Chapter 146
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 146
Chapter Title: The Darkest Hour (6)
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As the summer of 1930 drew to a close.
MacArthur returned from the Philippines.
The wrinkles on his forehead had multiplied, and it was clear at a glance that he'd been through hell.
"Well, well, if it isn't the Chief of Staff himself!"
"Cut the clowning."
"No can do! Your humble servant Eugene Kim pledges to serve the Chief of Staff with the loyalty of a salmon swimming upstream—"
"Knock it off."
"Yes, sir."
Any more and he'd explode. Chief of Staff in times like these? Talk about maximum harassment.
Of course, that was probably fueling MacArthur's massive ego even more.
"You're about to get those four shining stars soon. Any thoughts?"
"Thoughts? What's there to say? The Philippines are a mess. Probably no different on the mainland. We need to prepare for war somehow."
"War..."
"Yeah. It's not even been that long since the Great War ended, and war's flames are already flickering again. You heard about Japan invading Manchuria, right?"
I had. I'd agonized over it plenty.
Was the Mukden Incident supposed to happen this soon? No matter how I thought about it, it didn't feel right. In my memory, it was next year...
Normally, I'd scream at the sky demanding why history was being messed with. But after all I'd done in Japan, I couldn't complain. Karma, I guess.
The Second World War was originally far off, but with the Mukden Incident pulled forward a year, a real war breaking out wouldn't be surprising. Hell, Hoover might snap and order an invasion of Britain and Canada—who knows? Armies preparing for war isn't weird anyway.
"Even if I become Army Chief of Staff, those slimy DC hacks won't accomplish a damn thing if I march in alone."
"You'll just drag them along kicking and screaming, right?"
"Of course. This MacArthur can lead even the most hopeless idiots. The ignorance of fools who can't grasp a hero—isn't that the foundation of every hero's saga?"
Damn. That rock-solid confidence. Impressive. Something I lack.
MacArthur took a moment to remove his pipe from his mouth.
"First off, I need a capable aide. Your friends all seem top-notch."
"Not a slacker among them. Hmm... How about Omar Bradley? He showed brilliant tactical insight as chief of staff for the 93rd Division, and I owe him a lot."
"What I need now is someone decisive."
"Then James Van Fleet's your man. Perfect fit. He's nearby, actually—"
"Great commander, but not quite what I'm looking for."
This... this... predictable jerk!
It's already decided, isn't it! Just say it!
"Then it must be Dwight—"
"Hm... I can't refuse a recommendation from the hero of Amiens, Major Eugene Kim. I don't know much about this Captain Dwight David Eisenhower, but your judgment's never wrong. I'll gladly have him as my aide."
Con artist.
Total con man.
Was he ruling out the first two because Marshall got to them? Becoming Army Chief of Staff means you've already won—no competition left. And he's still playing games?
Sorry, Ike.
Looks like you're destined to toil under MacArthur as a loyal house-elf. I tried to change your fate... but nah, just roll with it. At least MacArthur feeds you and gives breaks—a decent slave owner, right?
Aide to the Chief of Staff? I've done it—huge career boost, tons to gain. All experience. Even if body and soul ache...
Rest in peace. You'll be fine anyway. Honestly, MacArthur had it picked and pulled his predictable stunt, so my fault's basically zero. For real. Marshall would agree.
"Now, to the main point."
"Wasn't taking Ike the main point?"
"Of course that's just the appetizer. Eugene, want to come to Washington D.C.?"
MacArthur's eyes narrowed.
"Like I said, I'm short on allies. I'd love for you to join me."
"Pass."
Me, thrown to the wolves again? Next it'll be "join the fun bonus party fireworks" or some crap.
Reminds me of that old dream. No wonder Harding kept showing up singing that awful song. Must've been the Black Lotus card I gave him turning him into my guardian spirit, sending a warning.
So, I'm outta here. Leaving America.
"I'd like a year off. Vacation."
"Ah... vacation?"
"You bet. What'd you think?"
I shot back, and MacArthur deflated, slumping slowly.
"I... had to ask. Figured you might cling to your combat unit."
"Oh come on! I told you I wouldn't!"
Where's Emperor Douglas I of the United States of Fascism getting off asking me that? If you polled "most fascist-smelling guy in the US Army," eighty out of a hundred would pick you, MacArthur. I'm the incarnation of patriotic soldierly duty—excluded. Me? The guy who burned his body to stop tanks in Seoul Square? Fascist? How unfair.
"I'll give you a straight answer. About a year—no, bluntly: a long vacation till the next election, off to Europe."
"Hmm... that's..."
