Chapter 125
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 125
Chapter Title: The Golden Age (1)
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Autumn of 1924.
Just as I was starting to pull out my fall uniform, I was able to make my way back to Kansas via San Francisco.
If I had to go to the Philippines again, I'd be less than human.
The only one staying in Kansas right now was my father-in-law, Senator Curtis. Dorothy and the kids were in D.C.
"You're back."
"Sorry I'm late, Father-in-law."
"No matter. Everyone knows you're working far away. How's your health?"
"I'm fine. A soldier can't afford to be frail, can he?"
We hopped straight into the car and drove until we reached our destination.
Mrs. Curtis.
My mother-in-law.
"You're not the one who should be scolding your son-in-law for being a little late, so don't blame yourself too much."
We stood in silence for a while, gazing endlessly at the gravestone.
Mother-in-law had already been having trouble getting around when I returned from Europe, and by the time I was in Japan and the Philippines, her condition had worsened severely, they said.
How many more funerals would I have to attend in the future?
And of those, how many could I actually make it to on time?
Being a soldier was truly a damn tough way to live like a human.
"To be honest... I'm starting to get a bit anxious now."
"Do you need more grandchildren?"
"Ah, that's important, of course. I want to put together a baseball team with grandkids soon."
He joked as he lit a cigar.
"I need to head to the White House."
"You're serious?"
"A person of color needs to step into the White House at least once. No, let me correct that. We need to make a run for it. How many people of color as lucky as me—able to get a breath of fresh air in politics—will there be in the next fifty years?"
Was he talking to me, or reaffirming it to himself?
He continued without waiting for a reply.
"Harding will run for reelection, so if I, one of his biggest backers, suddenly jump in, it'll look pretty bad. But after that, at the '28 convention, I'll be the Republican presidential nominee."
"Do as you must. Are you giving me a spot in your campaign too?"
"Come on, don't say silly things. You've abandoned your wife and kids to make it big as a soldier—what campaign would you join? Just focus on your job."
"Abandoned? That's unfair."
"Be unfair here, but don't complain in D.C."
Yeah, I'm the sinner.
We walked along the path for a bit, chatting about trivial things to pass the time.
The weather was bitterly cold.
Let's rewind the clock to last year for a moment.
The wicked Marshall sold me off to the tyrannical plantation slave lord MacArthur in the Philippines, and while Haiji skipped happily back to the mainland, I shed bloody tears.
"Why!! Why, Haiji! Don't turn your back on our friendship!"
"Puhahaha. Come on, I need to live a little too. Ah, I really wanted to have Philippines service on my record. Such a shame."
"Don't bullshit me—your mouth's grinning up to your ears."
"Busted."
Traitor! Traaaaitor!!
The Manila I was dragged to in the Philippines was anything but a paradise of happiness.
"Eugene! Good to see you. Working with these idiots is suffocating."
"You came at the perfect time. I can't suffer alone. Come get screwed under that ruthless MacArthur with me."
Guaak, guaaaak...
The situation in the Philippines was turning out in a strangely convoluted way.
With the naval disarmament treaty signed in Washington, the war threat had diminished, and the treaty effectively blocked any further fortification or defensive line construction in the Philippines.
Politicians paddle when the water rises—that's their nature—so disarmament was inevitable, and the Philippine Military District began rapidly reducing its forces.
But at the same time, the Harding administration ordered the Army and Navy to jointly develop War Plan Orange: countermeasures for a surprise Japanese declaration of war.
MacArthur, a one-star general, had to personally tour the Bataan Peninsula to assess the Philippines as the primary theater, while compiling all data needed for the defense plan.
I became a pitiful house-elf under him, working my ass off without a peep, but who could complain to a workaholic like MacArthur himself?
On top of that, we had to hold endless meetings with local Philippine leaders.
"Disarmament? Again?"
"Don't worry. There's no more war threat with Japan. The United States always prioritizes protecting the Philippines—"
"Don't lie! Why are you pulling back from Philippine security more and more?"
"If that's how it's gonna be, just grant us independence already!"
"The United States is preparing for the Philippines' free independence. Congress has already passed the resolution, so rest assured."
"No, it's because of you that we're turning into a battlefield. Why should we get dragged into a fight between America and Japan? And now you're pulling the troops? If that's the case, why are you even here?!"
It was suffocating.
After dealing with that mess and getting off work, we'd always drown our sorrows in drinks and lament.
"We can't defend the Philippines."
"I know."
"But what the hell is this bullshit? Just write a clean report: 'Can't defend it even if we die. End of story.' And send it up. Done."
"Can't do that. There's still hope. The terrain's rugged with lots of jungle—we can hold them off with a delaying action."
"Jungle means all the troops get malaria, what about supplies? Mobility? You know the coastline here's as long as America's? Without sea control, we'll crawl to Bataan and get shelled to death!"
"Are you telling me to abandon our friendship with the Filipinos?!"
"Forget friendship—we just can't hold it!!"
These marathon laments usually ended in shouting matches and grabbing collars.
