The Darkest Hour (2)
Washington, D.C.
Wobok.
At this point, I don't even want to count how many times the regular has changed. Every time I try, it makes me feel like I'm losing my sanity a bit.
Today, the largest room in Wobok was filled with what could only be called a gathering of my military connections.
"Long time no see."
"How's Fort Benning these days? I've never had the chance to go."
"Any interest in the Infantry School? Shouldn't you try being commandant at least once?"
"Absolutely not. Never!"
"Right? You should be commandant of the Armor School instead."
Marshall, who had been assigned to the 15th Regiment, tasted China, returned, passed through Leavenworth as an instructor, and was now serving as the deputy commandant of the Infantry School at Fort Benning.
But since the actual commandant was just counting down the days to retirement, "deputy" in name only—Marshall was essentially running the place. From the start, the whole setup was meant for him to overhaul the Infantry School curriculum from the ground up.
On top of that, the Infantry School was a key step for promotion, so Marshall was aggressively gathering every talented person he could find, practically assembling an Avengers squad. Just look at James and Omar—both had been caught in Marshall's clutches and reborn as diligent work machines.
"It's a shame I couldn't bring that one along."
Marshall pointed at Ike, who was chatting animatedly with someone across the room. Look at that greed—practically overflowing.
"If you take Ike too, aren't you just draining all my friends dry? Leave me at least one."
"Do you know one of the conclusions I reached at the Infantry School? In my opinion, if even one of the friends you packed off to the 93rd Division had been incompetent, the Battle of Amiens would've been in serious danger. So why would I want to let any of them slip away?"
Honestly, I agree completely. That sloppy operation only worked perfectly because of their improvisation.
But my friends… is it just my imagination, or do they look much thinner than before, their cheeks hollowed out?
Look at them—Omar and James aren't even paying attention to their surroundings, just stuffing themselves with food like mad. Did you work your slaves without feeding them or something?
While I was talking with Marshall, Ike noticed our gaze and walked over.
"Jin! How have you been lately?"
"In times like these, what is there for a commander to do? Just managing the unit, that's about it."
I'm bored out of my mind. My main duty these days is praying every night that the troops don't cause any trouble.
After returning from Panama, Ike had graduated top of his class at Leavenworth and was assigned to the American Battle Monuments Commission (ABMC), where General Pershing spent his later years managing war memorials.
As expected, Pershing quickly recognized Ike's abilities and seems to have subtly introduced him to Marshall.
Now Ike is studying at the Army War College, and I hear he'll be pulled into the War Department as soon as he graduates. He's basically already marked as future general material.
The man Ike had been talking with also stepped forward and greeted me.
"Thank you for the invitation. Do you remember me?"
"Oh, of course, Collins. How could I forget such an outstanding batman who brought glory to West Point?"
"As expected! After hearing your incredible tactical instructions, I never doubted you would become one of history's great commanders. After you graduated, our class even fired a salute in your honor. Hey! Matthew! It's Senior Kim! You remember, right?"
"Huh? Well, I mean, who at West Point wouldn't know Senior Kim? It's just… I was more into football back then, so…"
Matthew Ridgway. Two years my junior. Future Supreme Commander of UN forces during the Korean War.
Right now… Marshall's slave. After encountering the wild Marshall in China's 15th Regiment, he got hit with the abduction beam and has been worked like a dog for years.
Damn it, who would've thought that Ridgway—the one MacArthur once mentioned in passing—was my junior by two years?
Honestly, how busy was I back when I became a third-year cadet? I had to write that Armageddon report, write a novel, plan a business, exchange letters with Dorothy…
Back then, I was too overwhelmed—terrified of being sent to the trenches and anxious that my career might end at a coastal artillery post—to bother remembering underclassmen.
MacArthur, who practically had the entire West Point alumni list memorized, definitely knew. So this is entirely his fault for not telling me they were my juniors. That sly, scheming political general. There's no way it's my fault for not recognizing them.
Joseph Lawton Collins. Also two years my junior. Future U.S. Army Chief of Staff during the Korean War. His reputation in Korea got overshadowed thanks to MacArthur, but he's still an exceptional man. And yet—even someone like him is currently just Marshall's loyal slave No. 2.
