Gold Rush Era (1)
Autumn, 1924.
Just as I had begun taking out my winter clothes, I finally made my way back to Kansas via San Francisco.
If I ever go back to the Philippines again, I swear I'm not even human.
The only one currently staying in Kansas was my father-in-law, Senator Charles Curtis. Dorothy and the children were in D.C.
"You're back?"
"My apologies for being late, Father."
"That's enough. Everyone knows you've been working far away. How's your health?"
"I'm fine. What kind of soldier would I be if I weren't?"
We got into the car and drove straight to our destination.
Mrs. Curtis.
My mother-in-law.
"She's not the type to scold you for being a little late, so don't blame yourself too much."
We stood there in silence, staring at the gravestone for a long while.
By the time I returned from Europe, she had already been struggling to move. While I was in Japan and the Philippines, her condition had worsened to something severe.
How many more funerals would I have to attend in the future?
And how many of them would I actually make it to on time?
Being a soldier… was a miserable profession that made it difficult to even live like a proper human being.
"To be honest… I'm starting to feel impatient."
"Do you need more grandchildren?"
"Ah, that too, of course. I want to make a baseball team out of grandchildren as soon as possible."
Joking lightly, he put a cigar in his mouth.
"I'm going to the White House."
"…You're serious?"
"At least once, someone of color should enter the White House. No—let me correct that. I should at least try. How many people of color, lucky enough to make a name in politics like I have, will appear in the next fifty years?"
Was he speaking to me—or making a vow to himself?
Without waiting for an answer, he continued.
"Harding will run for reelection, so it would look bad if I suddenly jump in against him after supporting him. But after that—at the 1928 convention, I'll be nominated as the Republican presidential candidate."
"Of course. Will you give me a position in your campaign as well?"
"You nonsense man, don't talk rubbish. You've abandoned your wife and children to make it big as a soldier, and now you're talking about joining a campaign? Do your job properly."
"Abandoned them? That's unfair."
"Complain here if you want—but don't complain when you get back to D.C."
Yeah… I'm the guilty one.
We walked along a small path for a while, passing time with trivial conversation.
It was quite cold.
***
Rewinding time a bit—last year.
That damn George C. Marshall had sold me off to the tyrant plantation master Douglas MacArthur in the Philippines, and while Hodge happily returned to the mainland, I was left shedding tears of blood.
"Why!! Whyyyyy!! Hodge! Don't abandon our friendship!"
"Hahahaha! Hey, I've got to live too, don't I? Ah, I really wanted a Philippines posting on my record—such a shame."
"Don't lie, your grin is practically reaching your ears."
"Caught me."
Traitor! Traaaaitor!!
Dragged off like that, Manila in the Philippines turned out to be a paradise of suffering.
"Yujin! Good, you're here. I'm suffocating working with these idiots."
"Glad you made it. I can't be the only one suffering—you should experience hell under that bastard MacArthur too."
Aaaagh… Aaaagh…
The situation in the Philippines was unfolding in a strangely complex way.
With the naval disarmament treaty signed in Washington, the risk of war had decreased, and under the treaty, additional fortifications or defensive construction in the Philippines were effectively prohibited.
Politicians, as always, seized the moment, pushing further disarmament. The Philippine military district rapidly began reducing its forces.
At the same time, however, the Harding administration ordered joint Army-Navy research into contingency plans in case of a sudden Japanese declaration of war—what they called War Plan Orange.
Even as a one-star general, MacArthur personally roamed around the Bataan Peninsula, inspecting it as the primary battlefield, while also extracting every piece of data needed to establish a defense plan for the Philippines.
Under MacArthur, I became a pitiful servant, working myself to the bone without complaint—but when the man himself was a workaholic, who could possibly protest?
At the same time, we had to hold endless meetings with local Filipino leaders.
"Disarmament? Again?"
"Please don't worry. The threat of war with Japan has diminished. The United States always prioritizes the defense of the Philippines—"
"Don't lie! Why are you gradually withdrawing from Philippine security?!"
"If that's the case, you should have just granted us independence earlier!"
"The United States is preparing for the Philippines' independent future. Congress has already passed resolutions—please rest assured."
"No—because of you, we're about to become a battlefield between the U.S. and Japan! Why should we be dragged into your war? And now you're pulling troops out? Then why are you even here?!"
It was suffocating.
After dealing with this mess all day, we would always end up drinking at night, lamenting our situation.
"We can't defend the Philippines."
"I know."
"Then what the hell is all this? Why not just write a clean report: 'Impossible to defend. The end.'?"
"How could we? There's still hope. The Philippines has rough terrain and dense jungles. If we wage a delaying war, we might hold them off."
"Dense jungles? That just means all the soldiers will get malaria! What about supplies? Movement? Do you know the coastline here is as long as America's? Without naval control, they'll be crawling to Bataan while getting blasted by naval guns!"
"You want me to abandon our friendship with the Filipinos?!"
"This isn't about friendship—we can't defend it!!"
In the end, these long complaints usually ended in shouting matches and grabbing each other by the collar.
Meanwhile, Vicente and Anastasio were clearly growing more anxious.
"Yujin. Try talking to them."
"Damn it. I've submitted recommendations multiple times, and even our dear MacArthur agrees. But what am I supposed to do when the idiots in D.C. keep rejecting them?"
The Philippine Scouts.
