Milk, Blood, and the Blue Star (5)
Where should I place my next move—and how?
I can't use The Sun right away.
Those pot-bellied robber barons who invested in The Sun must be absolutely thrilled watching this disastrous "Milk Expedition Army" fiasco. From their perspective, nothing could be more satisfying than seeing the heads of those who came out in droves to siphon off state funds getting smashed.
So if The Sun is off the table…
No—wait. I was thinking about this wrong.
The bonus army of the original timeline was probably smaller in scale than the current Milk Army.
And yet, the very fact that I know about the Bonus Army incident means it must have exploded into a major event. That's certain. Even in the original history, Hoover's red-baiting must have failed, and the press would have turned into a swarm of piranhas, tearing into him with glee.
The Sun, after all, is still a newspaper that cares about circulation.
It won't be the first to take the lead in attacking Hoover, but once the winds start to shift, it won't hesitate to quickly raise the banner of anti-Hoover sentiment.
The next card I can think of is my father-in-law—but the situation isn't favorable for asking him for help either.
Right now, the central rural regions centered around Kansas are suffering from an unprecedented natural disaster known as the Dust Bowl.
Years of horrific drought combined with massive sandstorms. The easiest way to picture it is to imagine the dust storms from the movie Interstellar.
Compared to that, Korea's yellow dust storms are child's play. Farms, homes, factories—everything gets buried under sand. A truly horrifying catastrophe. Personally, I think even the movie doesn't do justice to how bad it really is.
And this Dust Bowl didn't hit a healthy America—it struck rural regions already ruined by years of bankruptcy, while the United States itself was sinking into the Great Depression. Doesn't it feel like the Earth itself is determined to destroy American agriculture?
With his constituency—and American rural society as a whole—on the brink of collapse from both internal and external crises, Congressman Curtis has no choice but to act cautiously.
So then, what card can I play now…
Just as I arrived where our beloved Chief of Staff was, Ike's shouting pierced straight into my ears.
"Does this make any sense to you at all, sir?!"
"..."
"According to eyewitnesses, Jin approached the Black protesters, and shortly after, the police began firing tear gas and live rounds, throwing the demonstration into chaos!"
"..."
"Black soldiers, sir! Then who else could it be? The 93rd Division!! Is it really the 'rational conclusion' you favor, General, that the soldiers of the 93rd Division kidnapped Jin?!"
"That's… a bit difficult to accept."
"One of the justifications for the suppression was completely flawed. We need to withdraw immediately."
"Adjutant, it seems you didn't read the orders properly. Yujin has nothing to do with this operation."
Of course, of course. I have nothing to do with it.
Which means—even if this kind Yujin returns, there shouldn't be any problem, right?
"Ugh—!"
"What is it? You look like you've seen Harding's ghost—junior?"
At Ike's stunned expression, MacArthur turned his head—and then froze stiff.
"I'm back."
"What in the world happened?"
"First, please take this. It's a request from the protesters."
Once again, I rapidly recounted everything—from the police's attempted suppression to everything that had happened up until now.
The horrific sight of Hooverville.
The wounded groaning everywhere—old men, children.
An environment where, trapped by police cordons, even fetching water from the river was nearly impossible.
And yet, despite all that, the veterans who proudly declared that their participation in the Great War was the most glorious memory of their lives.
The 93rd Division, the 1st Division, the 42nd Division—
Not a single one of those who had endured the trenches, the hills, the artillery fire told me they regretted it.
Even though crossing the Atlantic back then might have led them to this life—unable to find proper work, forced to live in these shantytowns—they remained astonishingly at peace.
Because they believed that, someday, the United States would reach out to them.
That was why they had even followed my advice and stored away all their weapons.
MacArthur and Ike stood rooted to the spot, unable to move as they listened.
"…That's how it happened."
"This is absurd."
"If they're not communists, then we must halt the suppression immediately."
"As I said earlier, these are the President's orders."
"Those orders were given under the assumption that they were insurgents aiming to overthrow the government!"
MacArthur looked like a puppet with its strings cut.
Was there ever a time when that man, always brimming with boundless confidence, looked like this?
"…Adjutant."
"Yes, sir."
"The suppression will continue—but we will change the method. Strictly non-lethal. We will quell the chaos among civilians and evacuate the rioters… no, the citizens… from the burning Hooverville."
"Understood."
"Also, distribute all tents and sleeping bags from the warehouses to those who have lost their homes. That is all."
"Continue the suppression? How many times must I say they're not communists—"
"I know."
He gestured toward the White House in the distance with his chin.
"But orders are orders."
"You've done well. I'll handle the rest."
"Will you really be alright?"
"As Chief of Staff, let me repeat my final order to you."
"..."
"Enjoy your leave. Give my regards to Mrs. Kim."
His steps looked heavier than ever before.
Like a man who had nothing left to do but put a pistol to his own head.
***
[To the citizens of the United States,]
[For the past several days, law enforcement authorities and officials of the Treasury Department have made efforts to persuade those occupying government buildings and private properties—commonly referred to as the "Milk Expedition Army"—to vacate. These buildings were scheduled to be opened and constructed as part of a government public works program aimed at promoting new employment.]
[This morning, the occupants were notified to evacuate. However, they obstructed the police's moderate and lawful enforcement efforts, and tens of thousands of armed individuals emerged from the shantytown, attacking the police unilaterally, resulting in two deaths and multiple injuries.]
[I have received reports from various officials in the District of Columbia stating that the "Milk Expedition Army" has no intention of obeying the law. Therefore, to put an end to this riot and disorder, I have ordered the Army to restore order.]
[The United States Congress has guaranteed all constitutional rights of these individuals—including freedom of assembly, speech, and petition—and has even provided travel expenses for their return home.]
