The Fall of a Giant (7)
Billy Mitchell's trial proceeded swiftly.
The proceedings began as Mitchell and his wife entered the military courtroom, watched by forty reporters and five hundred spectators.
In the battle of public opinion, Mitchell held an overwhelming advantage—but when had public sentiment ever influenced a court-martial?
"Why is it that simply because one's profession is a soldier, one cannot enjoy the freedom of speech guaranteed by the Constitution of our United States? Of course, soldiers must obey orders. But if they must also submit to injustice, then how are the proud soldiers of the United States any different from those of the Kaiser or the Tsar?"
"So even someone like Mitchell, who hurled outright insults, is to be acquitted? Then soldiers can criticize their company commanders in front of their units, company commanders can mock battalion commanders at meetings, and battalion commanders can harass regimental commanders. Is this a military or a mob?"
To make matters worse, the occupant of the White House had already branded Mitchell a dangerous figure—there was no way a not-guilty verdict would come out of this.
After roughly two months of fierce legal battles, the verdict was, of course, guilty.
Mitchell was charged with "conduct unbecoming that discredits the military," and was sentenced to five years of suspension from duty along with the complete cessation of pay.
Personally speaking, this was more painful than a dishonorable discharge.
And while the President approved the verdict, he altered the punishment by executive order—changing the five-year suspension of pay into a reduction to half salary. Such warm-hearted presidential mercy… did not, in fact, move Mitchell in the slightest.
"I'm done with this filth."
Refusing to accept the ruling, Mitchell ultimately chose retirement.
On February 1, 1926, Billy Mitchell officially retired.
"Looks like Bolshevik vermin are flying through the sky."
That single remark from Pershing—who was enjoying a leisurely retirement—perfectly captured the fury of the upper ranks of the military.
But the anger of the aviation men did not subside in the slightest.
Henry Arnold, a protégé of Mitchell and a self-proclaimed standard-bearer of the air corps, relentlessly pushed for improvements in aviation conditions—and he too was demoted.
A vicious storm swept through the military without pause, and I decided to keep my mouth shut and lie low for the time being.
In times like these, sticking your head out carelessly only gets it cut off.
And so, trembling with caution, I entered the year 1926.
I lived quietly, doing only what I was told—barely more than breathing.
Absolutely, absolutely no showing off.
If I stirred things up and suddenly saw a newspaper headline like "The Suspicious Shadow of a War Hero — The Secret Behind Wilson's Fall," I'd probably end up personally testing how warm the Hudson River really is.
My nationwide inspection mission continued, and meanwhile, the United States was undergoing upheaval day by day.
In Florida, famous for its warm sunshine and pleasant living conditions, an unprecedented real estate frenzy suddenly erupted—only to fade like a midsummer night's dream.
The Florida real estate boom, which had surged since 1925, peaked in early 1926, only to be swept away that autumn when a hurricane struck—destroying not just buildings and towns, but the economy itself.
From this frenzy of speculation, Americans naturally gained profound insight.
"So real estate can collapse that easily, huh."
"Guess we should make sound investments—speculation is bad."
…Of course, nothing like that happened.
"As long as you get out before it bursts, you can make a killing!"
"Florida was the problem. What's even there? If we invest in New York or the suburbs of Detroit, there's no way we can lose!"
"So you got burned in real estate speculation? The answer is stocks!"
The frenzy didn't die—it evolved into something even more insane. Why…?
"Shouldn't we buy a vacation home in the suburbs before it's too late?"
When the lady of the house says something like that, a good husband is supposed to comply—but I prepared a desperate counterargument.
"Didn't you want to buy a vacation home in Florida before? What do you think would've happened if I hadn't stopped you?"
"Why bring that up now? I already listened and let it go back then."
"This is the same thing. It's all just a bubble—a bubble."
"A bubble is something you buy just to flip for profit. But wouldn't it be nice to have a place to take the kids now and then? We keep moving around following your assignments—there's nowhere they can really settle."
Oof, that one hit hard.
But why don't the kids have a place to settle?
"We have Kansas, don't we? Kansas."
"How many times a year can we even go there? And when we do, both you and Father are too busy to sit still."
Well… my father-in-law has to manage his constituency, and if I go all the way to Kansas, I can't exactly skip stopping by Leavenworth.
"Fine. I'll look into a decent place somewhere in Virginia."
As my wife gently stroked her growing belly, I abandoned my arguments and quietly agreed to buy the vacation home.
The third one. The third! How exciting.
Forget a baseball team—my dream of a basketball team is getting closer. Truly, someone as exceptional as me should spread his lineage far and wide for the sake of Asian rights in America— …Alright, that's a bit too Zeus-like. I should reflect on that.
***
Early 1927.
General Hines completed his term as Army Chief of Staff and became commander of the Ninth Corps in California.
At the same time, my role as his aide also came to an end.
Normally, I would've been passionately railing against disarmament with all sorts of cutting-edge presentation techniques—but I had long since abandoned any intention of speaking out for at least a few years.
The report compiling the results of my nationwide inspection stripped out as much personal opinion as possible, leaving only distilled facts.
'Severe shortage of manpower.'
'Severe shortage of equipment.'
'The lessons learned in blood during the last great war are fading as a large portion of noncommissioned officers leave service.'
Of course, that doesn't mean it would deal any less damage.
