Chapter 92
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 92
Chapter Title: House of Cards (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Milk delivery.
Too simple.
Pick up milk fresh from the farm and deliver it to households. That's it!
Why this seemingly trivial business warrants discussion with a presidential candidate is a real head-scratcher.
As I've always said, you can't imagine the United States of this era by picturing the America of the 21st century.
Sure, some things are similar. The right to pump a buckshot load into anyone stepping into your yard, or charging out with the Stars and Stripes to fight mask mandates— that rebel spirit is unchanged from 2020 to 1920.
But in business? Forget the majesty of 21st-century Pax Americana. Think instead of a 1.3 billion-strong continent ruled by ping-pong diplomacy, a land of dust storms and explosions.
"Milk, huh. Plenty of problems there."
"Another big scandal just blew up recently. Every year, milk kills people like it's an annual event."
An era where home refrigerators are cheaper than a Model T Ford.
Naturally, fresh-squeezed cow's milk spoils if not delivered on time.
And the distributors who bought it from the farm? No true American slave to money would just toss it out.
What they have in spades is that frontier spirit.
"If it's spoiled, they won't throw it away—they mix in flour, chalk dust, even melamine. We grew up on that swill and turned out fine. No wonder we survived a whiff or two of gas."
"Exactly. But on the flip side, pushing this policy turns every one of those distributors against us."
Oh, so you get it. Good. At least the President of the United States isn't a thick-skulled idiot who can't do 1+1=2.
"Tell them to turn around."
"What if they all flock to the Democrats? Raise it 100 more."
Was Harding tossing chips into this poker game, or this conversation?
"I've learned a lot from this war. Look at the Ottoman Turks. The Brits made them enemies with outrageous stunts, but in the end, they crushed them completely and pocketed a tidy profit. I'll see your 100 and raise 100."
"Make them firm enemies and smash them? Call."
"The moment they side with the Democrats, we blast it nationwide. 'The Democrats are working hard to feed your kids typhoid milk!' Think parents will back the Democrats after that? K triple."
"Damn it. Can't beat a lucky bastard no matter what. Poker's such a crapshoot."
Bet Dorothy grabs her Winchester and heads out. Our Dorothy can hunt deer and skin 'em, so she'll skin those Democrat pals trying to shove chalky milk down Henry's throat just fine.
Once that's done, my part's over.
Sure, it's tempting, but if I snatch it up and yell, "Hey, let's sell milk!" Eugene would show up with a gas can and pump me full of buckshot. I still want to live.
Dairy's never a solo gig anyway—it needs government and public backing. Tying it to veterans makes both a slam dunk.
Everyone wins with this business.
Veterans get great jobs.
Citizens get fresh, safe, certified milk.
My father-in-law, the Kansas senator with dairy at his core, sees his approval skyrocket.
And our Ford Tractor Company, ahead of the curve on milk delivery vehicles and trucks, gobbles up massive orders.
There was another veterans' group besides our Brotherhood: the American Legion.
Theirs had more big names than ours, led by medieval knight Patton and me. But we got home early, ran relief for vets, and snagged more rank-and-file.
Congress squabbled over which got legal recognition, but my bombshell on Wilson shut it down.
Now merge with the American Legion on this win, and it's perfect. Just the influence I want. Neither Patton nor I look great leading a "veterans'" group while active-duty.
The chat with Harding wrapped warmly.
"You're the king's favorite today. My gut told me. Who else to bet big on a lucky guy like you? Haha!"
"Your Excellency. Mind signing this personally?"
"Damn. Thought I'd talk my way out, but you want my wallet after all. What for, signing money?"
"A keepsake. When you're President, it'll be priceless."
And I won the pot. I'll spend it well. Ker-ching!
June 11, 1920.
The Republican National Convention to pick a presidential nominee had ground into an unprecedented deadlock in U.S. history.
"Eighth ballot results... Failed to select the 1920 Republican presidential nominee."
"Hey! What the fuck! Is this an election?!"
"Screw it! We're all dying here!"
Delegates wailed and griped, echoing through the hall. GOP faction leaders and aides huddled in Chicago's Blackstone Hotel for secret talks.