"And that tank unit? Every tank's in overhaul right now. All shipped to Detroit. Detroit. Not heaven—Detroit!"
So no, politicians, I won't roll tanks over your heads.
"Next election's years away. You want the whole time off? Can't do that."
"But—"
"Fine. I'll line up some cushy admin post and toss it your way. Once I settle in at the War Department, you transfer right over. And a year? Nah, not even. Bust your ass a few months, then vacation as you wish."
I wasn't crazy enough to turn down MacArthur's compromise.
Solid outcome. The kid needs to grow a bit for Europe anyway. Perfect. Family road trip: ditch this hellish American continent for a European tour.
Hit Britain, France, tour Germany and Italy, swing by Greece (skip it now and you're a traitor), end in Spain. Perfect.
Flawless travel project for the kids' emotional growth. Time to replace my trench-plastered memories with shiny, beautiful, pastoral European vistas.
I pondered as MacArthur explained some desk job options.
What lets me breathe and collect a paycheck?
Hate working.
1931.
Now everyone could see it.
Denying the United States was in unprecedented crisis was rare.
Rare meaning... some still did.
Especially clustered in the White House.
"What the hell! Why is the depression happening? Why??"
"It's all that damn Smoot-Hawley Tariff!"
"Ridiculous! Exports and imports are what fraction of our economy?"
"We need to ditch the Red-scare policies now! No more public works or massive infrastructure like those Soviet bastards. Pump money into big corporations!"
"Cut off the little people's cash too? They need bare-minimum aid from the government so businesses can sell! We need those dams!"
"Rural area's done. Banks that loaned heavily to farms are failing in order."
"Over two thousand banks bankrupt. Bold market intervention needed."
"Mr. President, abandon the gold standard."
"Don't listen to these Red bastards, sir. Deploy the military now. Red revolution's at our doorstep."
"Enough! ENOUGH!!"
Bang bang bang!
Hoover's thunderous roar silenced the room briefly.
"We must do our duty... What about the Manhattan and Detroit tycoons? Now's when we need their noble aid."
"They've held off layoffs and pay cuts per our request for ages, agreed to tax hikes, raised plenty for charity."
"But their pooled pennies can't even feed the teeming unemployed out there thin gruel once a day."
"God knows what I must do to save this hellish country. Anyone got answers?"
One man ventured cautiously.
"Mr. President."
"Yes."
"What about the bill just passed by the House?"
"Which of the dozens?"
"Veterans' relief—"
"Again! Whole nation's suffering recession—why prioritize them?!"
Before the president could finish, chaos erupted.
Under the law passed during Harding's term, the government would pay part of veterans' bonuses immediately, the rest via trust fund over 20 years by 1945.
But with the economy in ruins, vets and supporters demanded cashing the fund for immediate payment.
"The new law says: prioritize laid-off vets with prior jobs in government public works. And pay the deferred 1945 bonuses now—"
"Where's that money coming from? Can't violate fairness."
Hoover croaked in exhaustion.
"I want to help them too, but no funds left."
As Hoover waved off hopelessly...
"Hoover, give us our bonus!"
"Hoover, give us our jobs back!"
"Better die here than D.C.!"
"To D.C.! Assemble! In D.C.!"
Vets in rags from across the nation boarded trains to Washington D.C.
With nothing left but family, their goal was one: a scrap of bread before 1945.
"Great War vets marching on the capital en masse."
"Numbers?"
"Can't count. Too many!"
"Ex-milkmen aren't few... Most have a Grease Gun at least, right?"
"Communists! Communist instigation!"
"Snap out of it! How'd the Russian Empire fall? Want Bloody Sunday here?"
"Opposite! If we don't crush them, they'll seize Congress and White House, declare revolutionary government!"
"Marines? Where are the Marines?"
"How can we trust them? Soviets and Germans started with sailor mutinies!"
As stars clustered in the War Department squawked, hobo hordes from trains trickled to the riverbank, erecting new shanties.
A new Hooverville filling Washington D.C.
Filthy, unkempt beards, all beggar-like, yet they shared hope over despair.
This nation won't abandon us.
If we shout our desperation, won't they at least crack a window?
"Hello, from The Sun. Interview okay?"
"Sure. Fire away."
"Your name?"
"John Miller, 93rd Division."
"Figures! Blacks mixed in made you stand out. What brings you here, Mr. Miller?"
"Got enough for my family... but couldn't leave comrades here while I cozy up alone."
He nodded at a distant flapping placard.
"The American Expeditionary Force restored Europe's freedom and peace. Now our Milk Expeditionary Force reclaims lost jobs and dignity."