Chapter 38 - Is It Over If You Just Tell Me That?
"Recruit number five."
"So what? What do you want?"
The guy from the neighboring gang spat once and glared at me with an annoyed look.
His buddies who came with him—heck, even the other Marginals gang members except for Gavin and Cory—were all watching, waiting to see what I'd do, eyes full of curiosity about my skills.
The mood was just right.
I picked up the long wooden stick I had set next to me. The guy flinched and took half a step back.
"W-what are you doing?"
I tossed him a wooden stick and grabbed another one for myself.
"From now on, think of me as the German Army and attack, recruit number five."
"…"
"The weapons and environment are different from an actual battlefield, but what matters is your mindset in a fight."
The fear, excitement, and brain-numbing rush you feel on a battlefield raining with bullets.
"It's crucial to experience even just a little of it. But let's be real. Guys like you are likely to die in war without ever firing a shot. Why? Because you'll bawl like a baby and cry for your mom."
"Crazy bastard…"
"No need to worry—today, even if you yell for your mom, you won't die, so go ahead and scream all you want."
Pushed past his limits by my taunts, the guy gripped the stick tight. It was the same stance they used when gang fights broke out.
"In real combat, the German Army attacks with a Gewehr 98 rifle fitted with a Seitengewehr bayonet."
I spread my feet slightly, gripped the wooden stick above and below like a rifle, and angled it toward the opponent.
"If you imagine a bayonet fixed to the end of this stick, the real thing would be about a palm's length longer. Now, if our big guy here tries to stab someone—"
"Shut up, you bastard!"
He couldn't hold back his anger and charged at me. As he tried to bring the stick down from high above, I took a quick step back, then lunged forward, thrusting the stick with both hands.
The tip landed right at his throat.
"Guh!"
I followed up, jabbing his shoulder, chest, and stomach in quick succession, making him drop his stick.
I rushed in, slammed him with my shoulder, and knocked him to the ground.
Pressing my foot on his chest, I kept stabbing at his body with the end of the stick.
"The rage of a German soldier over a fallen comrade isn't quenched after just one stab! He'll stab again, over and over, until your entire body is full of holes and soaked in blood! Damn it, you bastard! How dare you kill my comrade!?"
"Aaagh! P-please, have mercy!"
The impact was real with every strike of the stick.
It's truly been a long time.
Everyone stared at me, mouths agape, too shocked to speak in the face of my madness.
When I raised the stick high above my head and brought it down as if to smash his face, they gasped, their horror plain to see.
Crack!
The end of the stick grazed his face and struck the ground with a loud thud. He'd squeezed his eyes shut, but now he slowly peeled his eyelids open. I steadied my voice and continued.
"The truth is, if hand-to-hand combat breaks out on the battlefield, it won't be like this—with neat, one-on-one duels. Someone will be stabbing from the left, the right, front, and back. So the only real way to survive in close combat is, honestly, a hundred percent luck."
"..."
"But what if you run away? A fellow officer will likely shoot you in the head from behind. So, as your instructor, rather than have you die with your mind blank, I want you to become true Soldiers who take down as many enemies as you can—and that's what this training is for."
I helped trainee number 5 to his feet.
His face was untouched, still fine. He might have bruises here and there, but that was nothing.
"Trainee number 5."
"…Damn."
"Pick up your stick again. Let's go."
"!"
He trembled as he shook his head.
"Trainee number 5."
"Yeah."
"Your answer should be 'Yes, sir.'"
"…Damn… sir."
"Again."
"…Yes, sir."
"Return to your position."
Thanks to the sacrifice of trainee number 5, the mood became much more serious. The look of resistance disappeared and now everyone just stared at my mouth, hanging on my every word.
Before starting the real training, I explained what I knew about the battlefield conditions of World War I.
"Once you're thrown into combat, you must follow the orders of your superiors without question. That means individual fighting skills honestly won't get you very far."
Even experienced veterans find it hard to survive reckless charges or inefficient tactics.
"I believe the biggest change in this war is Trench Warfare. That's why you need to understand the trenches, which could very well become your graves."