"…."
"…Hello, sir. It's been a while."
"It's a bit embarrassing, being among so many young people."
"Are you indirectly calling me an old fool?"
"You know that's not what I meant!"
Joseph Stilwell. Someone I briefly met as an instructor during my West Point days.
Yes, that Stilwell—the one who formed a catastrophically disastrous duo with Chiang Kai-shek and practically wrecked the Nationalist army during the Second Sino-Japanese War.
But to defend Instructor Stilwell just a little—Marshall was the one who put this strict, hard-nosed, overly rigid man into a position where he had to juggle politics with the Nationalists, Communists, and various warlords. Logically, shouldn't someone smooth and politically savvy have been sent there instead?
My eternal second-in-command, Ha, had also somehow ended up sitting next to James, looking completely drained as he joined the snack-devouring lineup. And Patton, being Patton, had grabbed someone and was shouting at them at full volume.
Maybe I should go rescue that poor victim.
"What is that voice of yours—did you swallow a steam locomotive whistle? Let the poor guy go and come hang out with me."
"Yujin?"
"Huh? Huh??"
Turns out it was none other than Covel—our West Point class valedictorian, who had fought bravely as the engineering commander of the 93rd Division.
But as Covel glanced at me, flames of fury began blazing in his eyes. Something's off… did I do something to him?
"You! That poker game we played! It was a scam, wasn't it?! Benion told me everything! Back when I went to the 93rd—!! I! I—!!"
"Ghk—ghk—okay, okay, I'm sorry—!"
I only managed to break free after being throttled for quite a while.
It's a shame Senior MacArthur isn't here. That would've been quite the show.
MacArthur went back to the Philippines again.
After completing his corps commander career, he served as head of the U.S. delegation at the 1928 Amsterdam Olympics, then was immediately appointed commander of the Philippine Department and headed to Manila. Back then and now, there's not much hope for improvement there—but good luck to him.
And that woman… he's now separated from his wife. Might as well call it a divorce. Honestly, there are plenty of women in the world—why choose someone like that?
"Everyone gathered here today has something in common."
"They're all true slaves cultivating George Marshall's farm."
"I'd love to put even you to work under me, but rank is everything—so I'll spare myself the trouble. That's not what I meant."
Marshall, now quite drunk, slowly scanned the room, which was slipping into chaos.
"They're all seeds you planted."
"Me?"
Why am I suddenly being brought up? What did I even do? Rigged poker?
"Cambrai, Amiens, Saint-Mihiel, and the Meuse–Argonne. You demonstrated that trench warfare was only a temporary phenomenon, and that combined arms with sufficient armored forces would be the key card in future wars."
Even if it hadn't been me, history would've proven that anyway…
But I couldn't say that—the look in Marshall's eyes was far too sharp.
"And every one of the people I've gathered agrees with that view. Of course, there are still quite a few in the Army who think otherwise. But I'm convinced that these capable men are the ones who will lead the Army in the future."
He quietly placed a hand on my shoulder.
"I've heard things have been hard for you lately."
"Hard? Not at all. I've just been loafing around, happily stealing my paycheck—"
"Isn't that the hardest thing for someone like you? You love working more than anyone, yet you can't do anything because of those above you. That must be torture."
What are you talking about? I love being a salary leech. I'm happy as can be. Dorothy's already pregnant with our fourth child. My wife and kids love that I come home right on time every day.
"Don't ever give up. No matter how much Hoover dislikes your father-in-law, he can't strip you of your uniform. That would be unjust."
Ah.
So that's what he meant… I never thought Marshall—not MacArthur, but Marshall—would pay attention to politics. It must be because of me.
Just as I was getting a bit emotional at his unexpected thoughtfulness—
"Even if you retire, if war breaks out, I'll drag you back and throw you onto the battlefield. So don't you ever, ever leave the service. Understood?"
My tears instantly dried up.
Damn slave driver. Even Satan would have to sit quietly and attend classes at the Infantry School.
***
Stocks are, at their core, a game of putting in money and taking out money.
Everyone knows that.
More precisely, they only know it until they lose everything.
"Ahhh! Aaaahhh!!"
