The Darkest Hour (5)
Spring had come, but people's frozen hearts had not thawed.
If there was at least one fortunate thing, it was that our family had already been enthusiastically dumping stocks for investment purposes long ago.
Around '27, when I called in Yushin and suggested we start liquidating our holdings, the guy looked at me like I was insane and insisted the stocks would rise for at least two more years.
And then, a year later, around '28, I had to stop Yushin from being the one to jump in first, shouting that we should sell everything quickly and get out of this crazy stock market. You idiot, at least learn to distinguish between long-term and short-term investments.
Thus, over several years, we completely cleared out major positions like U.S. Steel and Coca-Cola. When the Great Depression truly ripens, we'll be able to enjoy a very satisfying harvest.
With the newly secured cash reserves, I began investing in landing boats I had been considering earlier, as well as in aviation-related ventures. I also threw in a small investment in Hormel.
The real investment phase hadn't even begun yet. Soon, the season would come when everyone starts dropping like flies, and they'll all come running, begging, "Please, grant us the blessing of dollars." Why spend money now? That's what liquidation sales are for.
At this point, there's nothing that can be resolved with a quick, flashy solution.
In the end, as always, my only task was to sit in the battalion commander's office chair, feet propped up on the desk, leisurely puffing on a cigarette while researching the utterly useless art of blowing smoke rings.
And then, out of nowhere, a visitor showed up.
"Haji? What brings you here?"
"I had some business. Won't you at least offer me a cup of coffee?"
"Hold on. I'll make you a killer Yujin Kim–style coffee."
"Seriously. Why don't you use your orderly?"
"Orderly, my ass."
I'll just make it myself—why bother sending someone on a coffee errand?
Of course, ordering two cups and having them appear instantly with a "Yes, sir" is the sweet taste of power… but my orderly was already busy with another task.
"Here."
"Thank you."
We drank our coffee in silence for a moment.
Why the hell did this guy come?
I didn't think long and spoke up right away.
"What's going on? We're not strangers—just speak casually."
"Heh. Sharp as ever."
"Come on, hurry up. I'm busy."
"You don't look busy at all in that position."
"...Tch."
"Lieutenant Colonel Marshall, on his way back from D.C., instructed me to stop by and check on you."
Marshall? Why?
Before I could ask, Haji lowered his voice further.
"The soldiers outside seem pretty busy. Did you assign them something?"
"Ah. I just pushed them to do some intensive maintenance."
"…Why do you deliberately do things that make people suspicious?"
"Suspicious? Suspicious of what? Damn it, you believe that crazy nonsense too? That I'm planning something like a 'decisive act to save the nation'?"
"Then why are you repairing the tanks?!"
Look at this guy—raising his voice in front of his superior.
"Are you seriously getting mad at me right now? I'm getting annoyed. A tank battalion repairing tanks—what's the problem with that?"
"Just leave them broken, you frustrating man! If I were in your position, I'd have taken apart every tank engine and piled them up, maybe even set them on fire! You're good at that kind of thing! Crazy stuff!"
So what, I'd suddenly gather all the soldiers in the dead of night, start up all the tanks, and march on Washington, D.C.?
Why would I do that? Am I insane? Since when did my name become Immortan? I decided to enlighten this overly anxious friend.
"There are Marines in D.C., you know. The Marines."
"I just came from the War Department, and I heard those Marines are supposedly a den of communists."
"Oh, give me a break. Absolute nonsense. I'm plotting a coup, and the Marines are preparing a communist uprising? Pick one, at least."
Seriously, the things people come up with.
Everyone's struggling to make a living, so are they all trying to debut as pulp fiction writers? Their imaginations have gone wild, spouting all kinds of absurdities. They'd fit right in at The Sun.
The Sun, following the motto I first proposed, faithfully adheres to its policy of "30% truth included." Once they hit one home run, they make sure to pile on twice as much nonsense. With their military background, they could make good money writing alternate history novels there.
For the record, long ago, I never received a single penny of royalties from a novel I published under the name "Dwight Van Bradley." It did sell a little, apparently, but the publisher got caught printing underground subversive materials and was shut down by the authorities. Damn it.
Still, this ridiculous slander wouldn't last much longer.
"Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"There's a rumor that General Douglas MacArthur has been slated as the next Chief of Staff."
"Really? I heard a different name."
Haji mentioned another person, and I stroked my chin for a moment.
Seems like he picked something up somewhere, but my source was the great paranoid eccentric, J. Edgar Hoover. Compared to Haji, Hoover's intel is far more reliable.
"What I heard is probably right. It came from someone pretty deep in the know."
"Alright, let's say it's MacArthur. What changes? Breaking the record for youngest Army Chief of Staff?"
"Oh, come on. Is that all you can think of? Do you have any idea how relentlessly he was sidelined? Under John J. Pershing, how many people went after MacArthur?"
"Ah!"
"Exactly. A man who endured years of humiliation—now Hoover's put a sword in his hand. Of course he'd become Swordmaster MacArthur.