Trench Warfare means digging into the ground to set up defensive positions. You hide inside, and then, when the time comes, you charge out with bayonets fixed in a wild attack.
I described what trenches looked like and how the fighting played out.
Maybe it was getting boring, because someone just couldn't take it anymore and spoke up.
"When do we get to learn marksmanship?"
"Trainee number 3."
"Yes, sir."
"To be honest, unless you're a sniper, as long as you know how to load your ammo and pull the trigger, that's enough."
So the purpose of this training is—
"To build the physical endurance, mindset, and hygiene habits you'll need to survive on the battlefield. And to ingrain instinctive skills that might increase your chances—even if only by one percent—of surviving in close combat."
Anyway, in crowded Manhattan there's no proper place to practice shooting, and we don't have any rifles.
Besides, when it comes to surviving World War I, I believe it's not marksmanship but other factors that really decide whether you live or die.
First, you have to avoid being assigned to an incompetent officer, and you'd better not end up facing a German Army officer who's ruthless but clever.
Above all, you must do whatever it takes not to get sent to the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, the bloodiest campaign with 1.2 million Allied Forces thrown into the fight.
That's right. In the end, it's all about luck.
"The hopeful thing is, once you're deployed, the war might end sooner than you think."
"B—but what makes you say that?"
I told them I'd reveal my reasons after all the training was done, and moved on to the real physical training.
"To build your endurance, we'll begin with a group run."
July 7th.
Wearing my red cap and covering my face with a scarf, I led the trainees out of the empty lot and had them run along the East River.
After running 2 kilometers, I taught the panting trainees physical conditioning exercises.
Since it was the first day, I taught them: 1. High jumps, 2. Toe touches, and 3. Hip lifts.
"I can assure you, if you repeat these for a few days, you'll definitely feel a difference in your body. If you can't handle it, don't bother coming tomorrow."
After three hours of training, I asked Gavin,
"How many do you think will show up tomorrow?"
"…Well, for one, I'm not coming back."
"Recruit number 6, are you out of your mind?"
"I'm kidding. Honestly, we'll have to wait and see. You saw their faces."
Everyone went home, teeth gritted.
I wondered how many of them would actually come back for training tomorrow.
"By the way, Tanner hasn't been involved in any dockworker strikes lately, has he?"
"We came to an agreement with the company. It's not exactly what we wanted, but they did agree to raise wages."
The logistics company, which had held out until now, changed its stance because of the draft lottery.
Over a million young men set to be drafted for the war were supposed to be laborers in their prime.
Filling the gap left by their absence wouldn't be easy, so just ignoring a strike?
No chance.
On top of that, the federal government was already planning a second round of conscription.
"So Tanner's boss has had some free time lately. He opened a bar in Coney Island because of that. But why do you ask?"
"I just haven't heard any news."
What I realized during today's training was that we really need proper training facilities.
And for that, of course, we need money.
Even just to move out of the overcrowded Tenement House before the Spanish flu breaks out, not to mention expanding into bigger business, I need capital.
After training, I returned to the basement underwear workshop in the Tenement House.
My mother was demonstrating a new sewing technique to the gathered workers.
The sparkling things piled up on top of the sewing machine were metal pieces to be used as brassiere hooks.
Until now, we had only made and sold uncompetitive drawers, but at last, my mother's company was about to launch its own unique product.
Still, I knew it would be a long time before bras actually turned a profit for me.
Other inventions also needed to be patented, and it would take even longer to turn those into cash.
Up to now, whenever something was taken from me, I just took more from others to make up for it — but unfortunately, these days, there aren't any thieves trying to steal from me.
I couldn't help but laugh at myself for even wishing for something like that.
But honestly, all the ways that popped into my head for making money were illegal.
This is getting dangerous.
The next day, at the scheduled time and place for day two of training, to my surprise, five people showed up.
Wearing my red ranger cap pulled down over my eyes, I looked them over.
"Honestly, I wasn't expecting much. But with only two dropouts, this instructor can't hide his joy."
"..."
The real surprise was that trainee number 5 showed up.
Although his face was full of complaints, and he recoiled in horror when I tried to give him a hug.
