Chapter 145
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 145
Chapter Title: The Darkest Hour (5)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Spring had arrived, but the frozen hearts of the people showed no signs of thawing.
The one silver lining was that our family had already sold off our speculative stocks well in advance.
Around '27, I'd called in Yushin and told him it was time to cash out our holdings. The kid looked at me like I was insane, insisting those stocks would climb for at least two more years.
Then, a year later around '28, Yushin was the one jumping up and down, yelling for us to dump them quick and bail on this crazy stock market. I had to hold him back. "Long-term holds and short-term plays are different things, you idiot."
In the end, our major portfolio holdings like U.S. Steel and Coca-Cola got liquidated gradually over a few years. By the time the Great Depression fully ripened, we'd be reaping a delicious harvest.
With our fresh cash reserves, I started investing in those landing craft I'd been mulling over, plus aviation-related ventures. Oh, and I tossed a bit into Hormel too.
Real investments were still a ways off. Soon everyone would be dying for cash, begging, "Please bestow upon us the grace of dollars." Why spend now when they'd all come running? A 50% fire sale? Big deal.
That wrapped up everything that could be sorted quick. Short-term fixes were off the table.
So there I was, as always, parked in the battalion commander's chair, feet up on the desk, puffing cigarettes and puffing out smoke rings like some donut-making tutorial. Utterly pointless bullshit for the ages.
Then, out of nowhere, a visitor dropped by.
"Haji? What brings you here?"
"Had some business nearby. Not even offering a cup of coffee?"
"Hang on. I'll whip up some Eugene Kim special brew that'll blow your mind."
"Sheesh. Why not use the duty soldier?"
"Duty soldier? Nah."
I'll just make it myself. No need to send the kid on coffee errands.
Truth be told, ordering two cups and having them appear instantly with a crisp "Yes, sir!"—that's the sweet taste of power. But the duty soldier was already out on another task.
"Here."
"Thanks."
We sipped our coffee in silence for a moment.
What the hell was this guy doing here?
I didn't beat around the bush.
"What's up? We're not strangers—speak freely."
"Heh. Sharp as ever."
"Agh, spit it out. I'm busy."
"You didn't look busy sprawled like that a second ago."
"Tch."
"Colonel Marshall, on his way back from D.C., told me to swing by and say hi to Major Kim."
Marshall? Why?
Before I could ask, Haji lowered his voice further.
"Saw soldiers hustling outside. You give some orders?"
"Oh, yeah. Told 'em to do a deep maintenance overhaul."
"...Why pick something that smells suspicious?"
"Suspicious? What suspicion? Shit, you buying into that nutjob crap too? That I'm plotting some 'patriotic coup' or whatever?"
"Then why are the tanks getting fixed?!"
Look at this punk, raising his voice in front of his sky-high savior.
"Hold up—you yelling at me? Pissing me off now? A tank battalion fixing tanks is the problem?"
"Just leave 'em busted, you blockhead! If I were you, I'd rip out every engine, pile 'em up, and torch the heap! You love that crazy shit!"
So, what—one night I round up all the troops, fire up every tank, and roll on Washington D.C.?
Me? Am I nuts? When did my name turn into "Immortal Bullet"? Time to enlighten this worrywart friend of mine.
"D.C.'s got Marines, Marines."
"Just came from the War Department—they're calling the Marines a commie den."
"Bullshit. Total bullshit. I'm coup-plotting, and the Marines are prepping a communist revolt? Pick one."
Agh, the nonsense never ends.
Everyone's scraping by, so now they're debuting as pulp fiction writers? Imagination's gone wild, spewing every crazy rumor. They'd fit right in at The Sun.
True to the motto I suggested—"30% truth content"—The Sun sticks to it faithfully. One home run fact, followed by double the bullshit. Ex-soldiers could rake it in writing alternate history novels there.
For the record, back in the day, royalties from that novel under "Dwight van Bradley" never came. It sold a bit, but the publisher got busted printing red-hot underground crap and folded. Total dogshit.
Still, this slander had an expiration date.
"You hear about that?"
"What?"
