Chapter 107
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 107
Chapter Title: Grinning Army Maker (1)
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Do you happen to know what happened in 1921?
I didn't know a single thing. I'm not some freak memorizing world history timelines in my head.
It's all because I couldn't get a status window. If they'd just given me nanomachines or a future AI or something, wouldn't that have made up for it at least a little?
Charlie Chaplin released his new film The Kid and it was a massive hit. The only Chaplin movies I knew were Modern Times and The Great Dictator, but when the family went out to see it, damn if it wasn't entertaining.
The fact that even I felt real enjoyment watching a 1920s movie showed exactly why he's revered as a great entertainer even generations later. Only regret is not being able to invest in him.
Future knowledge was too thin to dive headfirst into Hollywood chaos, and cash wasn't rotting away in piles anyway. Honestly, steadily hoarding gold for the Great Depression felt more pressing.
For Hollywood, I'd take it slow—hell, in my opinion, slipping in right after the Depression when money lines dry up and everything twists might be smarter.
Meanwhile, the twisted bastard child of Woodrow Wilson—the Treaty of Versailles—had its true nature exposed, and Europe, far from peace, began bleeding again.
- German reparations fixed at 132 billion marks!
Britain and America wanted to keep Germany's windpipe open as a long-term trade partner, but like hell France would tolerate that.
France's goal was crystal clear.
Cripple Germany so it could never again utter nonsense about wars or European hegemony.
No way in hell, by my lights—but the French somehow rammed their grudge through anyway. With that many dying in the trenches, not burning for revenge would be the real abnormality.
Then swarms of piranhas piled on to rip off even more German flesh, and I snagged a few bits in the frenzy too. Patents are precious, you know.
Being a soldier made happily chowing down in language-barrier Germany across the ocean a stretch anyway, so our dear Ford president extracted the desired concessions from Germany and covered my bill in the end.
The funds I raked in that way? Straight into the Dodge Company acquisition battle and new car development.
Unlike President Ford, obsessed with single-model production to maximize cost destruction, his son Edsel Ford and I shared a common goal: multi-model diversification. The T-model Ford was stale—how long could we keep pounding the same dry well?
Edsel Ford had more interest in other ventures than playing puppet president under Dad anyway, and now he was reaching for the Dodge truck and cargo brand, plus the luxury Lincoln marque.
Could we launch a Mustang ahead of original history? Technical limits would make it something totally different borrowing just the name... but I had zero intention of handing the market to GM on a platter.
Automobiles were the ultimate manufacturing powerhouse for massive employment. To ramp up family jobs around California—San Francisco and beyond—we needed to crank out more than just passenger cars; trucks, whatever it took. Once the war chest swelled, time to hit shipbuilding too—the golden goose of job creation.
The Irish War of Independence hit its peak, with British troops dying endlessly and dozens, hundreds of Irish massacred in reprisal.
New nations born from World War I—like Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary—went at it hammer and tongs to settle borders. Anyone seeing it would've thought the Great War hadn't ended.
Communists and anarchists spread worldwide, the polar opposite of America's stabilizing recovery; they toiled nonstop for world revolution, assassinating the Spanish prime minister and such.
What a goddamn era. An age where grabbing a pistol or bomb and gunning someone down happened like grabbing lunch!
Absurd coming from a 21st-century guy, but duels—the ones Patton and his crew loved so much—felt downright gentlemanly by comparison. At least getting shot in a duel wasn't bullshit unfair.
Their supreme leader and Soviet Union invaded Georgia—what we know better by its country name.
Seemed like the Red Scare might roar back, but the reaction was muted. Americans, true to form, barely knew where Georgia was pinned on the map—or worse, "Oh, there? That was Russian turf anyway," hypnotizing themselves it was no biggie.
And I pinned on major's oak leaves.
Less than a full year at Leavenworth, and they slapped it on sharp as a tack.
Not thrilled. This promotion—no matter how you slice it—felt like they couldn't wring much from me as a field-grade officer, so they rushed the field rank!
Reported to the War Department, so time to stamp Marshall's face once or twice. Pershing was gravy; Marshall was the main course. Please look on this cutie with favor.
"Did you know? You were originally slated to join the Siberian Expeditionary Force."
"What? Why me? I was rolling in the mud at Meuse-Argonne back then."
"After that. Once Germany surrendered. Friction kept popping with the Japanese already there, so plenty said send Eugene Kim."
Chills ran up my spine.
So while I was pulling the Sword of Hell from Syngman Rhee's throat to lop Wilson's head, I nearly got yeeted to Siberia?
The Republic's shadows ran deep, indeed.
