The Fall of a Giant (1)
December 31, 1924.
Field Marshal John J. Pershing retired.
Under current U.S. military regulations, the retirement age for soldiers was 63, so originally Pershing should have retired on September 13, his 64th birthday.
But… everyone knows, right?
Just as the great whirlwind known as World War I finally came to an end, a horrific scandal erupted involving the head of state of the United States, Woodrow Wilson. Congress fell into a near year-long state of collective anomie.
In America, where presidents being shot wasn't exactly unheard of, even so, this unprecedented situation—an organized attempt led by the First Lady and aides to conceal the president's incapacity—shattered the mental state of both the executive branch and Congress. Even the massive task of military reorganization and postwar cleanup couldn't be properly carried out.
As a result, the miraculous logic of "Pershing is the one and only General of the Armies, so it's fine" was invoked, and his retirement was postponed. Thus, Pershing added yet another unprecedented achievement to his name. Honestly, if it weren't someone of his caliber, who else could clean up such a monumental mess?
But that old man… why does he look so irritated?
With the golden four stars—worn by no other soldier in the United States—shining brilliantly, Pershing began his retirement speech.
"—Right before our very eyes, Congress has carried out massive disarmament."
Yes. That disarmament.
This whole mess started because of that. Sigh.
"We fought a bloody struggle against British oppression to gain our independence, and those same oppressors later returned and burned the White House. The military may seem unnecessary for decades, but without it, the nation stands at the brink of survival. Yet those politicians, ignorant of our nation's history—foolish and lacking judgment—are recklessly inciting the public with economic figures."
The faces of the dignitaries in attendance began to twist in discomfort.
No restraint at all just because he's retiring—he's going all out. Did Harding beat you in poker and take your wallet or something? Or have you just decided to say everything now that you don't care about politics anymore?
Of course, sensitive and refined people like me were horrified by such blunt remarks, but unfortunately, soldiers aren't exactly known for being sentimental. Most of them looked like they had just taken a refreshing gulp of soda—faces practically saying, "Damn, that's satisfying."
This… can they even handle the aftermath?
No—others might have to worry about consequences, but Pershing doesn't. Only Pershing could unleash a fiery barrage like this.
A 64-year-old man going out with a blazing finale—what a spectacle. It fills the chest with awe.
"Even in these difficult times, do not neglect our duty to safeguard freedom and peace. There have not been many periods in our nation's history when guns were unnecessary. Do not be disheartened if your country shows little interest in your efforts. As always, we need only fulfill our role."
In the end, the great soldier who had dominated an era was still concerned—until the very last moment—about his juniors, his subordinates, and his country.
A lack of updated knowledge does not mean a lack of wisdom.
He was more than worthy of a salute—as a field marshal and a great general.
And so, Pershing departed.
And for those left behind, disaster began.
Now that even Pershing—the immovable war hero with immense influence—was gone, we could only scream under the merciless blade of disarmament.
Major General John L. Hines had fought in the Spanish–American War and later in the Philippine conflict. I had first met him during the Mexican Expedition.
And while Pershing served as Chief of Staff, Hines had worked alongside him as Deputy Chief of Staff.
"It's been a while. I believe the last time I saw you was right before the Meuse–Argonne."
"Yes, that's correct. After that, the 93rd Division was pulled from the front, and I returned early, so I didn't get the chance to see you again."
"To think I get to have the hero of Cambrai and Amiens as my aide—there can't be a more fortunate Chief of Staff than me. Haha. Let's work well together."
"Yes, sir!"
He grabbed my hand and shook it as he spoke.
"Who would've thought that that crazy—no, spirited—second lieutenant who brought back the heads of bandits would grow up like this?"
"That wasn't me, sir. That was George S. Patton Jr.."
"They're all the same. Birds of a feather flock together."
That's unfair! Totally unfair!
So you've handed me a massive tumor in my life, haven't you, senior? I swear I'll abuse the full authority of an aide-de-camp to get my revenge.
If there was one thing I was personally most curious about, it was this: no matter what I had accomplished, there was still that subtle barrier of being Asian—so why choose me?
Of course, Marshall had recommended me, but that's one thing, and this is another.
At my simple question, he answered without even blinking.
"I'm of Irish descent. Both my parents are proper Irish. You can imagine the kind of things I've heard, can't you?"
"Ah… yes, sir."
The Irish also got called "fake whites" quite often. I accepted his answer without further comment.
"Now that Field Marshal Pershing is gone… that means our most urgent task is to beg Congress for a budget."
"That's… suffocating."
"And that's exactly why your abilities are drawing attention. You're the one who went head-to-head with Congress and kept the flame of armored warfare alive, aren't you?"
So it connects back to that, huh.