"Rumor has it MacArthur's been tapped as next Chief of Staff."
"Yeah? I heard someone else."
Haji named another guy. I stroked my chin, pondering.
He must've picked it up somewhere, but my intel came from the great paranoid perv, Edgar Hoover. Hoover's word trumps Haji's.
"Mine's probably right. Deep source spilled it."
"Fine, say it's MacArthur. So what changes? Youngest Chief of Staff ever?"
"Come on. That's all you got? How long that guy's been persecuted? Plenty under Pershing hounded Senior MacArthur."
"Ah!"
"Yeah. Hoover hands that long-humiliated man a sword? Instant Swordmaster MacArthur.
No one's fantasizing wild shit with him as Chief of Staff. Hell, I'd dance with a blade if I had cause. Fake a plot, and he'd strip you bare and lop your head off. Best just breathe quiet."
The king's return.
The Showman faction, itching to devour MacArthur under Pershing, now faced the Army Chief as enemy in this brutal time.
They must wanna off themselves. Poor bastards. Good economy? They'd strut out whining about toxic service and quit. But now? Guts lacking.
Probably what our Mr. Hoover's aiming for.
"But you're tight with MacArthur too. What if you two team up—"
"Keep bullshitting and get out! Puke up that booze!"
Look at him poking the bear.
Haji yelped "hot damn" and bolted, but my unease lingered.
Thankfully, no Bonus Army swarming D.C. yet, no jobless milkmen turning feral with Grease Guns marching on the capital.
But if it happened? What then?
The right answer's clear: Do nothing. Stick to my post, mind my business.
Swore to behave, so I requested battalion command despite colonel rank fitting regimental. Saw Coolidge's glare—I'm not that crazy.
Tank battalion near D.C.? Not my idea. Gotta crack open some HR guy's skull.
Watch the flow, and if shit hits, overhaul every tank into oblivion. Ship 'em all to Detroit—shut down the hysterics.
By return time, I'd be gone from this gig. Perfect.
I slyly pulled a hidden whiskey bottle from under the desk.
Since San Francisco, nightmares plagued me.
Sudden redhead Ike: "Your Excellency Eugene Hart, seize America."
Emperor Douglas I thundering imperial decree in Congress, applause roaring.
Miller jailbreaks, leads black revolt, crowns me marshal outta nowhere—
Definitely sick. Can't trust this era's shrinks, or I'd see one. If sane, counseling for sure.
But replaying those dreams? Simple end: Mussolini-style, dangling upside down, riddled with lead.
Coup here? Take D.C., rule USA? Less likely than states seceding. Coups? Pipe dream.
Is America truly safe? No way to topple the system?
...I stopped thinking.
Do nothing. I know nothing. For real.
Same time.
Washington D.C., War Department.
"Word is MacArthur's next Chief of Staff."
How could this be?
Must've lobbied hard. That family's masters at seduction and sweet talk.
"Snap out of it!"
"Yes. Listening."
"Heavy duty ahead. Inspector General soon. Cling to him, stop any sword-dancing."
"If he pushes back?"
"...Don't want Inspector General?"
"No, sir."
Gathered faces all grim.
America faced mortal crisis.
Hard times brew war threats, commie unrest. Have-nots crave upheaval when economy tanks.
Now, Army head is that MacArthur? Showboater sans cooperation?
"He'll wreck a smooth org with 'reforms'?"
"Maybe he's a red. Sabotage Army backbone for revolution—"
"Talk sense. More like America's Mussolini."
"That guy's capable. Thinks he's king."
But cursing MacArthur changed zilch.
Resign?
When MacArthur ran West Point, they rallied outsiders, retirees—poured everything to crush him.
West Point held tradition firm; his showman "reforms" fizzled. Justice won.
Some... personal attacks slipped in. Minor stuff. Blame the jackal press—dignified brass here never touched it. Probably.
Why fear discharge? Why dread his win, our ousting?
World was cruel.
"Rough times ahead. Prepare well."
"Yes, sir."
New Inspector General Hugh Drum sighed, departing.
I won't die alone.