Milk, Blood, and the Blue Star (3)
I sat there, waiting for the list of demands from the Milk Expeditionary Force to be completed, chain-smoking cigarettes for no good reason.
A few days? No… a few hours, maybe.
Wouldn't it be better to just run there right now?
Are Dorothy and the kids okay?
The urge to drop everything and leave this place immediately clashed with the thought—could I really sleep peacefully after watching these people die and then heading off to Europe?
I couldn't take a step.
Then, gunfire echoed from afar.
"What's going on?"
"I'll check."
Just as Miller—who had been nervously shaking his leg beside me—was about to run off, a roaring engine broke through the gunfire, along with frantic shouting.
"Don't shoot!!"
"Don't shoot! It's Black—! Don't fire!!"
What?
And then, smashing through the barricade, a black Dodge touring car—its body grotesquely dented—revealed itself.
Unless my eyes were broken, there was no way I wouldn't recognize that car.
Why the hell is that coming here right now?
Screeeeeech!!
With a spine-chilling sound, the Black Lotus came to a halt. The driver's door burst open—and a silhouette I knew all too well stepped out.
"What the hell are you doing here, you idiot?!"
"…Dorothy?"
Dressed head-to-toe in leather boots and gear—like she'd just strangled a deer somewhere—and with a Winchester rifle slung over her shoulder… the very same one we had carefully hidden under our bed.
She scanned me and Miller once, then strode up and plucked the cigarette from my mouth.
"Inhale—"
She took a deep drag.
"Cough! Cough! Gah—!"
"You don't even smoke normally—"
"Looking at the two of you right now, do you think I'd want to smoke or not?"
"…I'm sorry."
"I—I was wrong, Mrs. Kim. Please calm your anger—"
"As long as you understand."
"...."
With an aura like she was ready to descend into hell and rip off Diablo's head, Miller—who had bravely stepped forward—was crushed in three seconds.
Pathetic. Truly disappointing, Miller.
Now was the time to show the dignity of a proud head of the household.
"No, seriously, what are you doing in a dangerous place like th—"
"You think you're in a position to raise your voice right now?"
"I'm sorry! I was wrong!"
I immediately dropped to my knees and begged.
Miller, don't look at me like that. This is… tactical positioning. Definitely not because Dorothy is gripping that rifle so tightly.
"So? Why are you here?"
"I should be asking you—"
"If you're being held here, I was going to blow their heads off and drag you back over the roof of the car. And if you're just mindlessly protesting with them, I was going to blow your head off."
"W-well, it's neither of those. The kids? What about the kids?"
"Don't change the subject. I left them with the neighbors for a bit. Do you know they were crying like the world had ended? They kept asking where their dad went."
I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…
Miller and I explained everything while practically rubbing our hands together in desperation, and Dorothy listened in silence with her arms crossed.
"So you just need to deliver that document?"
"Yeah. And then we're leaving immediately. Really. I just ducked out to avoid getting shot at by the cops. Once I hand this over, it's done. I was going straight home."
"I feel like I'm raising five kids here. Miller, could you ask them to hurry up with the document?"
"Understood!"
Overjoyed to leave, the traitor Miller ran off toward a large shack, leaving me alone with Dorothy.
"You're not hurt, right?"
"No."
"Good. The kids' eyes are all swollen from crying, so you're the one comforting them until we leave for Europe. Got it?"
"Of course."
"You talk a good game. Sigh… I may have liked your crazy side, but…"
I didn't need to hear the rest. I was wrong. Please just let me live.
As if our urging paid off, Miller soon returned, clutching a sheet of paper tightly in his hand.
Now we could leave.
"Shall we go?"
"Yeah. Let's get out of here quick. I'm worried about the kids."
And then—
A dreadful vibration from beyond the horizon.
That unmistakable engine rumble.
"M1917."
"Huh?"
"…Too late."
It had begun.
***
"Chief of Staff MacArthur."
"Yes."
"The President has made his decision."
War Secretary Patrick J. Hurley solemnly delivered the White House's command.
"After thorough deliberation, the White House has concluded that the group calling themselves the Milk Expeditionary Force are clearly a gathering of traitors attempting a communist revolution."
"That is correct. As previously reported by Army Intelligence, the rioters have occupied vacant government buildings, are staging sit-ins across the city, have refused police orders to disperse, and have even killed officers in the field."
Damn them.
MacArthur had already received directives from the White House and initiated a partial activation of War Plan White, preparing to suppress a domestic communist uprising.
Among the high officials in Washington, D.C., not a single person doubted that this would be the final confrontation determining the fate of the United States.
Russia.
And Germany.
Even the most autocratic and oppressive states had collapsed helplessly in the face of Red agitation.
Then what about the United States—a nation that always had one arm tied behind its back in the name of guaranteeing civil liberties? How vulnerable would it be to the schemes of the Reds?
