Milk, Blood, and the Blue Star (1)
Preparations were complete.
With a light heart, I finished getting everything ready for my vacation.
"You're really going?"
"Of course I am. I have to."
Do you have any idea how much I suffered to get this leave approved?
Ike—his face greasy from not even having time to wash properly—glared at me with resentment.
"You're seriously going on vacation? To Europe? Leaving me in this hell?"
"My fox-like wife and my rabbit-like four children are waiting eagerly for my vacation days. I have to go."
"Don't run away! Don't you dare run away!!"
"There's an ancient Eastern military doctrine called the Thirty-Six Stratagems. The greatest of them is: 'If you can't win, run.' As one well-versed in the Six Secret Teachings and Three Strategies, how could I hesitate to retreat?"
Are you watching, Master Xiahou Mao? Yujin Kim shall carry on the legacy of mastering the Six Secret Teachings and Three Strategies. Rest easy.
"You… you're really awful… sticking me in the aide position and then running away…"
Don't misunderstand, my dear best friend. MacArthur had already picked you from the start. It was a done deal. He'd already decided—eyes closed, ears shut, "Give me Eisenhower!"—what was I supposed to do?
"Honestly, I think it's better for everyone if I'm not in America right now."
"That sounds ominous. Almost like you're planning to settle abroad permanently."
"Not that far. I'll probably come back around the time of the next election."
By then, Franklin D. Roosevelt would almost certainly be president, so I'd just return and play nice.
And if I somehow ended up on his bad side? Then obviously, I'd leave the country.
You think I'd keep serving in the U.S. Army after offending a four-term president? I'm not that insane.
I could just retire in Britain or France, like old men do, living off memoirs. And if I got bored—or hungry—I could always play prophet and start some "Shaman America" act.
"You bastard. It's obvious you're just trying to lie low and ride things out."
"Hey, hey. I feel like I'm walking on a blade right now too. You saw how instantly my leave got approved the moment I said I'd go to Europe, right?"
"…Yeah. I was just saying."
That's how it was.
The vacation was just a formality—this was practically exile. It was painfully obvious they just wanted me out of the way until things settled down.
The Milk Expeditionary Force.
Shortened to the Milk Army.
What started as a half-baked idea—killing two birds with one stone—ended up becoming this absurd "US MILK." And as if to demonstrate the meaning of "fortune and misfortune are intertwined," it all concluded in a messy political struggle.
But as if nothing in this world ever truly "just ends," the dissolution of US MILK became the catalyst for the next event—returning as a Bonus Army incident even larger than in the original timeline.
"Give us jobs!!"
"We want to work!!"
"We don't care about $500 ten years from now! We need 50 cents now to feed our children! Please, pay us the bonus we rightfully deserve!"
"Pay us!!"
Flags fluttered everywhere.
Veterans marched in groups.
Police stared them down.
Washington, D.C. had become a massive powder keg.
And I chose to get as far away from it as possible.
People were constantly coming around, watching me like hawks—wondering if I'd do something crazy.
That's not good at all. The reason soldiers exist is to protect the nation—if the military itself is being seen as a threat, that's a serious problem.
Talk of "decisive action to save the nation" or "fascist revolution"—I have zero interest.
So the solution is simple.
I just remove myself.
"Lieutenant Colonel Kim! Major Dwight D. Eisenhower!"
"What is it?"
"There's been an urgent meeting called. Hurry."
"Could I be excused? I'm starting my vacation after work today—"
"Cut the nonsense and get moving!"
"…Yes, sir."
Damn it. Figures.
***
"The number of subversive demonstrators calling themselves the Milk Expeditionary Force continues to grow."
"I told you—they're communists. We need to suppress them immediately!"
Honestly, I don't know much about the Bonus Army incident.
Just that a group of protesters came to Washington demanding unpaid bonuses—and got run over by tanks.
And even if I did know more, it wouldn't matter. The moment the Bonus Army turned into the Milk Army, that knowledge became useless anyway.
"What's the public reaction?"
"There's no major backlash. They gather at set times, protest, and then disperse—"
"And the response?"
"The police are handling it."
Douglas MacArthur stared intently at the map, deep in thought.
"We must always consider the worst-case scenario. Is there any way to estimate their armament?"
"Considering many of them are former milkmen… we should assume each one has at least a grease gun under their coat."
To someone who used to be Korean, it sounds absurd—but reality is what it is.
Those milkmen delivering at dawn were basically walking vaults. In a country like the United States, if you're carrying cash around, of course you'd carry a nice 'fuel injector'—a gun.
"Thirty thousand… that's roughly one division."