In short, a supplementary force primarily made up of local Filipinos. And, as expected from a colonial empire, there were clear differences in pay and allowances between regular U.S. troops and the Scouts.
Yet as U.S. forces were reduced, their responsibilities only increased—and their pay remained unchanged.
"Try to calm the men. I can't do much, but at least I'll try to pull some strings to improve their rations."
"…I'm not joking. This is dangerous."
It felt like performing circus acrobatics.
Riding a unicycle on a tightrope, juggling with both hands, and then jumping through a ring of fire—this insane level of difficulty. If someone turned this into a game, it would be called garbage.
The problem was… this wasn't a game. It was reality.
What a mess.
And outside of work—was life peaceful?
"Uncleeeee!!"
"Uncle, play with meeee."
"Where's your mom?"
"Mom went out to the city to have fun."
Ah… my blood pressure is rising.
The enchanting woman who had been playing both John J. Pershing and Douglas MacArthur against each other—MacArthur's wife—had already caused quite a stir on the mainland even before coming to the Philippines.
From what I heard, the moment MacArthur's assignment to the Philippines was announced, she went around giving interviews to every newspaper she could find, claiming that Pershing had maliciously exiled her and MacArthur to some tropical backwater out of personal spite.
Well… was that really a smart move?
For some reason, the two children who came to the Philippines with their mother and stepfather ended up spending more time with their stepfather than their actual mother.
The stepfather, who was working himself to the bone day and night, somehow ended up taking care of the kids more often than their mother, who had plenty of free time.
So what was their mother doing?
"Oh my, my husband is always so stiff and serious—it's no fun."
"When he proposed to me, it was so impressive. Like a knight of the Round Table, standing perfectly straight, as if conducting a military operation—"
She was too busy dominating high society in the Philippines.
Seriously… MacArthur has terrible taste in women. You could stick a button in a wall and still find someone better than her.
It's not like he's some clueless, inexperienced soldier either. From what I heard at West Point, the man once juggled not two—but eight women at once. Is he even human? Or an octopus?
A man famous for his charm choosing that as his first wife… yeah, no. It just makes me appreciate Dorothy all the more. My luck in choosing a career is terrible, but my luck in marriage? Jackpot.
Even as I played with the poor children looking for their mother, I found myself missing Henry and Alice.
I still couldn't bring my family to the Philippines. The facilities were lacking, sanitation was questionable—and if my children caught malaria here, I wouldn't be able to stay sane.
And then, one day—
While working, I felt drowsy and closed my eyes for a moment…
…and couldn't open them again.
It was quite the experience. I closed my eyes for a second, and when I opened them—there was an unfamiliar ceiling.
"…Were you that exhausted?"
"You're joking, right? After working me like that?"
Apparently, I had contracted malaria and spent three days and nights on the brink of death.
This damn Philippines—I've completely lost any affection for it.
"Well, at least you didn't die."
"Much appreciated."
"It's still better than inhaling poison gas, I suppose. Hah. And you still want to fight a jungle guerrilla war? Really?"
"Why are you bringing that up now?"
"Because now that I've had it, I can feel it—there's no way to maintain combat effectiveness like this."
What are you glaring at me for? Want to try getting infected yourself?
***
By the time I recovered enough to leave my sickbed, I received a visitor—unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome.
"Greetings, General Kim Yujin."
"You've come a long way. You're from the Provisional Government, correct?"
"Yes."
Right. It was about time they came.
I personally didn't mind—but it seemed they had quite a lot to say.
The man, still wearing his hat low even indoors, gave a slight bow.
"First, regarding your continued support for Korea's independence—the Provisional Government is always deeply grateful to General Kim."
"As long as you understand that, it's fine."
Let's be honest—you all know who's funding you.
I'm a generous man. I don't just give fish—I teach how to fish. So let's not cross any lines here.
"However… recently, within the Provisional Government, there has been some… confusion regarding your recent actions."
"Confusion? Be more specific."
"Well, that is…"
I waved my hand.
The way he hesitated told me everything. No need to hear it—I could already guess.
"Then let me ask instead. With all the money you've received, what results has the Provisional Government achieved?"
"…Pardon?"
"As an investor, am I not allowed to ask about returns? Since its founding, what progress has been made toward Korea's independence?"
Nothing to say, right? I don't have anything to say either, damn it.
The fact that someone came from the Provisional Government—even with Syngman Rhee firmly under my influence—meant that the outcome of my actions in Japan had become too much for even that seasoned political operator to fully control.
"I'll write a letter. Deliver it to the President. That'll be more precise than explaining everything verbally."
"Understood."
"And one more thing—out of concern, I hope you won't engage in any reckless provocations."
What would become of the Japanese military I had just nudged forward… was now completely uncertain.
What if they spiraled out of control even earlier than in history?
What if they lost all restraint and carried out massacres as if it were routine?
Worst case… if they used the Korean independence forces as a pretext to provoke something like the Shanghai Incident, then the Provisional Government would be finished overnight.
Or perhaps… I should go to Shanghai myself.
"What do you think about me visiting Shanghai?"
"You're… coming to Shanghai?"
"Not joining—just a temporary visit."
"Everyone would welcome you. There would be absolutely no problem!"
"Let's discuss that as well. I'm tired, so I'll take my leave."
I wasn't trying to dismiss him—I was genuinely exhausted. I'm still a patient, you know.
Do I really have to endure this kind of life for another twenty years?
The thought made everything go dark before my eyes.
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