Chapter 150
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 150
Chapter Title: Milk, Blood, and the Blue Star (4)
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Tat-a-tang!
Tat-a-tat-a-tang!!
"Don't shoot! We're unarmed!"
"Get back to the shantytown! Get inside right now!!"
"Don't hesitate! Push them all back! Protect the United States! Defend the homeland from the reds!!"
"They're after the president's life! Don't be afraid, don't hesitate!"
"All units, fix bayonets! Charge forward!!"
"Waaaaah!!"
July 27th, 2:30 p.m.
The U.S. Army's suppression operation had begun.
Billowing black smoke rising from various spots was swallowed up by the white clouds of tear gas filling the city, while screams, wails, pleas, and tears were drowned out even by the heavy rumble of tanks.
"Why on earth does the Chief of Staff have to be out here in the field? You need to head back right now. The Chief of Staff isn't a field commander!"
"You're right. I'm not a field commander. But the United States is in crisis."
"The Chief of Staff's place is above the troops. You know full well that every position has its designated duties!"
Despite Aide-de-camp Eisenhower's pleas, MacArthur didn't so much as blink.
"Do you think crushing these reds' plot will bring me eternal fame and boundless glory? Far from it."
"...Pardon?"
"Someday, my political enemies will use this as ammunition to attack me. Should I, Douglas MacArthur, hide behind my subordinates like a coward to dodge the fallout? I couldn't do that.
I'll make sure today's glory and tomorrow's curses are all aimed squarely at me. And to do that, I have to be right here in person."
Eisenhower briefly considered whether to deploy the ultimate anti-MacArthur weapon he'd learned from Eugene—a solid punch to the gut—but he couldn't bring himself to break through that ironclad stubbornness and could only groan.
Back when Eugene had knocked MacArthur out, the two had been equals in rank, but a mere major laying hands on a sky-high general like this? The repercussions would be terrifying.
"And one more thing."
"Yes, sir."
"They said the mob has Eugene."
"I still can't believe it. Shouldn't we verify it a bit more?"
"It's either detention or collusion. Are you claiming Eugene's in league with the reds?"
"I think that black-and-white thinking is the mistake here."
MacArthur didn't respond to that and continued.
"In any case, if they're cornered, they could easily shove a gun to Colonel Kim's head."
"......If they're really holding him hostage as you suspect, sir, they might."
"If that happens, who among the suppression forces do you think could take responsibility and make the call? Patton?"
"No, sir."
Eisenhower answered without a shred of hesitation this time.
"Exactly. The only one who can make that decision is me, Douglas MacArthur."
If—and this was a big if—
the mob was pushed to the point of making the worst possible choice.
If they held a U.S. Army officer hostage and bullied the public authorities, no one here would be able to make a rational judgment.
That's why he had to be here.
Even if it meant being hated.
Even if it meant hearing the sighs and screams of Mrs. Kim and her children at Arlington National Cemetery—he had to make the right call for the nation.
"I can't accept this, sir. Something's off. Give me a moment, and I'll go find out exactly what's going on."
"The operation's already underway, so it's pointless, but... go ahead."
Eisenhower snapped a salute and headed straight for the police on the far side of the scene.
MacArthur tried to tap his pipe into his pouch, but his hand slipped, and the whole thing tumbled to the ground.
It landed upside down, spilling every last bit of tobacco onto the dirt, and the ferocious wind gusting wildly scattered it all in an instant.
"Even the heavens won't grant Douglas MacArthur a single puff."
The omen weighed heavily on him for some reason.
The horrific sounds coming from across the bridge.
The protesters, who had been preparing to march across the bridge toward the White House, were caught defenseless by the suppression forces' one-sided violence. Their souls fled in terror as they scrambled back to Hooverville.
"Mom! Mommmmy! Waaahhh!!"
"Doctor! Is there a doctor!!"
"Someone got shot! Shot!"
"The soldiers are trying to kill us all!"
With extreme fear and chaos piling on, plus tear gas smoke blown in by the gale-force winds, Hooverville turned into hell in the blink of an eye.
And in the midst of this madness, someone must have kicked a spark while stumbling, because one of the rickety shacks—cobbled together from warped old boards—burst into fierce flames.
"Fire!! Fireee!!"
"The soldiers are inside!!"
"The soldiers are setting the houses on fire! Run!"
"They're trying to kill us all! Jump in the river!!"
This was wrong.
No one could fix this now, no matter who showed up.
At this point, it might be better if the soldiers rushed in quickly and detained the panicked people.
But in this chaos, would the soldiers stay composed? In a place where you couldn't see an inch ahead, how many would be trampled under army boots or cut down by blind gunfire?
This petition in his hand.
If only he'd gotten it an hour earlier—would things have been different?
Something welled up inside him.
What the hell had he come here for?
Did he come to witness today's soldiers oppressing yesterday's soldiers in this demonic scene?
"Fuck."
The White House in the distance had never felt more cursed than it did right now.
Those bastards. The pricks coughing up coups and bullshit from their cushy D.C. armchairs, sipping booze—they'd turned him into a bystander to a major incident, stuck gawking at the burning Hooverville.
Screw 'em all.
Hoover this, Hoover that—he'd rip their heads off.
If he'd known it'd come to this, he wouldn't have taken leave. If he'd driven a tank into Hooverville himself, he was damn sure he could've ended it with far less blood and smoother results!
No more hesitation.
If standing around watching this shitshow and giggling about justice being served was what it took to keep wearing this uniform, he'd strip it off. Hell, standing there in his underwear would be more comfortable.
Yeah.
He'd wanted to rise through the ranks.
That's why he'd ended up back in uniform in this godforsaken life.