Of course, he didn't know about my behind-the-scenes maneuvering, but I had desperately argued my case, so it seemed that part had been highly valued.
And so, I moved to Fort Myer in Arlington County, Virginia—across the river from Washington, D.C.
"Here's the key to your house."
"I'll make good use of it."
"We've done some repairs while living there, so it shouldn't require much expense. Since it's a cavalry post, the riding courses are quite decent. Your thighs keep getting thicker—why not take up horseback riding as exercise?"
"Yes… yes, sir…"
The residence Marshall had lived in—Quarter No. 3—became the home for me, Dorothy, and the children, while Marshall happily left for China with his wife and mother-in-law. Thank you sincerely for all the support you've given me.
For the time being, I thought nothing major would happen.
Of course, there was still the matter of struggling against disarmament—but who could possibly defy the tide of the times?
But truly, there was no way to predict what the world would bring next.
***
Mid-January, 1925.
At a discreet summons, I headed to a familiar place in Washington, D.C.—the White House.
This solemn funeral hall, as if observing a three-year mourning period, had barely finished with its former occupant before a new chief mourner… no, a new tenant… well, anyway, a new "funeral" had begun. The madness of capitalism was terrifying in its own way.
"You've come?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what I asked for?"
"…No matter how I think about it, isn't this an abuse of power?"
"Ahem. What are you talking about? I purchased it at market price."
The man who had won reelection in last year's election—President Warren G. Harding—took the envelope from me like Gollum coveting a ring.
"My, my precious…."
No, seriously, he is Gollum. What am I supposed to do when a grown man stares at pieces of cardboard with sparkling eyes like that?
"…Since we couldn't interfere with the production line, I personally opened the card packs."
"Thank you. Thank you. Now maybe I can finally win. This country's a mess, you know. Those so-called cabinet members all run decks with four Black Lotus cards, while I only had two. What kind of world is that? And since my damned job is being president, I can't even go out and buy card packs without worrying about appearances."
"…I see."
"Heh. These days, this is my only joy in life. Honestly, I never should've run for office."
Harding slumped into his chair, his entire body going limp.
"Frankly, wouldn't it be the same if we just put this card in the White House instead of me? People revere both of us, and we're both expensive, so what's the difference?"
"Cards can't talk. And they're not handsome either."
"Khahaha! True enough. Running one's mouth is the president's job, after all. Since you've come all this way, how about a game?"
We played intensely, inhaling cigar smoke like oxygen. And Harding—now armed with his newly acquired overpowered cards—completely threshed me.
"Is this even a game? Seriously? This garbage trash game…!"
"Well, it seems the creator isn't necessarily the best player. Hmm… I'm not even that good among the White House crowd, but you… aren't you just bad at this?"
Did he just call me a noob? Wow, this guy's really pushing it.
Fuming, I threw my hand onto the table, whining about my terrible draws. Watching my pitiful display, Harding only grinned wider and teased me even more.
But strangely, there was a lack of strength behind his smile.
"For once, fortune seems to be smiling on me. It's rare that the cards I need come so easily… or that things go my way like this."
"Have things been difficult lately?"
"You commanded tens of thousands at a young age—you must have some idea of this feeling. You're given authority and responsibility, yet when you try to push things forward, your power disappears, and the world is filled only with reasons why things 'can't be done.'"
Harding gulped down whiskey as if it were water.
"I'm incompetent."
"Mr. President…"
"I know myself better than anyone. I'm not cut out to be president. I was meant to just hang around with friends, throwing my weight around now and then—that was enough for me."
He spoke while staring somewhere far away—not at me.
"After I entered the White House, my friends split into two groups. Those who tried to profit off my name, got caught… and were crushed without a trace by the monsters of this dreadful D.C. And those who became bitter, complaining that I wasn't taking care of them."
"That's how it always is. When someone succeeds, even distant relatives come crawling out of nowhere. It's unavoidable."
"Exactly. That's why. More than being fascinated by presidential power, I can't bear the sadness of losing my friends.
For four years, I've wanted to put good food in their mouths… but the fact that I still have enough conscience not to do that—that's what makes it even more painful."
…You still have four more years left in your term, though.
Sadly, as someone decades younger than him, I couldn't truly comfort this pitiful man.
After all, what he longed for most were the people from before he entered the White House.
We spent the night like that, then parted ways.
"I'll make good use of the cards!"
"I wish you the best, haha."
"Yes. When I become the strongest man in the White House, I'll be sure to mention you in my remarks. I'll never forget today's kindness for as long as I live!"
It's just two cards—no need to make it sound so grand.
But thinking back on it now…
Perhaps it had been a kind of prophecy.
Two months later, news of Harding's death spread across the entire United States.
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