Black man? Enjoy yourself?"
One by one, townspeople emerged from who knew where, blocking their path.
The plows, pitchforks, and shotguns in their hands were no coincidence.
"W-why are you all doing this?!"
"Why? Are you kidding me?"
"I bled for the United States! Look—look at this medal! The country recognized my service!"
"Whether those fat idiots in Washington recognize you or not ain't our concern, John. We just… don't like seeing a Black man acting like he's human."
Click.
That ominous metallic sound rang in their ears like thunder.
"W-we'll leave the town! We won't take anything! We'll just go quietly!"
"Should've stayed away in the first place."
"Do you even know how much you've ruined the atmosphere here? If you're Black, act like it. How dare you mess around with your former masters?"
"Because of people like you, our kids are getting ideas. They've been saying strange things lately—and it's all your fault."
"Let's beat him first. Like that dog—maybe if we beat him good, he'll remember how to respect his betters."
There was no reasoning with them.
The woman he loved, Emily Evans, gently pushed Miller behind her and stepped forward.
"Please… please, we'll just leave quietly. Can't you let us go?"
"Don't talk nonsense. If that was the plan, you shouldn't have gotten together in the first place!"
"She's the same! Burn her!"
"Throw them in the river!"
They're going to die.
These people fully intended to kill them.
Just as darkness closed in on Miller and Evans—
From far away, the roar of engines echoed.
"What's that?"
"A car? Sounds like cars!"
Three black vehicles sped across the rough dirt road.
They arrived at the blazing scene, and large, imposing men poured out of them.
"Hey, gentlemen."
"W-what is this? We're busy delivering some proper discipline here! Outsiders, get lost!"
"Cut the bullshit. Just stand there and look pretty for the photos."
"Don't worry. Damn it… you're all insane. Completely insane."
Eight men.
In their hands—strange-looking metal weapons. The townspeople had never seen them before, but they weren't stupid enough not to know what happened when a trigger was pulled.
Noticing that both Black and white men stood together, the townspeople hesitated before addressing the apparent leader.
"Who the hell are you, barging in like this?!"
"Us? We're the 93rd Division Veterans Association of the United States Army. We don't particularly care whether you 'educate' Black folks or not—but that man served under me, eating mud in the trenches. I'm not letting him die here."
The man—Dwight D. Eisenhower—looked down at them with contempt.
"We'll just take these two and leave quietly. If you don't like that, we can exchange gunfire—and you can enjoy the honor of making tomorrow's front-page headlines."
"If—if you promise to destroy those photographs, we'll let them go!"
"Hm. Fine. Pull the film, and get them in the car."
"…Understood."
"No, you won't!!"
A thunderous voice rang out as another man jumped out of the driver's seat.
George S. Patton raised his pistol, fuming.
"You able-bodied cowards! Instead of enlisting, you torment a soldier who fought at the front? Does that make any sense? Listen here, junior—these are communists! Anyone who persecutes a warrior who bled in their place can't be decent human beings!"
"Calm down."
"Calm down? Nonsense! Traitors like these should be crushed under tank treads!"
While Eisenhower tried to restrain Patton, the other soldiers quickly helped the trembling Miller and Evans into the back seats.
The townspeople, frozen by the sight of what seemed like medieval knights before them, couldn't stop them.
And only when the burning nightmare of their hometown faded from view did tears finally fall from their eyes.
"W-why… why did they want to kill me?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't think it would be this bad. And I'm a regimental commander…"
"No… thank you. Truly. I won't forget this even in death."
"Thank Yujin for that."
Ike clenched his teeth as he looked at the couple.
Already, two men from his 369th Regiment had been killed.
Men whom even the German army couldn't kill—
Had died at the hands of fellow Americans.
Why?
No—he already knew why. But was it really this bad?
Even those who had given their lives for the country weren't spared?
These two were lucky.
Even then, it had been a narrow escape.
'Ike.'
'What is it?'
'That soldier in your unit… Miller.'
'The one who got caught with women's underwear? I heard he was running drills all day today.'
'His lover is a white nurse who served overseas.'
'Good for him.'
'Do you think our dear Americans will let him live?'
The answer had been "no."
And he had been right.
As always—when it came to this kind of ugly truth, Yujin's predictions were 100% accurate.
And that realization drove Eisenhower half mad.
Patton, focused on driving, glanced at the back seat and muttered,
"Hey, soldier."
"Yes, sir!"
"Do you remember me?"
"Y-yes, sir. Thanks to your advice—"
"Did you ever imagine something like this would happen?"
Miller lowered his head, clenching his fists.
"I thought about it… but not to this extent."
"Same here. Makes me wonder if I only made things worse."
"That's not true! Even if I went back, I wouldn't regret it!"
"That's enough, then. If you're a man responsible for a woman, don't sit there crying. Lift your head and prepare to face this damn world."
"Thank you for helping us. If you hadn't come back first and prepared this, we wouldn't have survived today."
At Ike's words, Patton scratched his ear.
"I just did a favor for your hotshot friend. He talks big, but he's annoyingly soft-hearted. And besides—trash like that existing in the United States? In my book, they deserve to die."
"W-where… where are we going now?"
"San Francisco. Start over there."
Even knowing it wouldn't bring much comfort, that was all Ike could offer.
Through the car window, the peaceful rural scenery of Arkansas looked more horrifying than the Meuse-Argonne.
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