So why the hell had he wanted to climb so high?
To crack Jap skulls? Nah. That was just the fastest way to get ahead—the means, not the end.
The real reason he wanted success.
"Dorothy."
"Yeah?"
"Back when we first met, you were the one egging me on, telling me to aim higher."
"I did."
"I thought if I made it to the top, I'd have the power to fight back against injustices."
Whether it was that dogshit racial barrier, absurd nonsense, or irrational orders from superiors—whatever.
"But the higher I got, the more I had to watch my step? 'Just a little longer, just hold out a bit more, the top's right there shimmering.' What could I do? Had to endure. Can't quit after coming this far."
"......"
"That was my mistake."
And this mess was the result of all that enduring.
Because they'd think his actions threatened the nation's democracy.
But when state power threatens citizens, was charging ahead and firing on them some noble soldierly virtue?
"I'm just gonna do what I want from now on. Sorry."
"It's fine. Know why I kept pushing you to go to Europe? You looked like you were dying inside lately."
Unbelievable.
"It's been forever since I saw you smile like that. Do whatever you want."
Even the Secretary of the Interior had given her blessing. Nothing scared him now.
"Mr. Miller. Think you could hang a white flag on this car?"
"White flag? In this situation, where the hell am I gonna—wait. I've got a white T-shirt on right now."
A black guy wearing a white T-shirt? According to trendy Freudian crap, did that mean he wanted to be white?
Eh, good enough. Spewing bullshit like this meant he was finally back to his old Eugene Kim self. If he were a chosen adult, that line would've sparkled with heroic light.
As Mr. Miller stripped off his shirt and hung the white tee on the car, Dorothy hopped into the driver's seat like she'd been waiting.
"Dorothy?"
"Honestly, waiting around for you to go nuts in Europe or Japan was driving me crazy. I'm done waiting, so get in the passenger seat already."
"What about the kids?"
"You going off to die?"
"Not exactly."
Dorothy just jerked her chin instead of answering, while Mr. Miller quickly crammed himself into the back seat.
These people... The Suicide Squad wasn't off somewhere far—it was right here in front of him.
They said fools were fun just to look at, and seeing these folks pile into his bullet-scarred, ugly car got him all hyped up too.
"Yeah, screw it. Let's go."
"Where to?"
"The bridge. That's where the tanks'll come from."
Dorothy handled the car like a pro even in the chaos, heading for the bridge. Going out to greet the tanks with his wife? His shoulders shook with ridiculous laughter at the absurdity.
Yeah. The Yellow Monkey had been a war hero, a president slayer—he'd rampaged plenty. He'd done it all, so now he just needed to be a dad the kids wouldn't be ashamed of.
"I love Washington D.C.~ The sun shines on D.C.~~ Great Leader Hoover's gonna roll us with his tanks~~"
"What the hell's that song about slitting that pig's throat? You're distracting me."
"Harsh."
"I'm concentrating, so don't mess with me."
While his perfect plan to debut [I Love Washington D.C.] seventy years early crumbled, the Black Lotus somehow reached the bridge.
Now was the time.
"Stay here."
"...Okay."
He'd worried Dorothy might follow, but luckily, it was just nerves.
The M1917's engine roar and the clanking tracks grew ever closer.
How long did he wait?
Parting the thin smoke at last, his battalion mates—riding his dear friend, the precious tank—emerged, ready to crush the innocent veterans.
"Major?"
"Colonel Kim?!"
Voices of shock from soldiers poking heads out of hatches, and there was Patton too, nobly drawing his cavalry sword from the lead vehicle, scanning the surroundings commandingly.
Before Patton could open his mouth, Eugene summoned every ounce of strength and bellowed.
"Halt all tanks, you crazy bastards!!!"
Aaah. That felt good.
The pent-up frustration of the last few years drained away clean. Finally, he could shit properly.
Are you watching, Coolidge?
You said don't cross the line? Your successor crossed it first. So if you've got complaints for me, send 'em to the White House mailbox before bitching at me.
Though would Coolidge reach the White House first, or Hoover's head roll first? He was betting five bucks on the latter.
"Junior?!"
"Stop the tanks! These are my men! They're not reds!!"
Patton's face turned ashen.
Good. Good, good. That's our Patton. Now that he got the situation, time to halt this mad advance—
"I never pegged you for that kind of junior!! Colluding with the reds!!"
You crazy son of a bitch!
"Driver!! Bring the tank closer! I'll cleave that red leader in two with this saber!"
"Colonel! This is Miller! The Miller you stood up for at my wedding! Please stop the suppression!!"
"I don't know any nigger like you!!! The one I stood up for was a freedom fighter, not some red traitor!"
Even Miller leaping from the car and begging didn't faze the incarnation of the soldier, born wearing his uniform from the gut.
At Patton's urging, the tank inched forward again like a sluggish caterpillar, and before Eugene could think, his body lunged toward it. A tank that slow—he could climb aboard.
"Major Patton!"
"Junior, what's the situation?"
As he got right up to Patton's nose, the blood-and-reds berserker was gone, replaced by a man with eagle eyes scanning the surroundings.
"They're not reds. Weapons disarmed, all veterans and their families."
"Again?"
"Got their demands in writing. They were open to compromise."
"Without new orders, I have to continue the suppression as commanded."
Yeah. That's Patton.
"Chief of Staff's right nearby. Go explain and get new orders."
"MacArthur himself?"
"Yeah. With this wind and fires in Hooverville, it'll be a bloodbath. Better drive the tanks in and force calm—fewer casualties. So before more old comrades die by my hand, get those new orders. Now!"
Instead of answering, he jumped straight off the tank.
It wasn't over yet.