"No end in sight."
"Let's cut a deal among ourselves. I just wanna wrap up and rest."
Every ballot opened plots, soothed delegates, secret deals flew. But eight rounds in, nada.
Even D.C.-hardened iron politicians were collapsing from exhaustion.
Finally, with no one dominating, Harding—the guy everyone figured was White House-safe—emerged as the nominee.
And June 30.
"Thus ends all missions of the American Expeditionary Forces."
My star!
My precious star!!
Congrats! Your star has vanished!
I know. Clinging to that rank just makes more enemies.
But damn, it stings.
Twenty years till the next big one. Plenty of time to climb back. How many tentacles have I spread already? I'll end up an octopus.
Me, Marshall, Patton, Ike, Omar, James, even Hodge.
All happily reverted to original ranks.
Except one.
"Hey, Captain Kim."
"Lieutenant Kim, Colonel MacArthur sir."
"You'll be captain tomorrow anyway."
This guy's gonna make me a regular at the D.C. Ubok branch.
But with nowhere else to go, what can I do?
True to his Oriental fascination, MacArthur savored every odd Korean ritual at Ubok before sitting.
"How's the new posting?"
"No good."
Superintendent of the United States Military Academy.
The West Point legend was back as principal.
"I've always wanted to tear that damned school down myself."
"You, sir? The top-of-the-class guy?"
"West Point's curriculum is trash. Decades-old hero worship of Lee and Grant. No idea about your time, but as a cadet, leaves were nearly impossible."
He packed his pipe, staring blankly—not at the air, but at the school decades ago.
"Under 'discipline,' all violence was okay. One precious cadet died on my watch. Still remember the hearings. The absurdity, the curriculum, the useless time that helped zilch in combat."
"This MacArthur will turn West Point into a fountain of reliable U.S. Army juniors. Enough suffering for us."
"You'll pull it off, sir."
"Tough road. Pershing's turned... old-fogey after this war. Success-blinded compost refusing change. If I predict my reforms fail and I'm exiled to the Philippines, is that too dramatic?"
While I've focused outside the Army, MacArthur's clashed with brass and tasted bitterness.
"That's why I didn't call you to West Point. Don't wanna drag you into a losing fight. Tempting as you are."
"Heh. What could a mere lieutenant do?"
"Right. Cheers to this fine country that sticks talents like you at lieutenant. To it!"
Glasses clink, clear and pure.
We savored the quiet amid the crowd.
"So, your next posting? Never heard."
"No clue."
"What nonsense. Color issue again?! Tell me! Pack for West Point now!"
"No, sir. Opposite problem."
Perfectly, Marshall's now Pershing's aide.
Tight-lipped as he is, he drops useful intel my way.
"They're fighting over you."
"...This lowbrow comedy's something. U.S. Army's a sight."
Rockenbach, who owed me at Cambrai, was wearing out Pershing's doorstep demanding me.
Makes sense—he runs tanks, I'm gold. But I'd be Patton's slave forever. Survival sensors screaming.
"Pick then. Why the long face?"
"Got a spot in mind, but the boss is the issue."
"Who?"
"Drum Major."
"Damn. Yeah, rumors he's headed to Leavenworth."
Fort Leavenworth, Kansas: Command and General Staff College (CGSC).
Like Korean Army majors/generals hitting Army War College or NDU, I need Leavenworth for a normal career.
Perfect for laying low in this political mess, studying while handling outside biz.
But that damned Drum's incoming as commandant.
Still grind my teeth recalling Meuse-Argonne, him playing warlord, shoving troops to death. Go there? Hell no.
"Still, if you're specializing in tanks, it's not bad. Chaffee's there now. You'd click."
No, really, tanks are done for me.
Tank career means fighting mustachioed Nazis, not Japs! No tank battles in the Pacific!
Can't say that outright, so I just downed my drink.
Why'd I wear this uniform twice for glory? Damn it.
"If Leavenworth's awkward, other options exist."
True soldier, true leader MacArthur. Knew I could count on you.
So, what's the other option?