Chapter 147
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 147
Chapter Title: Milk, Blood, and the Blue Star (1)
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Preparations are complete.
I'd finished all the preparations to head out on leave with a joyful heart.
"You're really going?"
"Of course. I have to."
Think of all the wailing and gnashing of teeth I'd done to earn this leave.
Ike, his face greasy with unwashed oil like a stray dog, glared at me with resentful eyes.
"You're ditching me in this hellhole to go on leave? To Europe?"
"My vixen of a wife and rabbit-like kids are waiting for my vacation days. I have to go."
"Don't run away! Don't run away!!"
"There's an ancient Eastern tactical treatise called the Thirty-Six Stratagems, and the best one is 'If you can't win, scram.' How could I, Eugene Kim, master of the Six Secrets and Three Strategies, balk at a retreat?"
Are you watching, Master Hahmudang? Your student Eugene Kim will carry on the legacy of the Six Secrets and Three Strategies master. Rest easy.
"You're such a jerk... Sticking me as your aide and then bolting..."
Don't misunderstand, my best friend. MacArthur had you pegged from the start, you know? It was inevitable. You were like, eyes closed, ears plugged, hand over your mouth—gimme that Eisenhower, no questions asked. What was I supposed to do?
"Honestly, it feels like everyone's better off if I'm out of America right now."
"That's scary talk. Sounds like you're planning to plant roots overseas somewhere."
"Nah, not that. I'll probably come back once the election's over."
By then, FDR would surely be president, so I'd have to come slinking back with my tail between my legs.
What if I'd fallen out of favor with FDR? Then obviously I'd have to leave the country.
Dare to piss off the four-term president and still try to serve in the military here? I'm not that thoughtless or insane.
I could cross over to England or France, sell memoirs like all those retired old fogeys do. Wouldn't be boring at all. If I got hungry or desperate for attention, I could toss out some prophecies and play Shaman America or whatever.
"You bastard. I can see right through your shallow plan to suck on the honey until things quiet down."
"Hey, hey. I'm walking a knife's edge here too. You saw how my leave got approved lightning-fast once I said I'd head to Europe, right?"
"...Yeah, I was just talking."
In the end, that's how it was.
The leave was just window dressing. Really, it was exile. They wanted me gone until things blew over, plain as day.
Milk Expeditionary Force.
Abbreviated as the Milk Army.
The result of my half-baked idea to catch crayfish while clearing the ditches had somehow become the astonishing US MILK, and as if to illustrate the idiom "a blessing in disguise," it all ended in a sordid political brawl.
But like there's no such thing as "just the end" in this world, the disbandment of US MILK had become the spark for the next incident—the Bonus Army affair, ballooning far larger than in the original history.
"Give us jobs!!"
"We want to work!!"
"We don't care about 500 dollars ten years from now. We need 50 cents to fill our kids' bellies right this second. Please pay our rightful share of the bonus immediately!"
"Pay us!!"
Flags flapping everywhere.
Veterans marching in droves.
Police glaring daggers at them.
Washington D.C. was a massive powder keg.
And I'd chosen to get as far away from it as possible.
With people constantly watching this bastard to see if he's up to no good.
This was no good at all. Soldiers exist to protect the nation, right? But now those soldiers were becoming a threat to it.
Patriotic resolve, fascist revolution—none of that mattered to me.
So, all I had to do was get out of the picture.
"Major Kim! Major Eisenhower!"
"What is it?"
"An emergency meeting's been called. Come quick."
"Could you count me out? I'm off leave today after work—"
"Cut the crap and move!"
"Yes, sir."
Damn it. That's my life for you.
"The number of these suspicious protesters calling themselves the Milk Expeditionary Force keeps growing."
"They're reds, just like I said. We need to crush them now!"
Honestly, I knew next to nothing about the Bonus Army incident.
Something about protesters marching on D.C. for unpaid bonuses getting run over by tanks?
And even if I did know more, the moment it turned into the Milk Army, that knowledge became useless anyway.
"What's the public reaction?"
"No big uproar. They come out at scheduled times, protest, then disperse—"
"Our response."
"Police are handling it."
MacArthur stared holes into the map, lost in thought.
"We always have to consider the worst case. Any way to gauge their armament?"
"With so many ex-milkmen, we have to assume each has a Grease Gun tucked in their coat."
To me, a Korean, it sounded utterly surreal, but what could you do about reality?
Men roaming alone at dawn delivering milk were walking cash registers. In this rough United States, you'd obviously need to carry a tasty fuel pump or two for protection, right?
"30,000—that's about a full division."
