Chapter 77
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 77
Chapter Title: Finale (2)
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November 4, 1918, 4:30 a.m.
Sirens blared across the United States, and countless newsboys poured into the streets.
"Extra! Extra!"
"The war is over!!"
"Victory! We've won!!"
Citizens jolted awake by the sudden sirens, fearing bombings or an enemy invasion, wept tears of joy at this unbelievable news.
The war was over. They could return to the happy days of before.
Prices had doubled since just before the war. Eggs that cost 30 cents a dozen now went for 60.
Bring prices back down, or double our wages.
If not, the citizens were more than ready to show the "power of labor."
But for now, it was time to celebrate the victory.
Confetti, flowers, and all sorts of tape fluttered from every corner of the streets, massive American flags adorning the triumph.
With everyone rushing out, offices stood empty of staff, and shops bore signs reading [Closed for Kaiser's funeral attendance].
And the citizens, one and all, hauled out portraits and giant effigies of the wicked Hun leader, Kaiser Wilhelm II, setting them ablaze.
"Die, Kaiser!"
"The enemy of democracy is dead! We're free now!"
Coffins for the Kaiser appeared everywhere, and citizens shouldered them, singing and dancing merrily.
"Kaiser portraits for sale!!"
"Kaiser plaster busts! Cheap, cheap! Smash 'em to bits!"
Amid that thunderous cheering and mad frenzy,
the capitalists steering the United States began their secret council.
"Now, now. No need for us to fight among ourselves."
"Of course. Time to do business."
Henry Ford, the rising eye of the storm in the business world, lit a cigar while watching the spirited festival below his building.
"This war's victory was naturally won by the bravery of the frontline troops, but didn't we entrepreneurs cooperate to the fullest in supporting the war effort?"
"We have a lot of money to collect from those German bastards."
"It's been hell for years."
In 1914, war had erupted out of nowhere, bursting the financial centers of London, Paris, and New York.
The world's mightiest nations plunged into wartime, severing international finance and trade—Germany-Britain, Germany-France, Germany-America—all cut off.
But war couldn't stop these ruthless capitalist warriors shedding no tears or blood, and with the headache of war over, they returned to business as usual.
Settling old debts, paying new ones.
Whose fault was it that goods ordered by Germans couldn't be shipped due to the blockade?
Who would compensate for the countless munitions blown up by German terror?
Patent fees were just a sliver of this vast, tangled mess.
And Henry Ford was one who'd profited enormously from the war.
"Let's bring in the British and French too."
"That'd be easiest, wouldn't it?"
London and Paris were in the same boat.
With the world's silk-hatted financiers gathered, they'd balance their debits and credits nicely and tally it up.
One thing was certain:
The bill headed Germany's way would be thick.
"By the way, Wilson'll quiet down now, right?"
"Sure. Anyone'd think he was the Kaiser, not the president of a democracy."
"Suppressing free enterprise? Unforgivable. That guy's a Red, a damn Red!"
"Strutting around with that League of Nations or whatever... 'International'? Isn't that just what Reds go crazy for?"
"He's selling this country out to the communists. No doubt about it."
They ground their teeth in unison.
President Wilson would get a bill nearly as thick as the Kaiser's.
"Well, well, if it isn't you. The guy who didn't show his face the whole war! Brigadier General! Thanks for coming!"
"Your mouth's running fine, so looks like no bullet to the head."
I plunked the gift basket down by Patton's bed.
This guy's nuts too.
Shot in the leg and evacuated, but the stubborn bastard insisted on finishing reports from the rear before letting them cart him off. I was horrified when I heard.
Let me say it again: I'm no Patton. If there were two maniacs like him in the world, it'd be Fist of the North Star, not human society.
"Thought I was a goner?"
"As if. Even the devil come for your soul would get a beating."
"Right. Fate won't let me die yet. You rode in my car, so you felt it, right? Ah! As expected of Senior Patton's badass aura—bulletproof!"
Thanks a bunch, really.
I won't deny there's some Patton mojo in that damn car.
That Dodge Touring he "lent" me—does it have a feature turning owners berserk? Even in the Pancho Villa hunt, that bloodthirsty beast raced with corpses dangling, and in this war, it toured France earning its own rep.
Yeah. Time to blame it on Dorothy. I never wanted to go to the front, but that car possessed with Patton's grudge mind-controlled me into battle—
I shook off the delusion and lit the candles on a big cake from the basket.
"What's this?"
"Who else would fuss over a senior's birthday like this? Someone as kind, virtuous, and detail-oriented as me?"
"Oh. My birthday. Heh! Cake in wartime—you pulled it off."
"War's over now. You got your star; it'd be a shame not to snag a cake."
I glanced at his rank insignia, tossed aside oh-so-Patton-like.
"Colonel now."
