Chapter 142
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 142
Chapter Title: The Darkest Hour (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Washington D.C.
Woobok.
I'd lost count of how many times the duty officer had changed. Every time it happened, I felt like I was losing my mind a little.
The largest room in Woobok today was packed with what you could call the gathering of my military connections.
"Long time no see."
"How's Fort Benning treating you? I've never had the chance to visit."
"You interested in the Infantry School? It's about time you took a shot at commandant."
"Absolutely not. Never!"
"Yeah, thought so. You should aim for the Armor School instead."
Marshall, who'd been assigned to the 15th Regiment and gotten a taste of China before returning, had passed through Leavenworth as an instructor and was now serving as deputy commandant at the Infantry School in Fort Benning.
But with the commandant just counting down the days to retirement, he was basically running the show despite the title. From the start, the posting had been designed to let Marshall overhaul the Infantry School's curriculum from the ground up.
And since the Infantry School was a key stepping stone for promotions, Marshall was aggressively recruiting top talent, forging an Avengers team. James and Omar had already fallen into his clutches, reborn as dutiful work machines.
"Shame I couldn't bring that guy over."
Marshall nodded toward Ike, who was deep in conversation across the room. Look at that greed overflowing.
"If you snag Ike too, you'll have devoured all my friends. Leave me at least one, will you?"
"Want to know one of the findings from my research at the Infantry School? My personal opinion is that if even one of the guys you stashed in the 93rd Division had been incompetent, the Battle of Amiens would've been in jeopardy. So why would I let them go?"
I totally agreed. That half-baked plan had worked perfectly only because of their quick thinking and improvisation.
But my friends... they looked way skinnier than last time, cheeks hollowed out. Must be my imagination, right?
Look at that. Omar and James were devouring the snacks without a care for who was watching. Were you starving your slaves or something?
As I chatted with Marshall, Ike noticed us and lumbered over.
"Jin! How've you been?"
"In times like these, what does a commander even have to do? Just managing the unit and killing time."
I'm bored out of my mind. My main job these days is praying every night that the kids don't cause any trouble.
After returning from Panama, Ike had graduated top of his Leavenworth class and been assigned to the American Battle Monuments Commission (ABMC), where retired General Pershing tinkered in his spare time.
Birds of a feather, as they say—Pershing had quickly spotted Ike's talent and quietly recommended him to Marshall.
Now he was studying at the Army War College, slated to head straight to the War Department upon graduation. They'd pegged him as general officer material from the start.
The guy Ike had been talking to sidled over and poked his head in.
"Thanks for the invite. Do you remember me?"
"Of course! How could I forget Collins, the junior who raised West Point's profile with that legendary pinch hit?"
"Knew it! Listening to your brilliant tactical calls back then, I was convinced you'd become one of history's great commanders. Our class even fired off a salute after you graduated. Hey! Matthew! It's Senior Kim! Remember him?"
"Huh? Who here doesn't know Senior Kim? Though back then and now, I'm more of a football guy, so that whole baseball thing..."
Matthew Ridgway. Two years my junior. UN Commander during the Korean War.
Right now... Marshall's slave. He'd encountered the wild Marshall in the 15th Regiment in China, gotten zapped by the kidnapping beam, and spent years being worked to the bone.
Damn, who would've guessed the Ridgway MacArthur had casually mentioned was my two-year junior?
To be fair, as a senior, I was swamped in my third year. Armageddon Report to write, a novel to pen, business plans to sketch, pen-pal letters to Dorothy...
Back then, I was gripped by fear of being dragged into the trenches soon, or terror that my military career might end up as coastal artillery duty. No time to input into juniors' heads.
Anyway, MacArthur, who walks around with the entire West Point alumni list in his brain, should've known. So it's totally his fault for not mentioning the two-year gap. Sneaky, underhanded political soldier. Not my fault I can't remember juniors.
J. Lawton Collins. Also two years junior. Army Chief of Staff during the Korean War. MacArthur overshadowed him in Korea, but this guy's no slouch. Still, even he's just Marshall's loyal slave No. 2 right now.
"..."
"...Hello, sir? Long time no see."
"Trying to hang with you young folks makes me feel so out of place."
"You saying I'm too old and pathetic?"
"Everyone knows that's not what I mean!"
Joseph Stilwell. The instructor I'd briefly met at West Point.
Yeah, the Stilwell who formed a disastrous duo with Chiang Kai-shek and utterly bungled the Nationalist forces in the Sino-Japanese War.
To defend poor Instructor Stilwell a bit, it was Marshall's fault for shoving this strict, no-nonsense straight shooter into a position where he had to politick with Nationalists, Communists, and warlords alike. Common sense says you'd send a smooth-talking wheeler-dealer there, right?
My eternal deputy Hodge had somehow joined James, looking worn out as he picked at snacks. Patton, true to form, was yelling his head off at some poor soul.
Time to rescue the sacrificial lamb.
"What, did you boil your throat in a train boiler? Let the poor guy go and drink with me."
"Eugene?"
"Huh? Oh?"
It was William Cabel, our West Point class valedictorian who'd fought like a demon as the 93rd Division's engineer commander.
But as he glanced at me, flames of fury ignited in Cabel's eyes. Something was off. Did I wrong him somehow?
"You! That poker game we played! You cheated!! Benion spilled it! Right when I was heading to the 93rd!! I! MEEEE!!"
"Gah, cough, cough—sorry, I did, cough!"
I endured the choking rage for a while before finally breaking free.
