Chapter 75
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 75
Chapter Title: The Sword of the United States (5)
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Bound hand and foot like a salted mackerel packed in salt, MacArthur suddenly glanced up at the sky.
Unlike the human world below, the moon in the sky was brilliantly bright.
The moon was shining so radiantly, yet why were these blockheads carrying out such utterly shady deeds...!
The 1st Division was truly hopeless. Just because they'd been established a little earlier, they never stopped slandering the United States' finest unit, the 42nd Division.
This might all be part of some grand conspiracy.
Suspicion began to coil upon itself, blooming endlessly.
The jealous old guard, wary of the astonishingly young and talented newcomers.
The inept General Staff from the Civil War era, whose fossilized brains had let soldiers' blood flow like rivers.
The 1st Division, perpetually seething with envy toward the 42nd.
The supposedly "surprise" inspections that everyone knew about in advance, leading to a brutal dressing-down from Pershing.
The staff officers who grabbed units fresh off the front lines—where they'd been fighting until their blood boiled—and subjected them to pointless audits and nonsense.
Even the sneaky surveys targeting his subordinates, dispatched from headquarters mid-advance: "What do you think of General MacArthur?" "Is he fit to be a general?"
Anyone could see the picture it painted.
With the brigade commander—who should have been issuing attack orders—suddenly floating away, the 84th Brigade, and the entire 42nd Division, would plunge into chaos.
In the meantime, these 1st Division thugs could swoop into Chaumont and snatch the glory. It was all too easy and convenient.
'Even so... to stoop to such despicable tactics! How rotten has the U.S. Army become?!'
Now the pieces fit perfectly. MacArthur was convinced.
His long-held suspicion that allies behind him weren't truly on his side was crystallizing into sharp reality.
'How deep does the rot go? General Pershing couldn't be involved. He'd never touch something this filthy. Drum, the Chief of Staff, is the real irredeemable bastard. A mere colonel insulting a star like me—a worm unworthy to breathe the same air.'
MacArthur's mind raced, sifting through the data to compile a list of "enemies."
This one's a die-hard foe.
That one's no enemy but utterly incompetent.
That bastard's capable but driven by selfish greed.
If anyone could peek into his head, they'd scream that he was drafting a hit list. But the soldiers escorting him—bound tight as he was—weren't mind readers, so no such scene unfolded.
'The U.S. Army—no, this country—needs me to fix it.'
As he solidified his resolve for the nation and the Army...
He finally arrived at the 1st Division's 1st Brigade.
"Hey, spy. Wait here a sec."
"We'll fetch the brass, so think up a good excuse!"
Locked in a warehouse for what felt like dozens of minutes, he tasted dust in pitch darkness.
Something squirmed nearby, but without light, he couldn't even identify the itchy culprit—or how much time had passed.
At last, the door creaked open, and in walked a captain who looked dead on his feet.
"Yawn... I'm dying of exhaustion here. Uh, Guten Abend?"
"You speak English."
"Ah, perfect. Then state your name, rank, and serial number first."
"Brigadier General Douglas MacArthur. Commander of the 42nd Division's 84th Brigade, U.S. Army."
"Yeah, yeah, that's the cover you're peddling. So, your real name and rank? Fifth Army, German forces?"
"Shut up and take me to the brigade or division commander. Bring someone with rank, and I'll spill all the German secrets you want."
"Ha... alright, alright. Let's go see the brigade commander, boys!"
And shortly after...
"Mac, Mac, Mac—MacArthur! What the hell are you doing here?!"
"Thanks for rechristening me 'Mac-Mac-Mac-MacArthur,' but I prefer plain old MacArthur, Colonel Hjalmar Erickson. Your 1st Brigade's warehouse was awfully cozy."
"You idiots! Why'd you drag in another unit's brigade commander?! What the—"
"That desperate for glory? Orders from Chaumont?"
Discovering their "spy" was another unit's deputy commander—and higher-ranking to boot—left him reeling. But seeing the man fuming with righteous fury, how could he even respond?
To MacArthur, who'd swallowed every humiliation under the sun for hours, Erickson's flustered look screamed amateur conspiracy.
"Come clean now. Which Chaumont trash issued the secret order to kidnap another unit's deputy commander?"
"No, misunderstanding! Pure misunderstanding! My troops committed a grave offense—I don't even know how to apologize! But I swear, on the name of the Lord in heaven, it's not what you think—"
"You expect me to buy that?!"
As MacArthur relentlessly grilled the 1st Brigade commander, demanding the puppet master...
BAM!
"Wait, why is Senior here?"
"Major Kim? And why are you here?"
"Heard the 1st Division broke through the lines like a horse with dynamite up its ass for some hilarious spectacle... er, I mean, out of concern, so I rushed over. But seriously, why are you here, sir?"
MacArthur paused, pondering.
Was Kim in league with those "enemies" too?
Ridiculous.
Relief washed over him—an ally had arrived. He gathered his thoughts.
"Chaumont's damn politicians tried to strip me—and the 42nd—of our glory. They even kidnapped me during recon."
"Misunderstanding! What do I have to do to convince you?"
"Confess your backers! Eugene, help me out here!"
Eugene Kim watched the scene—too absurd for conspiracy, too tragic for comedy—in stunned silence.
He pondered briefly, then strode toward MacArthur with heavy steps.
"Eugene, the Germans aren't the only enemy. Right now—"
SMACK!
"Lack of sleep? Too much gas? Cut the bullshit and get back to your unit already."
"Guh... betrayal... you... tra...itor..."
"We've got enough rabid-dog seniors like Patton. Hey! Hodge! Load this scrap heap into the car!"