"Damn. If not for this injury, I'd have taken Jerry heads and pinned stars too! Just you wait, junior! No more looking down on me! Once ranks reset, I'll make you my dog. Beg all you want—you'll cry for mercy!"
"When did I ever look down? See this brigadier calling you 'senior' every time?"
"You're doing it right now!"
"That's 'cause you're lounging like a lump when I came to visit!"
Damn, annoying. I wanna smack him, senior or not.
As he snorted out the candles, I shoved a slice in his mouth. Gotta fill it to shut him up.
"Mmm. Good stuff. Frogs do cakes right."
"Good. Was gonna smash it in your face."
"You rotten junior. Get up. Post-meal smoke time."
Like a dog, the second food hits his mouth, he's itching to go out. Thirty-plus and acting like a terrible three-year-old?
Ignoring glares from doctors and nurses, we slipped out the back. Patton stuck out his hand.
"What?"
"Gimme one."
Fine. Post-meal smoke.
"Smoke inside."
"Stinks up the place."
"Yes, sir."
"And a light."
"Mind if I kick you once?"
Deep breath. Deep breath.
I stood; he flopped on a bench and took my cigarette.
Nicotine sucked deep—excitement fades, peace arrives.
Alcohol, caffeine, nicotine: the holy trinity for calm.
He tapped his leg and spoke.
"Damn bullet pierced my thigh and popped out right by my perfect ass. A bit more sideways, and these solid boys would've shattered. Chilling."
"You got two kids already; what's one less?"
"Nonsense! Patton heirs need at least five! Multiply and prosper—God's command."
"......"
"I fretted over balls, but countless troops laid down lives instead. Died bravely. All of them."
Patton puffed smoke like clouds.
"Meuse-Argonne was pure hell. Don't wanna blame brave Jerries doing their duty on orders."
"Right."
"But armchair idiots who don't know war issued commands, killing too many good men unjustly."
"Too late for regrets."
"Gotta replace the top brass."
His eyes gleamed.
"So, when's the next war, you think?"
"Next war? War just ended."
"Bullshit, chickenhead."
The bastard smacked my precious ass. Dorothy's turf—keep your filthy paws off.
"Not one soul in this hospital's smiled less since the armistice. Men, women, kids, elders."
"War's over—normal, right?"
"Yeah. Except you, junior."
The war maniac glared now.
Full of expectation and hunger.
"So, when do you reckon it'll start?"
Sharp bastard. Hate perceptive types.
I took a final drag and exhaled to the air.
"30 years."
"30?"
"Fast as 20. Slow as 30."
Late 1918 now.
Sino-Japanese War: 1937.
Poland invasion: 1939.
Pearl Harbor: 1941.
History didn't call this "age of peace."
Interwar period.
Patton grinned.
"20 to 30 years. Nice."
"Not asking why?"
"Why ask? Hoping for 'Eugene Kim, you rock!' later?"
"Gotta twist everything?"
"Haha! Think I'd change based on that?"
"No."
I stated firmly; he smirked.
"Then prep for the next war. That's why we eat this rice."
Leaving lingering unease to the end, Patton shooed me out.
As he said, I can't change it.
WWI didn't vent madness—it piled grudges higher.
I can't make peace,
but ways to fatten myself? Endless.
But before fattening up,
priority business.
"Morale's in the dirt, as expected."
"Worms are braver than our troops now."
I glared holes in reports at Bradley and Hayward's grim update. Can't fix that.
"We'd lose to kangaroos like this."
"3 bucks on kangaroos."
"5 here."
"Kangaroos live in Australia, right?"
Smells like gambling—resist. If I join, 93rd opens a casino. James, shut it. No Habsburg Kangaroo Knights!
Peacetime management hurts differently from wartime.
Troops lost drive, passion—sole goal: get home safe.
Can't blame 'em. War over, stuck here? I'd grab grenades and storm HQ too if discharge delayed.
But loose screws mean discipline collapse—a disaster.
Especially with itching foes eyeing "slack black troops" for smears. Sorry, but gotta clamp down tight.
"Passes granted?"
"Rotating as ordered."
"Training... skip it. Winter training? Nah. Make 'em spin wheels instead."
Fortifications.
Civil service.
Sun-drying laundry, ditch cleaning—even that.
Ways to work idle troops? Endless. Feels like a mega-villain.
After deliberation, I pulled 93rd from German occupation to French rear.
Luckily, no backlash—troops blinded by occupation "glory" sighed relief at us bowing out.
Sure, no shiny medal for my resume sucks, but my record's too stacked to care.
Time to show yielding virtue.
Plus, sticking there delays my homecoming.
Dorothy aside, with world churning, better in the US for quick response than here.
Versailles Treaty.
Self-determination.
I don't want Far East entanglements yet, but Korea and Japan? They'll eye me big-time.
"So who's fetching the kangaroo?"
"Need one to open bets."
"Anastacio. Sorry, dump these idiots in Australia on your way to Philippines."
Fools.