With someone like that sitting as Chief of Staff, no one's going to entertain any foolish fantasies. Honestly, if it were me, I'd start dancing with the blade the moment I had justification. Anyone even pretending to do something stupid would be stripped of rank and have their head taken off. So just keep your head down and breathe."
The return of the king.
The Chaumont faction, which had long been eager to tear MacArthur apart under Pershing, now found themselves turning the Army Chief of Staff into their enemy in these turbulent times.
It must make them want to kill themselves. Poor bastards. If the economy were good, they could proudly shout, "I can't stand this filthy military life anymore!" and apply for discharge—but in times like these, they probably don't have the guts.
That's probably what our dear Hoover is aiming for, too.
"But you're also close with MacArthur, right? If the two of you join hands, maybe—"
"If you're going to keep spouting bullshit, get out! Throw up what you just drank!"
Look at this guy, poking at me on purpose.
Haji fled with a yelp, but the unease in my chest didn't go away.
Fortunately, the Bonus Army hadn't yet gathered in Washington, D.C., and there were no enraged, jobless milkmen marching on the capital with grease guns.
But if something like that really happened, what should I do?
Of course, the correct answer is already decided: do nothing and just carry out my duties at my assigned post.
I'd decided to keep my head down for a while, which is why—even though a lieutenant colonel could reasonably command a regiment—I asked to remain a battalion commander. After seeing that look in Coolidge's eyes, I'm not insane enough to act up.
A tank battalion, stationed near D.C.—that definitely wasn't my choice. I ought to crack open the head of whatever personnel officer came up with that assignment.
I'll watch how things unfold, and if anything seems off, I'll just send all the tanks in for full overhaul. If every tank gets shipped off to Detroit, maybe all this nonsense will quiet down.
By the time the tanks are ready to return, I'll probably be gone from this post anyway. Perfect.
I quietly pulled out a bottle of liquor I had hidden under the desk.
Ever since returning from San Francisco, I've been having all kinds of bizarre nightmares.
Ike suddenly shows up with red hair, saying, "Your Excellency Yujinhart, seize the United States," or Douglas I, the first emperor of the United American Empire, declares the establishment of the monarchy in Congress to thunderous applause, or Miller breaks out of prison, leads a Black uprising, and suddenly appoints me as supreme commander—
At this point, it's clearly a sickness. I just don't trust psychiatry in this era enough to go to a hospital. Otherwise, if I were in my right mind, I would've gone for counseling already.
But whenever I replay those dreams, the conclusion is always simple: like Benito Mussolini in his final days, I end up hanging upside down, neatly gifted a bellyful of bullets.
A coup in this country? Even if you take Washington, D.C., can you really control the United States? It's less likely than a few states trying to secede from the Union.
Then is the United States truly safe? Is there really no way to bring down this political system?
…I stopped thinking right there.
I'm not going to do anything. I don't know anything. I really don't.
***
At the same time.
Washington, D.C., War Department.
"I've been hearing that MacArthur is to become the next Chief of Staff."
How could this happen?
There's no doubt he lobbied for it. His family is exceptionally skilled at winning people over with influence and sweet talk.
"Hey, get a hold of yourself!"
"Yes, I'm listening."
"The responsibility on your shoulders is immense. You'll soon be appointed Inspector General. Make sure MacArthur can't go around swinging his sword as he pleases—keep him in check at all costs."
"And if he forces things through?"
"…Do you not want the position of Inspector General?"
"No, sir."
Everyone gathered wore grim expressions.
The United States was now in a moment of extreme crisis.
When the economy worsens, the threat of war naturally rises, and at the same time, the likelihood of communist agitation increases. When people have nothing, they always start wanting to overturn the world.
And in such a critical time, the head of the Army is that MacArthur? A show-off who lacks any sense of cooperation and lives only for his own glory?
"Won't he start talking about reforms again and try to dismantle a perfectly functioning organization?"
"Could he also be a communist? Maybe he plans to destroy the Army—the backbone of the United States—to make their revolution succeed—"
"Say something that at least makes sense. It's far more plausible that he wants to become America's Mussolini."
"With that man, it wouldn't be surprising. Doesn't he already think he's a king?"
But no matter how much they cursed MacArthur here, reality wouldn't change.
Should we resign?
When MacArthur served as superintendent of West Point, they had mobilized every possible resource—including outsiders and retired officers—to crush him.
As a result, West Point had preserved its traditions, and MacArthur's flashy, self-proclaimed reforms all came to nothing. Justice had prevailed.
Of course, back then… there had been a bit of personal attack mixed in. Minor things. But that was all the fault of those wolf-like newspapers—these dignified military officials certainly hadn't been involved. Probably.
But why should we be trembling at the fear of dismissal? Why? Why should that man win, and we be the ones pushed out?
The world felt unjust.
"Hard times are ahead. Make sure you all prepare yourselves."
"Yes, sir."
The newly appointed Inspector General, Major General Hugh Drum, let out a sigh as he left the room.
He would not go down alone.
***
The move has been completed successfully. There's still a mountain of things to organize and laundry to wash… but anyway, the new house is warm, and I'm incredibly happy. Thank you, everyone!
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