Meanwhile, Vicente and Anastacio were looking increasingly anxious.
"Eugene. Talk to them for us."
"Damn it. I've submitted suggestions multiple times, and our MacArthur agrees. But what can we do when D.C.'s idiots keep rejecting them?"
Philippine Scouts.
Basically auxiliary forces made up mostly of locals—and like any colonial empire, there was naturally a pay gap between regular U.S. troops and the Scouts, in salary and allowances.
But as U.S. forces shrank, their workload naturally increased, yet pay stayed the same.
"Try to calm the guys down. I can't do much, but I'll push for better rations at least."
"...You're not joking. It's dangerous."
Felt like a circus freak show parade.
Riding a unicycle on a tightrope, juggling with both hands, while jumping through a flaming hoop. Even as a game, it'd flop hard—but the problem is, this is reality!
Things were going swimmingly.
As for non-work life...
"Uncleeee!!"
"Uncle, play with ussss."
"Where's your mom?"
"Mom went shopping downtown."
Ah, my blood pressure's skyrocketing.
Mrs. MacArthur—the seductive woman who'd played both Pershing and MacArthur—had already set the mainland ablaze before even arriving in the Philippines.
From what I heard, the moment MacArthur's Philippines posting was announced, she gave interviews everywhere, claiming Pershing spitefully dumped her and MacArthur in some tropical backwater. Well... was that really smart?
The two kids who came with their mom and stepdad somehow preferred playing with stepdad over bio-mom.
This bizarre situation where the workaholic stepdad spinning like a top day and night ended up babysitting more than the mom with all the free time.
So what was kid-mom doing?
"Hee-hee. My husband is always so stern and serious— no fun at all."
"He was so dashing when he proposed. Like a knight of the round table, standing at attention, carrying it out like a military op—"
She was busy conquering Philippine high society.
MacArthur really has no eye for women. Even if you punched a hole in his ass, he couldn't find someone worse.
He's not some monk who doesn't know women. From West Point legends, he wasn't just two-timing—he had eight legs in play. Is he human or what?
A guy notorious for womanizing picks... ugh... the worst for his first marriage. Makes my loyalty to Dorothy burn brighter. My career luck sucks, but marriage luck is jackpot.
Playing with these poor kids searching for mom, I missed Henry and Alice.
I couldn't bring the kids and family here yet. The facilities? Hygiene? If they caught malaria, I'd lose my mind.
Then one day.
I dozed off mid-work, closed my eyes for a bit, and couldn't open them.
It was a fantastic experience. Blinked, and suddenly an unfamiliar ceiling.
"...Rough time?"
"You're kidding, right? After working me like a dog."
I'd caught malaria and wandered near death for three days and nights, they said. Damn this Philippines—I've lost all affection for it.
"Good you didn't die."
"Sorry to worry you."
"Better than sucking gas. Heh. Still think we can do guerrilla war in the jungle?"
"Why bring that up here?"
"After getting it, I just know we can't maintain combat effectiveness."
What? Why the death glare? Wanna catch it yourself?
When I finally dragged myself out of the sickbed, I received a familiar yet unexpected guest.
"Hello, General Kim Eugene."
"Must've been a long trip all the way out here. From the Provisional Government?"
"Yes."
Yeah. They had to show up eventually.
I don't care much, but seems they have a lot to say.
The man, hat pulled low even indoors, bowed lightly.
"First, the Provisional Government always holds deep gratitude toward General Kim Eugene for your unwavering support for Korean independence."
"Good, as long as you know."
Honestly, you know who's footing the bill.
I'm a good guy—I teach how to fish instead of just giving fish. So don't cross the line.
"However... lately, within the Provisional Government, there's some bewilderment about General Kim's actions."
"Bewilderment? Be more precise."
"Well..."
I waved him off.
From the hemming and hawing, they're clearly pissed. I can guess without asking.
"Then let me ask: What results has the Provisional Government achieved with all that money?"
"Pardon?"
"Can't an investor ask for results? Since its founding, has there been any progress toward Korean independence?"
Got nothing to say, huh? Me neither, damn it.
With Syngman Rhee on a tight leash from me, the fact they're sending someone means my Japan trip's fallout is too much even for political 9-dan Rhee to handle.
"I'll write a letter for the President. That'll be clearer than rambling. Deliver it."
"Understood."
"And one more thing, out of concern: Don't play with fire and get yourselves in danger."
What the Japanese military does now that I've shoved them off is a total unknown.
What if they go berserk even earlier than original history?
If reason fails and massacres become daily bread?
Worst case, if they use the independence army as pretext for something insane like the Shanghai Incident, the Provisional Government shutters that day.
Maybe I should go to Shanghai myself.
"What do you think of me visiting Shanghai?"
"To Shanghai... yourself?"
"Not joining permanently, just a visit."
"Everyone would welcome it. No issue at all! Absolutely!"
"We'll discuss that too. I'm tired—show yourself out."
It's not shooing; I'm really beat. Still a patient here.
Do I have to endure this crap for another twenty years?
Suddenly, the future looked pitch black.