"This makes no sense! This is impossible!"
From the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan came the sounds of shattering glass, dull thuds, screams, and chaos.
Those who no longer even had the strength to make it to the Hudson River threw themselves one after another from the peaks of a colossal bubble built on debt.
And yet, astonishingly, even amid this sea of blood, a miracle happened once again.
"Buy!"
"This is the chance to buy!"
"You idiots—if I scoop things up cheap right now, I can finally make it big!"
The New York stock market is invincible!
There are no warning signs in the economic fundamentals!
Then this must be just a temporary phenomenon. Isn't this the perfect opportunity to snap up blue-chip stocks?
And every major power group across the United States lent weight to that belief.
"The current stock market appears to be undergoing a temporary correction."
"The government is closely monitoring the situation and is ready to take appropriate measures at any time. Citizens, please remain assured!"
Even as such bold statements were made, the White House and Congress were locked in heated debate day after day.
"What's the Curtis faction doing?"
"They've made no particular statement."
"That makes sense. If this turns out to be temporary, they'll end up like the boy who cried wolf. At that point, their entire faction is finished."
Andrew W. Mellon, who had served as Secretary of the Treasury under Harding, Coolidge, and Hoover—leading the golden age of the 1920s—was among the hardliners.
"We must not ease our offensive against US MILK."
"At a time like this? Wouldn't it be better to avoid internal party conflict for now?"
"The market may have briefly entered a recovery phase, but if Curtis starts spouting doomsday rhetoric again, it will spiral out of control. If a bank run begins, it's over! What could be stopped with a single stitch might require nine later!"
The future was obvious.
Curtis had to escalate this economic crisis no matter what. He would go even more berserk. Right now, he was merely probing for an opportunity.
"We must kill them before they kill us."
"US MILK is a den of corruption anyway. Cutting off taxpayer funding there will give the government more room to maneuver."
"Do you have a concrete plan?"
"Privatize it. US MILK is, after all, a distribution company. If companies rooted in different regions split it up and acquire it, we can build a far more efficient structure from production to distribution. That company itself was a monster that distorted the market!"
Of course, no one mentioned that several companies had already been selected to take pieces of US MILK. But no one here was clueless enough not to realize it.
After all, isn't it the privilege of those in high positions to take a little reward from major national projects?
"Are you sure there won't be any problems?"
"Let's throw a bone to the rural folks. We can just push through the Smoot–Hawley Tariff Act quickly."
In simple terms, the Smoot–Hawley Act meant sharply increasing tariffs to erect protective barriers.
Mellon, who detested taxes more than anyone, frowned—but Hoover had already campaigned on tariff increases to secure rural votes, so opposing it wasn't easy.
"…Very well. We'll do what must be done. We'll also cut interest rates significantly. Within half a year, we must completely remove Curtis from power and bury him so that no one can hear his voice again."
This economic crisis was a test of the Republican Party's decade-long dominance.
If they overcame it successfully and led the nation back to prosperity, ten more years in power would be nothing—they could rule for twenty more.
But if they failed?
They would have to watch their newly elected government collapse in ruin.
"By the way—"
"Is there a problem?"
"If US MILK is sold to the private sector… what happens to the people employed there?"
"That's obviously up to the businessmen who acquire it."
"Won't the veterans' organizations object?"
At this modest question, several officials and lawmakers well-versed in economics couldn't hold back their laughter.
"Haha. Don't worry. The top brass are close to Curtis anyway, so they needed to be replaced regardless. As for the lower ranks… they're just milk deliverymen, aren't they?"
"Jobs that fail to adapt to the times disappear, and new jobs take their place. When automobiles appeared, did anyone show such concern for carriage drivers? Why should we treat them differently?"
"That's because they're war veterans—"
"They've already had steady employment for quite a long time. If they were smart, they would've improved themselves and found better jobs by now. If they're still working as mere deliverymen, it just means they're the type who would've been weeded out by society anyway."
"A respectable citizen of the United States wouldn't look kindly on people living off taxes, so there's no need to worry."
Many in the room agreed.
After all, those people were hardcore Curtis supporters anyway—so what did it matter?
And in that smoke-filled room, countless jobs vanished, dissolving into the haze.
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