"Let's assume a fully equipped division—armed with grease guns and shotguns—breaks from the protest and advances to seize the White House and Capitol. With the current forces stationed in D.C.—"
"They'd simply be swept away by that wave."
"Should we factor in the Marines?"
"General, we cannot trust the Marines. Consider communist tactics—they always co-opt the armed forces in the capital before launching an uprising."
"There's a high probability they've already been influenced and will attempt the leftist revolution they're obsessed with. The Marines must be completely excluded."
…Is that so?
Even I'm starting to wonder—but for MacArthur, there's no hesitation.
He smirked and tapped the map.
"…Whether the Marines have been 'turned red' or not doesn't matter. For now, we exclude them entirely from our calculations."
"Understood."
"We're at an absolute disadvantage in numbers. We have no choice but to rely on the power of heavy weaponry."
"You're saying we should bring tanks into D.C.? Have you all lost your minds?"
"Then how exactly do you propose we stop a mob?!"
Uh… sorry, but there aren't any tanks left in D.C. right now. I sent them all to Detroit—
Just as I was about to speak up, Hugh Drum—who had been sitting off to the side—started making exaggerated gestures.
"The tanks of the battalion formerly commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Kim are all in perfect condition and can be deployed immediately."
"…Why is the Inspector General even looking into that?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Kim attempted to send all tanks to Detroit for overhaul. However, after inspection, we found no issues whatsoever, so we canceled the maintenance and returned them all to their original unit."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
He tried to remove tanks from the capital? Could it be… a communist?
Damn it.
Just a while ago, I was being accused of fascism for repairing tanks—now I'm a communist for sending them away? This is ridiculous.
"Prepare the tanks for deployment."
"Sir, with all due respect—I'm the kind of man who'll do whatever he's told. I can bash the rioters' skulls in with a cavalry saber if needed."
My successor, George S. Patton, looked like he'd had a drink—or two.
"But they haven't shown any signs of using force yet. Running over unarmed protesters with tanks… I'm not sure that does much for the Army's honor."
"I'm aware. Then let me ask you this—should a soldier decide for himself which enemies are honorable and which are not before fighting?"
"…I'll prepare for immediate deployment."
He gave a half-hearted salute and strode out of the room.
Moments later, through the not-quite-closed door—
"FUUUUUCK!!"
Crash! Something shattered violently.
No one commented on it.
"Lieutenant Colonel Kim."
Douglas MacArthur glanced at me.
"Yes, sir."
"Enjoy your leave."
"Thank you."
At his not-so-subtle way of telling me to disappear quickly, I could only nod.
***
July, 1931.
Everyone felt like they were about to explode—like a balloon ready to burst at the prick of a needle.
But it had nothing to do with me.
Ignore it.
Pretend to be busy.
Unlike in the original history, neither MacArthur nor Patton were the type to recklessly crush everything in sight.
Nothing major would happen even without me. After all, I was always the kind who worked behind the scenes—never in the spotlight.
Just as I tried to convince myself of that—
A single placard caught my eye.
No matter how shameless I was, I couldn't ignore that.
As if drawn in, I walked toward the banner fluttering in the wind.
"Hoover, give us back our jobs!"
"Give them back! Give them back!"
"Sir, could you please listen to us for a—wait…?"
"Doesn't your throat hurt from shouting? My ears are about to give out."
"General?"
"…General, is that really you?"
"What, did a monkey suddenly get promoted to field officer without me noticing?"
The moment I joked, these guys stopped protesting entirely and swarmed around me.
"Back off! Give me some space, damn it!"
"General! General!!"
"Did you come to help us?"
"No? I'm getting exiled to Europe starting tomorrow."
Sorry, guys.
I just came to take a look.
The hope that had briefly filled their faces vanished, replaced once again by gloom.
"What we're asking for isn't unreasonable…"
"Could you perhaps speak to those in power on our behalf?"
"I understand your situation. I know how difficult things are for you. I know that you need immediate support to survive, not some large sum in the distant future. But… everyone is struggling right now—"
In the end, all I could offer them were the same empty words.
Hoover had already given the protesters gathered in D.C. a "final chance"—offering one-way tickets back to their hometowns at government expense.
Some had taken the offer and left.
But even now, more kept arriving, building new shacks—so the tOotal number barely changed.
"Cops! The cops are moving!"
"General, you need to get out of here! You'll get caught up in it!"
"What do you mean—I'm literally wearing a U.S. Army uniform—"
"Gas!! GAS!! The gas is coming!"
"…What the hell?!"
A thick cloud began to spread.
Metal clattered as machine guns were set up in multiple positions.
"What the hell?! Since when do the police have machine guns?!"
"Fall back! Get the General out of here! Move!!"
The suppression operation had begun.
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