House of Cards (1)
Milk delivery.
It's incredibly simple.
You take milk from the farm and deliver it to each household. Wow!
The reason why such a seemingly trivial business ends up being something that must be discussed with a presidential candidate… is quite a headache.
As I always say, when imagining the United States of this era, you must not picture the superpower of the 21st century.
Of course, some things are similar. The rebellious spirit—like having the right to shoot someone who steps onto your property, or running out waving the flag in the name of "freedom" not to wear a mask—that hasn't changed whether it's 1920 or 2020.
But in terms of business, instead of the majesty of 21st-century Pax Americana, it's actually closer to imagining a chaotic, overpopulated industrial continent full of pollution and explosions.
"Milk… yes, there are a lot of problems with it."
"Just recently there was another major incident, wasn't there? Every year, people dying from milk is practically a recurring event."
This is an era where a household refrigerator costs more than a Model T.
Naturally, milk squeezed from cows spoils easily if not delivered promptly.
And when distributors realize the milk they bought from farms has gone bad, they don't just throw it away—because Americans, slaves to money, don't work that way.
What they have in abundance is the .
"If milk goes bad, instead of throwing it out, they mix in flour, chalk powder, even melamine. Honestly, considering people grew up on that, it's no wonder they survived a few rounds of poison gas."
"That's true. But on the flip side, implementing this policy would turn all those distributors into enemies."
Oh, so you can think that far. Good. At least the future president of the United States isn't someone who can't even do 1+1=2.
"Then let them turn."
"If they all go over to the Democrats, that wouldn't be very fun, would it? I raise 100 more."
Was Harding tossing chips on the poker table—or into this conversation?
"I learned a lot in this war. Look at the Ottoman Turks. The British did something outrageous and turned them into enemies, but in the end, they completely destroyed them and profited nicely. I call—and raise 100."
"So you're saying: make them enemies for good and crush them? Call."
"The moment they side with the Democrats, we launch a full-scale campaign. 'The Democrats are trying to feed your children typhoid milk!' If parents hear that, do you think they'll support them? I raise triple."
"Damn it. You can't beat someone lucky no matter what. Poker really is a trash game."
I guarantee Dorothy would grab her Winchester rifle and head out. Our dear Dorothy can hunt deer and skin them, so she'd probably have no trouble skinning those Democrat friends trying to feed Henry chalk-mixed milk too.
At this point, my role is finished.
Sure, it's tempting—but if I get greedy and say, "Hey! Let's sell milk!" someone like Yushin will show up with a fuel pump and fill me full of lead. I'd rather stay alive.
Besides, the dairy business was never something I could monopolize alone. By its nature, it requires government power and public opinion. If we designate it as a veterans' employment sector, both become manageable.
This business can make everyone happy.
Veterans get decent jobs.
Citizens get fresh, safe milk.
My father-in-law—a senator from Kansas, where dairy is a key industry—will see his approval ratings skyrocket.
And our Ford Tractor Company, already pouring effort into developing milk transport vehicles and trucks, gets to feast on massive vehicle orders.
In fact, besides our own veterans' association, there was another organization called the American Legion.
It was founded by more prominent figures than the group led by Patton and me, but since we returned to the mainland earlier and launched various veteran relief programs, we managed to secure more rank-and-file soldiers.
There was even some debate in Congress over which organization should receive official recognition, but thanks to the bomb I dropped on Woodrow Wilson, Congress ended up in shutdown.
Now, if we merge with the American Legion based on this success, it would be perfect. I'd secure just the right level of influence I wanted. After all, both Patton and I are still active-duty officers—it doesn't look great for us to lead a "veterans" organization.
Thus, my discussion with Harding ended on a pleasant note.
"Seems the king favors you today. I can feel it—when a man bets this boldly and luck follows him, whose words should we listen to if not his? Hahaha!"
"Sir, would you give me an autograph?"
"Damn it. I tried to talk my way out of it, but now you're making me open my wallet. What are you planning to do with a signed bill?"
"I'll keep it as a family heirloom. When you become president, it'll be quite valuable."
And I won the money. Much appreciated. Gulp!
***
June 11, 1920.
The Republican National Convention to select a presidential candidate fell into an unprecedented deadlock in American history.
"Results of the 8th ballot… failed to select the Republican presidential nominee for 1920."
"Hey! What the hell is this? Is this even an election?!"
"Just end it! We're all dying here!"
The cries and frustrations of the delegates echoed loudly, while faction leaders and aides of the Republican Party gathered in small groups at Chicago's Blackstone Hotel for secret negotiations.
"At this rate, there's no answer."
"Let's just come to a compromise among ourselves. I want to finish this and rest."
Plotting schemes, persuading delegates, secret deals and negotiations—it's tolerable once or twice.
But after eight failed ballots, even the hardened politicians of Washington, D.C. looked ready to collapse from exhaustion.