Reds were like cockroaches. If even one appeared in plain sight, it meant hundreds were already swarming underground. Now that a mass of Reds had surfaced in D.C., just how many traitors were lurking across this vast nation?
Across the country, the National Guard and the Army were preparing to immediately suppress communist uprisings centered in major cities. Plans were also awaiting orders to subdue the Navy and Marine Corps—forces that had historically served as the spearhead of communist movements in the collapse of the two nations that had fallen before them.
"However, the President believes that those attempting to turn this land communist are merely a handful of agitators, and that most are innocent citizens swept up by their influence."
"The moment they fall for that agitation, they become enemies."
"That is a soldier's perspective. Until their conspiracy is fully exposed to the light of day, we must treat them as citizens of the United States."
Though Secretary Patrick J. Hurley and Chief of Staff Douglas MacArthur agreed that the nation—teetering on the brink—must be protected by any means necessary, they differed somewhat on the timing of those "means."
"First, neutralize the protesters who have taken to the streets and formed encampments. Use force if necessary."
"Yes, sir."
"And that damned Hooverv—no, that shantytown. Crack down on everyone residing there."
"Crack down… sir?"
The Secretary hesitated for a moment, then clenched his fist as if reaching a decision.
"Drive the protesters back into the shantytown. Then fully secure the area and collect fingerprints from every resident, rioter, and protester inside. Identifying the participants is the top priority."
As Secretary of War, he decided to exercise a very small degree of discretion.
Hoover's original order had been to "identify the protesters and then push them back into their original shantytown."
But that wouldn't catch the real agitators hiding within the settlement. The President was mistaken.
At least, that was the Secretary's judgment.
"And after that?"
"Release them. What comes next is for the judiciary."
"Mr. Secretary, we go through all the trouble of detaining them only to fingerprint and release them? Does that make any sense?"
"The Republican primary is coming up. If we get stabbed in the back over how we handle this riot? The moment that Red Curtis becomes president, the nation will fall to communism from another direction!"
He fired off his words like a machine gun.
"I've said it before—why was Lieutenant Colonel Yujin Kim kept in a frontline command, and in a tank unit of all places?"
"Are you questioning an elite officer of the U.S. Army simply because he is Curtis's son-in-law? The United States does not practice guilt by association."
"The most dangerous man in this country is him."
"That 'most dangerous man' is currently being detained by the protesters."
At MacArthur's words—spoken through clenched teeth—the Secretary's eyes widened.
"What are you talking about?"
"Exactly what it sounds like. That mob seized Lieutenant Colonel Kim as he passed by."
"And why do you rule out the possibility that he joined them voluntarily?"
"Are you serious? If he intended to join Reds aiming to overthrow the government, it would have made far more sense to do so while he commanded a tank battalion. Giving up that advantage to join now makes no sense."
Even Hurley—hardly favorable toward Yujin Kim—couldn't argue with MacArthur's perfectly logical analysis.
The irrational possibility that he had simply been swept up in the chaos never even crossed the minds of these two elites.
"…Very well. Then begin the suppression operation. This is a presidential order."
"Yes, sir."
And so, the day of fate arrived.
***
Standing before dozens of tanks, George S. Patton swept his sharp gaze over the elite unit—trained by Yujin Kim and honed by his own hand.
The time for hesitation was over.
That foolish, pitiful junior of his. Still too young to understand the world, he knew far too little about the minds of Reds who worshipped destruction and chaos.
It was obvious. Those filthy rioters—fit only to be struck down by lightning—must have preyed upon Kim's soft heart. And when he tried to comfort them, they must have threatened him at gunpoint and dragged him into that stinking Hooverville.
To crush Reds who sought to destroy the Constitution, who kidnapped a superior officer, who desired blood and disorder over law and order—
At last, the destined moment to uphold the honor of the Army had come.
"My men—true warriors!"
"KILL! KILL!! KILL!!!"
"Our seniors, once worthy of respect—those who defended freedom in Europe—are no more! Before those who have fallen for Red agitation commit unforgivable sins, it is our duty as their juniors to stop them—even if we must crack their skulls when words fail!!"
"KILL! KILL!! KILL!!!"
"Do not hesitate to strike down your former comrades! What honor or shame could remain for those who take a United States officer hostage?!
Only we can protect this nation! If we fall, the United States falls—and in a world of barbarism, our parents, our wives, our children will become playthings of the Reds! Do not hesitate, and do not retreat a single step!!"
"SIR, YES SIR!"
"Tanks—advance!!"
July 27, 1931.
1:50 PM.
The M1917 tank battalion under Major George Patton Jr. left its station and began advancing toward the protesters.
Behind them, the 12th Infantry Regiment marched forward in force, and one prepared unit after another advanced in formation—to crush the rioters and defend freedom.
To end everything.
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