The Darkest Hour (6)
By the end of the summer of 1930,
Douglas MacArthur returned from the Philippines.
A few more wrinkles lined his forehead—he clearly looked like he'd been through quite a bit.
"Well, well, the Chief of Staff has arrived!"
"Enough with the teasing."
"No, sir! I, Yujin Kim, shall become a salmon and serve you with utmost loyalty—"
"Cut it out."
"Yes, sir."
If I kept going, he looked like he might actually explode. Being Chief of Staff in times like these—this was basically harassment level MAX.
Of course, that only seemed to further stimulate MacArthur's ego-filled pride.
"You'll soon have four shining stars. How does it feel?"
"What is there to feel? The situation in the Philippines was a mess. The mainland likely isn't any better. We need to prepare for war, one way or another."
"War, huh…"
"Yes. The Great War hasn't even been over that long, and already the flames of another are rising. You've heard that Japan invaded Manchuria, haven't you?"
I had. And I'd already thought long and hard about it.
Was it really time for the Manchurian Incident already? That didn't seem right. If I remembered correctly, it was supposed to happen next year…
Normally, I'd be shouting at the sky, demanding to know why history was being twisted—but considering all the things I'd already done in Japan, I couldn't exactly complain. I'd just have to call it karma.
Originally, World War II was still far off, but with the Manchurian Incident already happening a year early, an actual war breaking out wouldn't be surprising. For all I know, Hoover could suddenly go mad and order an invasion of Britain and Canada. Either way, preparing for war isn't exactly strange for the military.
"Even if I become Chief of Staff, if I enter D.C. alone, crawling with those Chaumont faction schemers, I won't be able to accomplish anything."
"In the end, you'll just drag them along by force, won't you?"
"Of course. This MacArthur is someone who can drag along even the most hopeless fools. Isn't the slander of ignorant masses who fail to understand a hero the very foundation of a hero's story?"
Wow. That unwavering confidence. Truly something else. Not something I have.
MacArthur briefly took his pipe from his mouth.
"First, I'll need a capable aide. From what I've seen, your friends all seem quite competent."
"Not a single one of them falls short. Hmm… how about Omar Bradley? As chief of staff of the 93rd Division, he showed excellent tactical and strategic insight, and I've personally benefited a lot from him."
"What I need right now is someone full of decisiveness."
"Then it has to be James Van Fleet. He'd be exactly the kind of person you need. What do you think? He's actually nearby—"
"A fine commander, but not quite the man I'm looking for."
You… you… you already decided, didn't you?!
You've already made up your mind! Just say the name, damn it!
"Then, it must be Dwight D. Eisenhower—"
"Hm… Indeed, I can hardly refuse a recommendation from Lieutenant Colonel Yujin Kim, the hero of Amiens. While I know nothing of this Major Dwight David Eisenhower, I trust your eye for talent. I will gladly take him as my aide."
Con artist.
An absolutely shameless con artist.
Were the first two rejected because Marshall had influence over them? You've already won by becoming Chief of Staff—why are you still like this?
Sorry, Ike.
Looks like you're destined to serve as MacArthur's loyal workhorse after all. I tried to change fate, but… yeah, I guess this is just how things are. Still, MacArthur feeds you and lets you rest—so maybe it's not the worst deal.
I've done the Chief of Staff aide job myself. It's great for your career and you gain a lot, so think of it as valuable experience—even if your body and mind suffer…
Rest in peace. Well, you'll probably live just fine. Honestly, since MacArthur had already picked him and was just playing along, my share of the blame is practically zero. Truly. Even Marshall would agree.
"And now, let's get to the main point."
"Wasn't taking Ike the main point?"
"That was just the appetizer. Yujin, have you considered coming to Washington, D.C.?"
MacArthur narrowed his eyes.
"As I said earlier, I have too few people on my side. I'd like you to come and help me."
"No thanks."
You want me to get ground down again? Next you'll be inviting me to some grand bonus-party fireworks show.
It reminded me of an old dream. For some reason, Warren G. Harding kept appearing and singing some cursed song. That must've been a warning message from Harding's spirit, moved by the Black Lotus card I gave him.
So yeah—I'm just going to leave America.
"I'd like to take about a year of leave."
"…Leave?"
"Of course. What were you thinking?"
When I shot back, MacArthur relaxed and leaned back slowly.
"I thought… you might want to keep holding onto a field command."
"Oh come on! I told you I'm not doing that!"
Why does everyone keep asking me things like that? Honestly, if you asked a hundred people, "Who's the most fascist-looking person in the U.S. Army?" eighty of them would pick you, MacArthur. Me? I'm the embodiment of a soldier devoted to the nation—completely exempt. I'm the guy who even stopped tanks from rolling through Seoul Plaza by burning myself out—do you know how unfair it feels to be called a fascist?
"I'll be clear. About a year—no, I'll be blunt. I want to take long-term leave and go to Europe until the next presidential election."
"…That's a bit…"
"And that tank unit? I've already sent every single tank in for full overhaul. They're all in Detroit. Detroit—not the afterlife!"
In other words, I'm not about to roll tanks over your heads, you politicians.
"There are still years until the next election, and you're saying you'll take leave for that entire period? That's not possible."