"My heart is burning hotter than ever. Let's turn that heat into some running. Fall in by twos, form up!"
Maybe because there are five of them, their movements are more unified than ever today.
"Since your instructor's in a good mood, I'll teach you up to PT exercise number seven today."
"He's seriously crazy."
"Shh."
"Who just said that?"
Silence.
"Alright, continuing from yesterday, let's move on to number four. This one's called the squat thrust — I'll demonstrate it just once."
After three hours of training, as we were about to part ways, Gavin shared some news about Tanner.
"Tanner wants to meet at 5 p.m. today, on Plymouth Street in Brooklyn. Can you make it?"
I nodded, and he handed me a note with the exact location written down. It's the telephone that connects Gavin and Tanner in Brooklyn.
Telephones have already started to become widely adopted, and especially in Manhattan and Brooklyn, the telegraph network was well developed.
The phone itself costs about $15. The service fee is a separate $8 per month. It was so expensive that only businesses or the upper class could afford to use it.
Instead, public telephones were installed in places like hotel lobbies, post offices, train stations, or harbors. For a nickel, you could talk for three minutes.
Calls were made by connecting through an operator, and if you exceeded the time limit, you'd receive a message requiring an extra fee.
Not long ago, I read a newspaper article saying a three-minute call from New York to San Francisco cost $20.70.
In any case, the usage fees were steep, and there was always the risk of eavesdropping, so for sensitive conversations, meeting in person was the only option.
I've never even used a phone, or touched one before.
If you take the streetcar from Canal Street, a little ways from my house, and cross the Manhattan Bridge, you're in Brooklyn right away. It took about thirty minutes.
After getting off the streetcar, I headed north in Brooklyn. Soon, the red-brick church where I was supposed to meet Tanner appeared.
Plymouth Church. It was the church where Reverend Henry Ward Beecher, famous for sending Sharps rifles to Kansas instead of Bibles to fight against slavery in the old days, had worked.
But for Tanner to choose such a meaningful place...
"Oh, it means absolutely nothing. I just thought meeting at a restaurant would be too conspicuous."
"The church is quiet."
"That's why I picked this place. Anyway, two days ago, Meehan came to my bar himself."
Meehan, of course, meant Dinny Meehan, the boss of the White Hand Gang.
Just as I thought, Nox's arrival had led him straight to Tanner Smith.
"As soon as he came in, he asked for Nox. So I told him he was just another customer."
"Did he believe you?"
"No. He's not someone you can fool easily. I'd seen him before, but now he's even more intimidating."
Cruel and ruthless by nature, cunning and calculating—a true strategist.
There was also an incident that cemented Dinny Meehan's reputation.
A few years back, on the day of Meehan's sentencing, the police in Brooklyn, worried about riots if he was found guilty, even assigned extra forces to guard the courthouse. But the judge, defying everyone's expectations, pronounced him not guilty.
That event was when Dinny Meehan made the White Hand the most powerful gang in Brooklyn.
"He's almost certain there's more between us than just a customer and bar owner. Still, I steered the conversation toward the Harvard Inn, dropping a hint—told him I wanted to open a saloon of that scale."
So Dinny Meehan countered by proposing a deal.
"A few days ago, military supplies bound for Europe disappeared from the Navy Yard. Someone hit the warehouse."
It wasn't the first time. Ever since the outbreak of the European war, incidents of military supplies meant for Europe being stolen in Brooklyn had become common. Usually, it was the work of gangs, and the White Hand was often involved.
"But this theft a few days ago was pulled off by a different gang. Specifically, the Italian Navy Street gang."
Typically, stolen military goods would be trafficked through illegal channels in the US black market or sold overseas.
"Anyway, the Italians are keeping those supplies in a warehouse right now. It seems Dinny Meehan has found out where."
"If you know the location, couldn't you just go in and take it?"
"If we get caught, that would mean all-out war. Those bastards from Naples will team up and go after the White Hand together."
Here, Dinny Meehan thought up a way to get the job done without getting his hands dirty. He was thinking of Nox, the one who had recently taken out a bunch of Italians down at the docks.