In the end, with no one securing decisive control, the moment came when Warren G. Harding—the man everyone agreed would be acceptable in the White House—was selected as the Republican nominee.
And then, June 30.
"With this, all missions of the American Expeditionary Forces are concluded."
My rank!
My ran—k!!
Congratulations! Your star has disappeared!
I know. I know full well that clinging to that rank would only create more enemies.
But still… I can't help feeling bitter about it.
There are at least 20 years until the next great war, so I can just take my time climbing back up. I've already spread my "tentacles" everywhere anyway. At this rate, I'll turn into an octopus.
So I, along with George C. Marshall, George S. Patton, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Omar Bradley, James, and Haji—
All of us returned neatly to our original ranks.
Everyone except one.
"Say, Captain Kim."
"I'm Lieutenant Kim, General Douglas MacArthur."
"You'll be a captain tomorrow anyway, won't you?"
At this rate, he's going to become a regular at the Washington D.C. Ubok branch.
Still, it's not like I have anywhere else to take him.
True to his long-standing fascination with the East, MacArthur carefully observed each strange ritual unfolding at Ubok before finally taking his seat.
"How's your new assignment?"
"Hopeless."
Superintendent of the United States Military Academy.
The man who had written legend upon legend at West Point had now returned as its head.
"I always wanted to tear that damned place down with my own hands."
"You? The man who ranked first all the way through?"
"The curriculum at West Point was abysmal. Outdated lessons worshipping Generals Lee and Grant from decades ago. I don't know how it was in your time, but when I was a cadet, even going out on leave was nearly impossible."
He packed his pipe and stared into the air—no, into the school of decades past.
"Under the name of discipline, all forms of violence were tolerated. In my time, a precious cadet even lost his life. I still remember being dragged into the hearings. That absurdity, that curriculum—useless time that did nothing to help in real combat.
This MacArthur will turn West Point into a place that produces dependable officers for the U.S. Army. We've suffered enough there, wouldn't you say?"
"If it's you, sir, you'll succeed."
"It won't be easy. General John J. Pershing has become quite… rigid after this war. Obsessed with success, refusing change—he's turned into human compost. If I say my reforms will fail and I'll be exiled to the Philippines, would that be an exaggeration?"
While I had been busy with matters outside the military, it seemed MacArthur had already clashed quite a bit with the higher-ups and tasted plenty of bitterness.
"That's why I didn't call you to West Point. No point dragging you into a losing fight. Though I'd certainly like to."
"Haha. What could a mere lieutenant like me even do there?"
"Indeed. Let's drink—to this wonderful country that keeps a man like you stuck as a lieutenant."
Clink.
The glasses met with a clear, crisp sound.
For a moment, we simply enjoyed the quiet within the crowd.
"So, what's your next assignment? Come to think of it, I haven't heard anything."
"I don't know either."
"What kind of nonsense is that? Is it your skin color again?! If that's the case, you should've told me! Pack your bags and prepare to come to West Point immediately!"
"No, no. Quite the opposite."
As it happens, the man currently serving as John J. Pershing's aide is none other than Marshall.
True to his reserved nature, he doesn't share much—but he does occasionally pass along bits of information he thinks I should know.
"They're fighting over who gets to take me."
"…That's its own kind of third-rate comedy. The state of the U.S. Army is quite something."
General Rockenbach, whom I had worked with at Cambrai, was apparently wearing down Pershing's doorstep demanding that I be handed over.
Of course he would—he's in charge of the armored corps. From his perspective, I must look incredibly appealing.
But if I go there, I'll probably end up as Patton's lifelong slave. My survival instincts are screaming warnings.
"Then just choose where you want to go. Why the long face?"
"There is a place I want to go… but the commanding officer is the problem."
"Who is it?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Drum."
"Damn. Yes, I've heard he's headed to Leavenworth."
At Fort Leavenworth, there's the U.S. Army Command and General Staff College (CGSC).
Just like how Korean officers aiming for higher ranks must attend the Army and National Defense universities, I'd need to pass through Leavenworth at least once for a proper career path.
And given how politically chaotic things are right now, quietly attending classes while handling outside affairs sounds perfect.
But… that damned Drum is about to take over as commandant.
Just thinking about how he practically ruled as a tyrant during the Meuse-Argonne and drove soldiers into slaughter still makes my teeth grind. And now I'm supposed to go there? That's pushing it.
"Still, if you intend to seriously study armored warfare, it wouldn't be a bad choice. Adna R. Chaffee Jr. is there now. Someone you could actually have a meaningful conversation with."
No, seriously—I'm done with armored warfare.
If I stick with armor, instead of fighting the Japanese, I'll end up fighting mustached Nazis! You can't wage armored warfare in the Pacific!
But I can't exactly say that out loud, so my only option is to drink.
Why did I put on this uniform twice? Damn it.
"If Leavenworth makes you uncomfortable, there is another option."
Now that's the true soldier and leader of this era—MacArthur. I knew I could count on you.
So… what's the alternative?
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