"But—"
"Fine. I'll arrange a suitable administrative post for you. Once I'm settled in the War Department, come over immediately. Work hard for a year—no, not even a year. Just a few months. Then I'll grant you the leave you want."
I wasn't crazy enough to reject MacArthur's compromise.
This was actually a very satisfying outcome. The youngest still needed to grow a bit before we could travel to Europe anyway—perfect timing. Our family would leave this hellish American continent and tour Europe.
Start with Britain, then France, then Germany and Italy, visit Greece—which, at this time, is practically mandatory—and finish with Spain before returning. Yes. Perfect.
Thus, the perfect travel project—full of benefits for my children's emotional development—was complete. It was about time I replaced the trench-filled memories in my head with dazzling, beautiful, pastoral European scenery.
As I listened to MacArthur explain several possible positions, I fell into thought.
Which one would let me do nothing and still collect my paycheck?
I don't want to work.
***
1931.
Now, everyone could finally see it.
There were few left who denied that the United States had fallen into an unprecedented crisis.
"Few," of course… meant there were still some.
They were especially concentrated in the White House.
"Why—why on earth is the economy collapsing? Why?!"
"This is all because of that damned Smoot–Hawley Tariff Act!"
"That's ridiculous! How much of our economy even depends on imports and exports?!"
"We must abandon these policies that make us sound like communists! Public works, massive infrastructure projects—those are things only the Soviets would do! We need to concentrate subsidies on large corporations!"
"And cut off even the people's last lifeline? Only if the government ensures they have the bare minimum to survive can those companies sell their goods! At the very least, dam construction must continue!"
"The countryside is finished. Banks that extended loans to rural areas are collapsing one after another."
"Over two thousand banks have already failed. We need decisive market intervention."
"Mr. President, we must abandon the gold standard."
"You must not listen to these communist bastards, sir. Even now, we should mobilize the military. A red revolution is right at our doorstep."
"Enough! ENOUGH!!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
At Herbert Hoover's thunderous shout, the room fell silent.
"We must do what we can… What about the magnates of Manhattan and Detroit? Surely this is the time for their noble assistance."
"They have already complied for quite some time with our requests to refrain from layoffs and wage cuts, agreed to tax increases, and raised considerable funds for charity."
"But a few donations are nowhere near enough to feed the masses of unemployed people out there—not even a thin bowl of gruel."
"I simply don't know what I must do to save this hellish country. If only someone—anyone—could give me an answer."
One man in the room spoke cautiously.
"Mr. President."
"Yes?"
"What will you do about the bill that has just passed the House?"
"There are many bills. Which one do you mean?"
"The one regarding veterans' relief—"
"Again?! The entire nation is suffering from this depression—why should they alone receive special treatment?!"
Before the president could finish, the room erupted into chaos.
According to legislation passed during Warren G. Harding's administration, war veterans were to receive bonuses—part immediately, and part placed into a trust fund to be paid out in 1945.
But as the economy collapsed, veterans and their supporters began demanding that the fund be broken and the bonuses paid immediately.
"Under the newly passed bill, veterans who lost their jobs due to the depression will be given priority in government public works. And the bonuses scheduled for 1945 will be paid out immediately—"
"And where, exactly, is that money supposed to come from? We cannot act in a way that violates fairness."
Hoover replied in a voice that sounded almost lifeless.
"I, too, wish to help them… but we simply have no more funds."
And just as Hoover waved his hand helplessly—
"Hoover, give us our bonus!"
"Hoover, give us back our jobs!"
"If we're going to die, better to die in D.C.!"
"Let's go! To D.C.! Gather in D.C.!"
From all across the country, disheveled veterans began boarding trains bound for Washington, D.C.
With nothing left to their names, bringing along their wives and children, they had only one goal:
To somehow get even a single extra piece of bread before 1945.
"Veterans of the Great War are marching on the capital in large numbers."
"How many?"
"We can't count them. There are too many!"
"Many of them must be former milkmen… wouldn't they each at least have a grease gun?"
"The communists! This must be instigated by the communists!"
"Get a hold of yourselves! How did the Russian Empire fall? Do you want a Bloody Sunday in America?"
"On the contrary! If we don't suppress them, they'll seize the Capitol and the White House and declare a revolutionary government!"
"The Marines—what about the Marines?"
"How can we trust them? Both in Russia and Germany, revolutions began with naval mutinies!"
While dozens of decorated officers shouted over one another in the War Department,
the masses pouring out of the train stations began settling along the riverbanks, building makeshift shacks one by one.
A new Hooverville was rapidly filling Washington, D.C.
They were ragged, unshaven, looking every bit like beggars—
yet instead of despair, they shared hope.
This country will not abandon us.
If we cry out with enough desperation, surely they will at least open a path for us to breathe.
"Hello, we're from The Sun. May we conduct an interview?"
"Of course. Go ahead."
"Your name?"
"John Miller. Formerly of the 93rd Division."
"Ah! I noticed there were quite a few Black soldiers among you—it stood out. So how did you end up here, Mr. Miller?"
"I still have just enough money left to support my family… but I couldn't leave my comrades here and stay in a warm home alone. So I came."
He tilted his chin toward a banner fluttering in the distance.
"The American Expeditionary Force once restored freedom and peace to Europe. Now, our Milk Expeditionary Force will reclaim our lost jobs—and our dignity."
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