[The majority of veterans agreed with these measures and returned to their hometowns. However, subversive elements who saw this as an opportunity for communist revolution have infiltrated the movement. We are already investigating these agitators and have secured evidence that they are a group composed of communists, malcontents, ex-convicts, and criminals.]
[Some well-meaning veterans may have been swept up by these agitators, but we believe they were unaware of the true nature of those beside them…]
***
Washington, D.C. was burning.
Just moments ago, to Douglas MacArthur, those flames had looked like the torch held high by the Statue of Liberty.
The result of a struggle to defend the nation's freedom.
A resolute determination never to hand over this noble country to subversives and communists.
But all of that had been nothing more than a hallucination visible only to him.
They were ordinary citizens of the United States.
There was no communist conspiracy.
And the proud United States Army had crushed the veterans of ten years ago beneath tanks and bayonets.
The statement of President Herbert Hoover, broadcast across radios and loudspeakers throughout D.C., had never sounded more repulsive.
This massive deception.
This horrific farce.
And the U.S. Army he commanded stood at the very center of it.
Even now, a voice in his head kept whispering relentlessly into his ear.
"Yujin Kim is ideologically suspect. Think about it. How much resentment and anger must an Asian have built up in his heart? He may not be a communist, but isn't it likely he's sympathetic to them?"
"He's a fine soldier, sure. But is he really a brilliant investigator capable of seeing through communist schemes? What if he was deceived? The moment the Army hesitates, what if the communists seize the chance and overturn this country? Can you take responsibility for that?"
"Get a grip! You don't really care about future criticism, do you? You led the suppression yourself because you wanted to become a savior of the nation. Are you going to end your career here? Don't you want the Medal of Honor?"
"I…"
Even now, he could still turn back.
Even now, he could shut his eyes, declare, "We have defended the United States," and proclaim victory.
Then nothing would happen.
Everyone would cheer for him, and the Douglas MacArthur who had defended freedom in Europe would be reborn as a true champion of liberty who had saved the United States itself.
"General?"
"Are all the reporters gathered?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is a broadcast possible?"
"Yes, sir! The President's statement is currently being transmitted, so—"
"Once that's finished, I'd like my words broadcast as well. Five minutes will be enough."
He had already announced a press statement in advance, so reporters crowded thickly around the suppression site.
He slowly stepped onto the platform.
"Shall we begin immediately?"
"Is the broadcast limited to D.C. only?"
"No, sir. It can be transmitted nationwide. If you prefer, we can limit it to the D.C. area—"
"That's perfect."
—That concludes the statement of President Herbert Hoover. Next, Chief of Staff of the United States Army, General Douglas MacArthur, will deliver his statement.
"You may begin."
He gave a slight nod, slowly scanned his surroundings, and brought his mouth to the microphone.
There was no turning back now.
Though he had long dreamed of the day when the entire nation would hear his voice, at this very moment he wanted nothing more than to run away.
But—
If he ran now, he would never again be able to stand with his head held high.
"Citizens of the United States."
His voice cracked slightly, but he could no longer suppress the flood of emotions rising from deep within his chest.
"No one in this world could look upon the smoke rising before us today and not feel despair.
And for me—whose lifelong calling has been devoted to protecting freedom and democracy—the despair I feel now is beyond words, as that very mission has been turned against the citizens of the United States, whom I have loved so dearly."
The reporters who had come expecting MacArthur's "declaration of victory" all raised their hands at once, but he ignored them and continued.
"I was born under my father, Arthur MacArthur, a proud recipient of the Medal of Honor, and I have never once taken interest in anything outside the military field. Therefore, I cannot offer you brilliant investigative analysis, poetic imagination, or a speech that will stir your hearts regarding today's tragedy.
Instead, I will speak only the truth—without grand metaphors.
The so-called 'Milk Expedition Army,' which the President has defined today as a 'communist uprising aimed at overthrowing the government,' is not, in any sense, the communist conspiracy he claims it to be.
I was informed that they were secretly gathering heavy weapons such as machine guns and mortars.
Yet nowhere in the burning Hooverville could any trace of such weapons be found.
I was told they had joined hands with gangs, malcontents, and criminals across the eastern United States to wield violence.
Yet among those subdued under the batons and bayonets of the military and police, not a single individual bore a record of serious crime.
I was told they had rejected all compromise from the executive and legislative branches and were prepared to destroy justice for their own gain.
Yet the demands they delivered to me moments ago were nothing more than water, bread, doctors for the elderly and infirm, and the meager milk delivery jobs they had earned with the blood they shed not long ago.
I was told they rejected the travel funds provided by the government to extract greater concessions.
Yet I have confirmed that those who refused to leave did so because they had no means to support their families if they returned home.
Since the day I first set foot at West Point, I have never once forgotten its spirit—Duty, Honor, Country.
But as a result of fulfilling my duty today, my country has shed the blood of its own citizens, and my honor has spilled onto the ground like milk.
My dreams and hopes are fading away with the smoke rising in the distance, but even now, I clearly remember a line from a military song I used to sing:
Old soldiers never die. They simply fade away.
And now, our hands are stained with the blood and cries of those very old soldiers.
Before it is too late, I pray that they may receive the respect and gratitude they deserve. I pray that what little remains of my honor—and that of the United States Army—may yet be preserved.
As of this moment, I take full responsibility for the tragic events of today and hereby request my retirement before the citizens of the United States.
May God bless all soldiers and citizens. I will now take my leave. Thank you."
A gust of wind knocked MacArthur's hat to the ground, but instead of picking it up, he quietly stepped down from the podium and slowly walked away.
A suffocating silence filled the air.
Even the most professional reporters stopped their pens mid-motion, staring blankly as the Chief of Staff descended from the stage.
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