Thinking about it calmly, there was no need for me to stand at the forefront of the anti-disarmament movement.
After all… the Great Depression is coming soon anyway.
No matter how much we oppose disarmament, once the Depression hits, no one can shamelessly argue for maintaining military spending. If cuts are inevitable, we might as well accept them a few years early.
Still, perhaps as a reward for my efforts, I finally received the rank I had long desired.
Lieutenant Colonel Yujin Kim.
Heh heh heh.
I won't even hope for colonel. Realistically, I've already climbed as high as I can before World War II breaks out.
The Army, as if it had been waiting, assigned me to the Army War College. Unlike my time at Leavenworth, instead of suffering as an instructor against my will, I was able to enjoy a peaceful and pleasant student life, season two. Mm, this is nice.
While enjoying this leisure, I began moving the steadily piling cash around, and at the same time held constructive discussions with several boat manufacturers, intending to invest in landing craft—a business I had been considering for some time.
After much deliberation, my one and only "teacher" joined us, and I immediately entrusted him with full authority over aircraft production.
Correction—shortly after assigning him the aviation work, Yushin, having finally found a replacement workforce, ran off to university.
"What is all this?"
"My business ventures."
"This is the most unfocused and fundamentally unsound octopus-style conglomerate I've ever seen."
Hey, don't hit me where it hurts. We don't even have pain relief yet. That stings.
We even brought in external consultants to improve our governance structure and streamline the group. After all, if you say you're using money earned from selling stickers to develop tanks and fighter planes, it does look a bit… odd.
And so, having cut myself off from the messy world of politics for about two years—
Politics, however, remained very interested in me.
—President Coolidge refuses to run!
—The Republican Party in chaos, who will be the next candidate?
—Who can stand in Herbert Hoover's way?!
"I will not run in the 1928 presidential election."
Just one sentence.
The taciturn president made no speech, no statement—he simply handed reporters a slip of paper with those words written on it.
From that day on, it was only natural that the Republican Party descended into chaos.
"The President is displeased! Of course we should unite and nominate him—why on earth are we holding a primary?!"
"Are you insane?! Of course we need a primary!"
"Where else in the world is there a president who revived the economy like this? The very idea of a primary is an insult to him!"
At first, there was a brief push to draft him unopposed, but it quickly lost momentum.
"Forget it."
"Sir! What president refuses re-election? You are fully qualified!"
"I said no."
Even a provincial governor can refuse if he wishes—what could anyone do? He didn't even explain his reasons, but if he said no, then that was that.
People soon stopped trying to figure out why Coolidge had declined and instead shifted their attention to the next candidate.
What were the odds of the Democrats winning? Practically none. Whoever won this primary would become the next master of the White House.
"While skyscrapers rise daily in New York and Model T Fords carry the middle class to the suburbs, the farmers—the very foundation of this land—are abandoned, living their lives as if under torture!"
"Curtis! Curtis!"
"Curtis to the White House!!"
"Four more years of prosperity! Herbert Hoover, the architect of the Harding–Coolidge prosperity, will now become president and make you all rich!"
"Hoover!! Hoover!!"
"Hoover will make us rich!!"
My father-in-law was prepared to burn everything for this.
He threw all the political capital he had accumulated since the Harding administration into the fire, clashing head-on with Hoover.
"The four years under Hoover will not be years of prosperity. They will be years of hunger and hardship!"
"We must prepare for crisis! Where in this world is eternal prosperity? It is precisely at the brightest moment that we must prepare for the coming night!"
"Banks in rural areas are already collapsing everywhere! Florida's economy has been destroyed! A castle of glory built on vague expectations and debt can never be strong!"
Going head-on wouldn't work. Against Hoover—the Secretary of Commerce backed by an image of economic expertise—victory would be difficult.
So my father-in-law chose to raise the specter of crisis instead. Whether that would work… I wasn't sure.
"So if your father-in-law becomes president, your promotion is guaranteed, isn't it?"
"Haha. Please don't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because… I'd rather he not win."
"Don't say that anywhere else. You'll get stoned."
As MacArthur clicked his tongue, I emptied my glass in a hurry.
What should I do?
Really, what should I do?
Just once.
Just this once, thinking it's the last time—should I use The Sun cleanly and decisively?
But this isn't a joke. The primary is already a cauldron of chaos, and the truly terrifying part is that he might actually become the nominee.
"What's troubling you so much?"
"My father-in-law is warning that a recession is coming. But… people don't like those who speak bad news, do they?"
Instead of saying something insane like "I'm debating whether to secretly manipulate the press to sabotage my father-in-law," I chose a more softened version.
MacArthur smirked at that.
"So that's your concern? I've said this many times—no matter how foolish the masses are in rejecting the truth, someone must force them to see it."
"…Huh."
"If a child refuses to go to the dentist, do you leave the cavity untreated? No—you drag them there, even if it takes force."
Talking to this man sometimes makes him sound like a fascist. The real problem is that he genuinely believes himself to be a staunch democrat.
Should I simply watch as my father-in-law climbs Golgotha willingly?
Or should I smash a rock into the back of his head to ensure Hoover rises instead?
Did Coolidge see this future when he said those words?
If not for that chilling warning from Coolidge, I would have already run to meet Chairman Ford without hesitation. But his cold remark kept whispering in my ear:
Don't cross the line.
My hesitation didn't last long.
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