"Let's assume a full division armed with Grease Guns and shotguns breaks from the protest site to seize the White House and Capitol. With our current forces in D.C.—"
"They'd get swept away."
"Shouldn't we factor in the Marines?"
"Chief of Staff, we can't trust the Marines. Consider the reds' tactics. They always suborned the capital's armed forces before rising up."
"High chance they've gone red and will try the leftist revolution they crave so much. We have to exclude the Marines entirely."
Is... that so?
Even I wondered if it was true, so what about MacArthur?
He smirked and tapped the map.
"Whether the Marines are red or not doesn't matter. For our calculations, exclude them completely."
"Understood."
"We're outnumbered absolutely, so we have no choice but to borrow the power of heavy weapons."
"Bring tanks into D.C.? Are you all insane?"
"Then how do we stop the mob?!"
Um, sorry, but there are no tanks left in D.C. right now. I shipped them all to Detroit—
As I started to speak up, the drum in the corner exaggeratedly twisted and gestured wildly.
"The tanks from the battalion Major Kim commanded until recently are all in perfect condition and ready for immediate deployment."
"Why is the Inspector General weighing in on this?"
"Major Kim tried to send the entire tank inventory of that battalion to Detroit for overhaul, but our inspection confirmed no issues, so we canceled the maintenance and returned them all to base."
The room's atmosphere turned weird. Faces screaming, 'Trying to clear tanks from near the capital? HOXY... red?' Shit.
No, not long ago it was 'Overhauling tanks? HOXY... fascist?' and now shipping them off makes me a red? This is filthy. Can't even breathe here.
"Prepare the tanks for deployment."
"Honorable Chief of Staff. I'm the guy who dives in if you say dive, so I can stomp the mob's skulls on horseback anytime."
My successor, Patton, looked like he'd had a lunchtime drink or two, no matter who saw him.
"But they haven't resorted to force yet. Crushing nonviolent protesters with tanks won't do much for the Army's honor, will it?"
"I know that. Let me flip the question: Is it right for soldiers to arbitrarily decide which enemies are honorable and which are dishonorable and fight accordingly?"
"...We'll prepare for deployment immediately."
He half-assedly saluted with a wave and stormed out of the meeting room.
Right after, through the poorly closed door, came a roar of "Shiiit!!" and the crash of something shattering, but no one mentioned it.
"Major Kim."
MacArthur glanced at me sharply.
"Yes, Chief."
"Have a good leave."
"Thank you."
To his answer—hoping I'd vanish quick—I could only nod.
July 1931.
Everyone's hearts swelled like they'd burst with a single prick of a needle.
But it had nothing to do with me.
Pretend not to see.
Pretend to be busy.
Yeah, unlike the original history's Bonus Army, MacArthur and Patton weren't the types to bulldoze blindly.
Nothing major would happen without me. What I'd been doing was always tinkering from the shadows anyway. No fun getting exposed up front.
As I hypnotized myself like that, a placard right in front of me grabbed my ankle.
<93rd Infantry Division Veterans Association>
No matter how shameless I was, I couldn't ignore that one.
I walked toward the flapping placard like I was mesmerized.
"Hoover, give us our jobs back!"
"Give them back! Give them back!"
"Hey, could you listen to what we have to say... sir...?"
"You'll ruin your throats. My ears can't take this anymore."
"Division Commander?"
"Is that really the Division Commander?"
"Did another monkey get a field-grade rank without me knowing?"
No sooner had I cracked wise than these damn darkies dropped their protest and swarmed around me.
"Outta the way! Move it, you idiots! You're suffocating me!"
"General! General!!"
"Did you come to help us?"
"Nah? I'm getting shipped to Europe starting tomorrow?"
Sorry, guys.
I was just here sightseeing, just in case.
The hope that had briefly lit their faces vanished, replaced by gloom.
"What we want isn't that much."
"Couldn't you put in a good word with the higher-ups, General?"
"I know the situation well. I know how tough things are for you, and that you need support to get by now more than some huge sum in the future. But with everyone struggling—"
In the end, all I could offer was the usual platitudes.
Hoover had already given the protesters in D.C. one "last chance"—one-way tickets home on the government's dime.
A fair number had taken it and left for home, but even now, more were arriving, building new shanties, keeping the total roughly even.
"Pigs! Pigs are moving!"
"General, fall back first! You'll get caught up with the police!"
"No, I'm in Army uniform right now—"
"Gas!! Gas!!!! Gas is coming!"
"What the hell?!"
Thick smoke began to blanket the area.
Clanking sounds rang out as machine guns were mounted everywhere.
"Shit! Why do the cops have machine guns?!"
"Fall back! Get the General out! Hurry!!"
The suppression operation had begun.