Wilson hadn't tossed out "go to Japan" lightly. Plan was Siberia to buddy up with the Japs, stack my ranks, then park me in Tokyo—no return ticket.
Couldn't dodge or refuse. Just take the hit and game over. Total dead end.
The one who cut it short in the middle? God-Pershing, as always.
'I understand the intent to give a promising young officer broader experience. Demoting Brigadier Kim back to field grade is regrettable too.
But suddenly assigning another general under him—how awkward for General Graves (William Sidney Graves) already out there. Plus, dropping Kim into a tough spot risks sending the wrong signal to the jealous types.'
Sorry for cursing you as an old geezer getting uglier with age. This peon kowtows full loyalty.
From Pershing's angle, sure, yanking an AEF general and chucking him to the earth's far side wouldn't sit pretty. But that's beside the point—I benefited, facts.
Seeing my face frozen stiff, though, Marshall figured something else.
"If you'd shipped out then, your rank would've climbed higher by now. Must sting."
No, fuck, it's not about the rank.
Siberia. Fucking Siberia.
I'm no rank-obsessed maniac, no pervert giggling "promotion, promotion" while blizzard-whipped. And fighting Japs on top? Worst case, Tokyo military attaché? Nah. Quitting this game. Report me if you want.
Hearing my fate nearly flipped without me knowing was dizzying. This is why you gotta politick tirelessly.
Owe Pershing a next Easter gift at least. Building virtue and reciprocity with tuna cans—that's peak Korean, right?
Marshall, clueless to the undercurrent power plays, just pitied my "missed chance"—but man, I'd be screwed going there.
"I'd have been the awkward one if I'd gone."
"Temporarily awkward, sure. But a general's a general. In this disarmament season, keeping your star—how huge is that? You know."
"Might've stripped the uniform faster instead. Rank climbs slow and steady later."
"You're too damn chill."
Me, chill? Syngman Rhee'd laugh himself into appendicitis.
"Heard you're working tanks and Pacific stuff at Leavenworth lately."
"Well, gotta work somehow."
"Why not commit to one? Not a natural combo."
True enough.
Where to fight tank battles in the Pacific? Unless dispatched to China for continental vibes and steel bloodbaths, tank expert title doesn't scream Pacific posting.
That's why I was hustling to prove Pacific competence on top.
"Personally, wish you'd pour more time and effort into tanks."
But that was exactly Marshall's beef.
"You know Asia's a sideshow while you're in Army service."
"Well... true, but knocking both out well ain't bad? Haha."
"No laughing. Focus."
Got it.
"If you wanna dick around on Pacific specks or jungles, join the Marines! That'd clear the air. Ditch one screw-up, feel refreshed."
"Whoa, why so grumpy again."
"Do I look non-irritated? Work piled sky-high, and this drifter sniffing here, poking there—now every trash wants you, hounding Pershing and even me!"
Ah, screw-up.
Dunno which idiot lit Marshall's dynamite, but the fuse was blazing already.
"You prophesied a second great war in Europe."
"C'mon, prophecy? Slip of the tongue."
"Normal folks don't slip like that. Shut up and listen."
Yes, sir.
"Great War—as you called it, World War I—Europe's guns haven't quieted post-end.
Germans aren't war-bound solely 'cause home's chaos. Strong leader stabilizes inside, he'll shred Versailles and revenge anytime."
You from the future or what?
Marshall's words conjured a mustache führer shouldering a swastika, howling Lebensraum.
Saying Bohemia's one-balled corporal sparks WWII? Pure prophecy, no cap.
But Marshall laid out refined speculation, rational logic.
The white knight fixing chaotic Germany must hoist revenge banner on all Teutons' dreams.
"As you say. Europe's war inevitable."
"......"
"But the guy who knows best— what? Asia? Pacific? Insane! Speak up, own it! Democracy, US gain—Europe wars again, who's prime dispatch?"
"......George Marshall?"
"Cut the crap. You're Europe-bound. Far vision, far duty—remember."
Marshall's face screamed: 'One more Japan whine contradicting me, I'll make you a dragoon.' Limbs hacked, cavalry fodder.
Too cocky?
My mindset was just spread connections, happy soldiering—shallow as hell—but this mouth snowballed into a monster.
"Full year Leavenworth, then next posting drops."
"Heard anything?"
"Well... so many lusting after you. Might split Eugene Kim three ways and scatter?"
Marshall smirked half-joking, but that terrified more.
Patted my shoulder like reassurance.
"Won't let it. I'll help max."
"Knew it! Trusted you! Thanks!"
"Sew you tight, ship to Europe."
I miss Mom.