"He means to use you to steal the military supplies."
"If he double-crosses us, we're screwed."
"Probably thinking the same, Dinny Meehan actually gave me the warehouse location first. So just yesterday afternoon, I went to see it for myself and watched the Italians guarding the place."
Additionally, when it came to retrieving the goods, they agreed to split the manpower evenly between the White Hand and the Marginals.
"That's even more dangerous, Tanner. If they stab us in the back when we're loading the goods, only the bodies of the Marginals will be left at the scene."
"...That's exactly what worries me too. You know what kind of guy Dinny Meehan is. The reason I asked to meet you today was to talk this over."
There wasn't even a sliver of trust between them. Tanner could have just refused, but what had him hesitating was the potential profit if it worked.
"He offered to split the military supplies fifty-fifty and promised to help us open the Coney Island bar."
"If it's half, how much are we talking about?"
"I looked into the goods that were stolen from the harbor—it's rifles, ammunition, explosives—and judging by the quantity, it's at least several tens of thousands of dollars. Honestly, I need money too if I want to open the bar."
The reward was too sweet to turn down easily. After a brief pause—
"If you've got a gun, hand it over. Let's go check out the site."
Tanner grinned and pulled a pistol from his bag, handing it to me. It was clear that calling me out to Brooklyn was also meant to show me the warehouse in question.
Colt M1911.
They said it was a dime-a-dozen model, especially after the war. They're all using this gun.
Click.
I removed the magazine and checked—seven rounds inside.
"You handle a gun pretty naturally, huh? Is there anything you can't do?"
"Why make a big deal out of it? Let's go."
Tanner headed for the stable outside the church. He handed me the reins of a sleek brown horse.
I hesitated, just flicking my eyes toward Tanner.
"Don't you have a car?"
"Do I look like I have money for a car? Hurry up and get on."
"..."
"Wait, don't tell me—you can't ride?"
Tanner's cheeks puffed out. Before he could start mocking me, I quickly mounted the horse.
Back in my days as a mercenary, there were times I'd ride horses in the Middle East.
There was a colleague who used to laugh at me for it—a friend named Jo Yugang, who died while traveling in America.
Wow, who rides horses in this day and age?
With all this sand around, do you feel like we're in the Wild West or something?
Everything you learn is useful.
If you have a horse in an emergency, you ride it.
What, would you rather run around on foot?
Yeah, yeah.
He used to honk his car horn and laugh at me. If he ran into a situation like this now, he'd probably end up clinging to Tanner and riding double, which would've been a sight. Or he would've fallen off the horse.
That's why it's important to learn as much as you can.
It'd been a while, but the horse was so well-trained that I quickly got the hang of it. The sunset spread deep across the sky as we tore up the unpaved road, racing north along the East River for about twenty minutes.
When we reached a quiet street, Tanner reined in the horse and stopped.
"We need to move quietly from here."
We tied the reins to a signpost and moved deeper in. Pushing through the tall grass, we soon spotted three warehouses in the distance.
Tanner pulled a pair of binoculars from his bag. I took them from him and got a better look at the warehouses and their surroundings.
"They're right on the river, so I'd guess they've been used to stash smuggled goods for a long time."
"So there could be other things inside too."
"It's possible, but given our time constraints, it's impossible to check everything and take it all. There's a bar and a casino run by the Italian gang not far from here."
In other words, considering the time between the first gunshot and when they come running, we'd be cutting it close to clear even one warehouse.
I changed positions to get a better look and scoped out the surroundings, focusing on the warehouses.
After that, I decided to accept Dinny Meehan's offer.
"Really? Do you think you can pull this off?"
"But I have a few conditions. First, you know any places where they illegally modify weapons?"
I'd heard there were a few places like that. Tanner, of course, knew exactly what I meant.
"There's a gunsmith in Hell's Kitchen who's a real genius. He's eccentric, but his skills are second to none. Just want the location, is that all?"
"I'll need two bolt-action rifles, two pistols, thirty rounds of ammo, explosives, and a boat..."
Tanner's eyes grew wider with each item I listed.