Too bad Senior MacArthur wasn't here. That would've been a sight.
MacArthur had shipped off to the Philippines again.
After his corps command stint, he'd led the U.S. team at the 1928 Amsterdam Olympics, then been appointed commander of the Philippine Department and headed to Manila. Philippines hasn't improved then or now—good luck.
And his wife... they'd entered a de facto separation. Basically divorced. Yeah, plenty of fish in the sea—why her?
"Everyone here has one thing in common."
"We're all true slaves tending George Marshall's farm."
"I'd love to grind you under my heel too, but your rank's a killer, so no thanks. Not that."
Marshall scanned the room, now descending into alcohol-fueled chaos.
"They're all seeds you planted."
"Me?"
Why me all of a sudden? What'd I do? Cheat at poker?
"Cambrai, Amiens, Saint-Mihiel, Meuse-Argonne. You proved that trench warfare is a temporary phase and that combined arms with sufficient armor will be the key to future wars."
That would've been proven in original history without me, but Marshall's sharp gaze made it hard to say.
"And the friends I've gathered all agree. Sure, plenty in the Army disagree right now, but I'm convinced these are the ones who'll lead it tomorrow."
He quietly placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Heard things have been tough lately."
"Me, tough? Lounging around, stealing a salary—"
"That must be the hardest thing for you. You love work more than anyone, but the top brass won't let you. Torture, right?"
What are you saying? I love being Salary Lupin. Dying of happiness. Dorothy's pregnant with number four already. Wife and kids love me coming home on time.
"Don't give up. No matter how much Hoover hates your father-in-law, he can't strip you bare. That'd be against all decency."
Ah.
So that's it... Didn't expect Marshall to dip into politics. Must be because of me.
As my eyes welled up with gratitude,
"Even if you retire, if war breaks out, I'll drag you back to the front lines. So absolutely, positively don't leave the service. Got it?"
Tears retracted instantly.
Damn slave master. Even Satan would sit quietly in his Infantry School class.
Stocks are gambling with money to make more money.
No one doesn't know that.
Until they jump in themselves.
"Aaaah! AAAAAAAAA!!"
"This can't be! It can't!"
In Manhattan's towering skyscrapers, windows shattered, things burst with dull thuds, screams and chaos chained endlessly.
Those without strength to reach the Hudson flung themselves from the pinnacles of empires built on debt-fueled bubbles.
But astonishingly, amid this bloodbath, another miracle unfolded.
"Buy!"
"Now's the time to buy!"
"You idiots, if you snap up these bargains, I can unload too."
The New York Stock Exchange is invincible!
No danger signals from any economic fundamentals!
So this is just temporary. The perfect moment to gobble up blue chips, right?
And every power bloc in America backed that thinking.
"The current market appears to be in a temporary correction."
"The government is closely monitoring the situation and stands ready to take appropriate measures. Citizens, please remain calm!"
Proclaiming that boldly, the White House and Congress buzzed with heated debates daily.
"What's the Curtis faction up to?"
"No special statements."
"Figured. Calling a temporary dip dooms them as the boy who cried wolf. They'd be finished."
Andrew W. Mellon, who'd served as Treasury Secretary under three presidents—Harding, Coolidge, Hoover—and steered the Roaring Twenties, was especially hardline.
"We can't ease up on US MILK now."
"In this climate? Shouldn't we avoid party infighting first?"
"The market's rebounding temporarily, but if Curtis starts yapping doomsday again, it'll spiral. Bank runs would end us! We might stitch one hole and face nine more!"
The obvious future.
Curtis needs to blow up this crisis no matter what. He'll go even crazier. He's just biding his time now.
"We kill him before he kills us."
"US MILK's a den of corruption anyway. Saving taxpayer money there widens our maneuvering room."
"Any concrete plan?"
"Privatize it. US MILK's just a distributor. Let companies with local roots carve it up—streamlines from production to delivery. It's a market-trampling monster anyway!"
Of course, they didn't mention which firms were pre-selected for the scraps. No one that clueless rises this high.
Snagging perks from big national deals is the privilege of the elite, right?
"No issues at all?"
"Dangle a carrot for the rubes. Rush through the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act."
The Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act meant massive tariff hikes to erect protectionist walls.
Mellon, who despised taxes more than anyone, frowned. But Hoover had already pledged hikes to woo rural voters, so opposition was futile.
"Fine... we'll do what needs doing. Slash rates big time too. Within six months, sideline Curtis completely—bury his voice so no one hears it."
This crisis was a test of the Republicans' decade in power.
Overcome it, showcase prosperity again, and they'd rule not 10, but 20 more years.
Fail?
The freshly elected regime crumbles spectacularly.
"One thing, though."
"Problem?"
"If we sell US MILK to private hands... what about the employees?"
"The acquiring firms decide that."
"Won't the veterans' groups push back?"
The naive question drew laughs from the economically savvy officials and congressmen.
"Haha, don't worry. The bigwigs are tight with Curtis—water needed changing anyway. The rank-and-file? Milk delivery boys at best?"
"Jobs that can't adapt to the times vanish; new ones rise. Did we coddle carriage drivers when cars arrived? Why pamper them?"
"Because they're veterans—"
"They've had plenty of time on the payroll. Smart ones upskilled to better gigs. Still delivering milk? Dead weight society sheds."
"No taxpaying citizen likes government-fed slugs. No need to fret."
Most in the room nodded. Hardcore Curtis fans anyway—no big loss.
In the smoke-filled room, countless jobs vanished into the haze.