That was the last sound MacArthur heard before blacking out.
When he opened his eyes, he was in a car.
"Awake now?"
"Eu... gene?"
"Yes, sir. Eugene Kim."
"You! What the hell is this?!"
"An Eastern folk remedy for mad dogs."
Daring to call him, MacArthur, a mad dog!
Eugene's calm reply left MacArthur dumbfounded instead.
"Do you have any idea what I've been through?"
"I heard. Wrapped head to toe in zero cloth, no ID or anything, slinking out in the dead of night and got nabbed, right?"
Foolish? Idiotic?
As Eugene clicked his tongue, MacArthur felt his breath catch, on the verge of madness.
"This isn't about that. Listen: Chaumont's plotting to strip me of my uniform!"
"So, the conspirators used telepathy to order you out alone looking like that at night?"
This time, his mouth truly clamped shut.
Eugene glanced at him, then unleashed a machine-gun barrage of words.
"Sir, did you inhale too much gas and get paranoid? Think logically. Why would Chaumont be desperate to kill you off?"
"Those abnormal inspections, audits, non-cooperation, dereliction of duty! You think that's normal?!"
"Uh... well... I went through all of it too?"
The "Yellow Monkey junior leading the Nigger Division" chuckled.
"Exactly! It's clearer now. They're terrified of losing their spots, so they're trying to knock out threats like us!"
"The 2nd Division, 3rd, 26th—they all griped about the same Chaumont bullshit. Same routine: fuming, pounding their chests."
"......"
"Time to face reality, sir. Chaumont's not overflowing with malice. They're just glacially incompetent—bordering on treason. Things got way less insane once Colonel Marshall left HQ, right?"
He wanted to deny it, but his brain inexorably concluded this rang truer.
"Ha. Ha. Hahaha. Incompetence? Not conspiracy—just royally screwing up?"
"If Chaumont had schemers who could corner you, wouldn't they have offed me ages ago for hyping up the Black units' rep?"
No retort.
So what the hell had he done?
Only now did his mind stretch to the feast of ravings he'd spewed, unleashing shame and mortification dwarfing before.
"Ahem!"
"Now that you've got the picture, hustle back and prep the assault."
"...I got nothing to say."
"We're here! 42nd Division!"
"Gotta head back too. If I'm not at my unit by morning, my chief of staff'll shoot me."
After dropping MacArthur off, he flashed a grin and waved.
"Take care."
"Thanks for today."
"Sir, you tend to overestimate people's caliber. When gauging average human smarts from now on, baseline it on unimaginable idiocy you can't even dream up. Don't drum up conspiracies in your sleep."
With that half-joking advice, Eugene's bullet-riddled black staff car vanished down the mountain road into the night.
MacArthur stared in that direction, lost in thought, until it fully melted into the darkness.
And a few hours later...
The U.S. forces—with MacArthur's 42nd Division 84th Brigade as the spearhead—finally seized Sedan.
What a spine-chilling night.
That guy's face—he looked ready to shoot one or two people. Hell, even I'd snap in his shoes. Guy's got sky-high pride; no wonder after that humiliation.
But the paranoia, spinning conspiracies? Totally unexpected. Like a tenured prof buying into wild conspiracy theories.
From what I'd seen up close, MacArthur's biggest flaw wasn't arrogance or politicking.
The man was just too damn good.
Yet he figured everyone was at least 70% MacArthur-level. Hell, if 0.7 MacArthurs littered the streets, America would've conquered the world by now.
He's fed "arrogant" at every meal because that's the root—my kingly genius heart sees it clear.
Meet someone at 0.3 MacArthur? He doesn't think, "Oh, they're limited." Nope: "How dare they slight me!" So his world's worshippers or enemies. Poor bastard.
Too elite a path, surrounded by top-tier only. No clue about the bottomless pit of transcendent morons out there.
Me? Different story.
I'm the guy from proud, tough-friend Republic of Korea Army who tasted every flavor of hellfire chicken.
Conscripts wondering what the draft board was smoking letting this guy in.
Superiors agonizing: "Is he really incompetent ally? Or a North Korean spy on orders?"
So yeah, I get it: the world's brimming with imagination-defying idiots.
Look at Mudaguchi decades from now. Cross a incompetence threshold, and smart folks mistake it for Zhuge Liang schemes.
And fuck, dressed like that? Even I'd nab him as a private.
Honestly, those soldiers who nabbed MacArthur deserve medals, not scoldings. Amateur spy or shell-shocked uncle—gotta drag 'em to base either way.
"Think it worked out okay?"
"Hm?"
Hodge spoke up.
"I mean, General MacArthur's got a huge ego. Will he let this slide?"
"If not, make him want to forget."
"How?"
"Dunno if it'll stick, but I have an idea."
Time to visit Senior Patton in sickbay.
Spin this tale right, and he'll bust a gut laughing till stitches pop. Then sweet-talk him into composing an epic song.
A few years of "Civilian-Clad Mac Gets Nabbed as Spy"—he'll be too embarrassed to yap. Ah, can't wait.
Anyway, Mac stuff wrapped. With the great MacArthur on it, Sedan's fall is just a matter of time.
Sedan falls—or even if it doesn't—this war's done.
History's tweaked a bit by my meddling, but just shaving days off the German Empire's life. Nothing special.
Now, decades of interwar grind await.
No more agonizing over battle honors.
New board, all-in life bets ahead.
"Hodge."
"Yes, General."
"What after the war? Discharge? Career?"
"After the war?"
"Yeah."
Hodge hesitated, then shook his head.
"Dunno."
"Fair. Who does?"
Anyone but me.