Milk, Blood, and the Blue Star (7)
After a few rounds of drinks had gone around—
"Now then, let's talk about what comes next."
"I'll listen carefully if you have good advice to offer."
My father-in-law, who had been smiling warmly until then, wiped the expression clean off his face as he spoke.
This wasn't the place for me to act like I knew everything. Douglas MacArthur didn't even know the extent of all the things I'd done, and there was no need to brag. Besides, my father-in-law knew far more than I did anyway.
"So, have you considered entering politics?"
"I'm not sure."
MacArthur, looking troubled, slowly pulled out his pipe.
"At the very least, there was no falsehood in the statement I made that day. Since the day I was born, I have never once considered any profession other than being a soldier."
"When Brooks tried to convince you to join a securities firm—"
"My dear junior, I'm so grateful you brought her up again that I'm tempted to hit you just once. Would that be alright?"
…Yeah, if I keep talking, I'm definitely getting smacked. Better shut up.
"Yes. Until I turned sixty-four and retired, I never imagined there would come a day I would take off this uniform. But now I must take responsibility for my choices—and consider a new line of work."
"That's how jobs go. In times like these, there's nothing more meaningless than the idea of guaranteed tenure. Just look at how many soldiers have requested discharge over the past few years, saying they had no future."
"That's true. But my main concern is something else. If I enter politics, I would likely become a legislator. Outside of military matters, I'm practically a blank slate—how could I possibly serve a constituency?"
Oh? So he's thought about it at least.
MacArthur was certainly intelligent, but someone who had lived his entire life inside military barracks couldn't know much about the outside world. Regardless of media attention, his political and social perspective was bound to be narrow.
"You'll have to learn. Many politicians come from other professions at the end of their careers. If you play to your strengths, there shouldn't be much of a problem."
"My strengths…"
As he pondered, my father-in-law began laying out options, as if guiding his decision.
"First. If you're not drawn to elected office, you could join a party and aim for Secretary of War in the next administration."
"That does sound appealing."
"It's a bit ironic for me to say this, but the Republican Party has lost its ability to govern. If you want a cabinet position, you'll have to go to the Democrats. They'd be eager to recruit you for the symbolism alone."
MacArthur under Franklin D. Roosevelt… what a dazzling lineup.
"So, what do you think of the Democrats?"
"I will never—join—the Democratic Party."
That emphasis. Sharp as a blade.
"A few years ago, I was assigned as commander of the Fourth Corps."
Ah… I see where this is going.
Less than three months after taking command of the Fourth Corps, he'd been reassigned to the Third Corps.
"The Fourth Corps is based in Atlanta, Georgia. As you know, that's Dixie territory. The moment I took command, those Southern yokels raised hell. Why? Because I am the son of the great Arthur MacArthur."
"That's unfortunate."
"Descendants of traitors who once aimed their guns at the United States showed not even the slightest respect for someone who defended it. And which party shields those people? The Democrats. No matter how much I need a new career, I refuse to associate with such trash."
MacArthur lifted his glass as if nothing were wrong, but his hand trembled.
His pride—his very identity—came from his father. To have that insulted so directly… there was no way he could let it go.
"And furthermore, Democratic President Woodrow Wilson ignited the seeds of the next great war through the deception of the Treaty of Versailles. No soldier could easily favor the Democratic Party. Perhaps, as someone once said…"
He glanced at me.
"…people in the future will call the last war the 'First World War.'"
Why are you looking at me like that? You're going to burn a hole through my face. Yujin knows nothing.
"Then the Republicans it is. That's naturally good news for us."
"Yes. But will the Republicans welcome someone like me—after I've reduced Hoover to this state?"
"Of course. Hoover is, to put it bluntly, like a urine-soaked blanket. Everyone in the Republican Party wants to forget him. Your very entry into the party would serve as its absolution."
That was the only viable exit strategy for the Republicans.
Pin everything on Hoover, and move forward.
Politics really is strange. The very man who shook the party is the one it welcomes.
"Now I'll ask you. Would you consider becoming a congressman—or a governor?"
"I don't really have a place I'd call home. Usually, one runs where they have ties. I was born in Arkansas, but I wouldn't say I'm particularly attached to it…"
Honestly, if you asked where MacArthur had any attachment at all, it might be the Philippines.
My father-in-law paused for a moment, then spoke.
"How about a Senate seat from Kansas?"
"…Sir, what are you saying?!"
"What? Is it a waste? If my son-in-law wants to run instead, I can take it back."
"No, it's not that—"
"Then it's settled."
Why? Why, why??
As if I didn't even need to ask, my father-in-law set down his cigar and spoke calmly.
"Of course, I have my own ambitions of reaching the White House. But at this point, my chances are lower than being struck by lightning."
That may be true, but couldn't you just serve another six years as senator from Kansas?
"No matter what, I'll be pushed as the Republican presidential candidate next year. You understand why, don't you?"
A poisoned chalice.
As the leader of the anti-Hoover faction, Curtis couldn't refuse.
And then he'd fight Franklin D. Roosevelt gloriously, lose, and retire from politics.
Even the hangers-on barely clinging to life under Hoover would be hoping for exactly this outcome.
Politics really is filthy.
"So I'll retire now instead. If I bring in General MacArthur and argue that I should step aside to mentor him as he transitions into politics, no one will have much to say against it."
"But you had your own dreams."
"If I remain, even the last embers of the Republican Party will die out. Sometimes you must take one step back to move two steps forward—isn't that the soldier's way?"
He turned back to MacArthur.
"Well? This is the best offer I can make."
"…It is a great honor that you would go so far for me."
"Haha! Don't worry about me. Think of it as an investment in the future."
As the two men forced smiles and shook hands, I quietly emptied my glass.
Was this fortunate—or unfortunate?
History had changed, and the future ahead was now blurred beyond recognition.
But… at the very least, something terrible had been prevented.
Watching an old man set aside his ambitions for the next generation, there wasn't much I could say.
And not long after—
"—the defendant, Douglas MacArthur, is hereby transferred to the reserve."
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The court-martial over the suppression of the Milk Expedition Army—and MacArthur's defiance—was carried out so hastily it was almost absurd.
The military, already under immense pressure from the Great Depression, seized the moment and went all in—loudly blaming Herbert Hoover with the argument: "This is what happens when politicians interfere with military operations!"
Meanwhile, Douglas MacArthur was elevated as a hero, gaining overwhelming support from the soldiers.
On top of that, when Curtis quietly attempted a deal—MacArthur joining the Republican Party in exchange for a Kansas Senate seat—the Republican leadership, practically on the verge of collapse, eagerly welcomed him.
Hoover? Who's that? Oh, the stamp machine sitting in the White House? If you don't like it, too bad—you shouldn't have become president.
I also gained a bit from all this. Thanks—truly, gratefully—to MacArthur's testimony that "I gave Yujin Kim a verbal secret order to investigate the true nature of the Milk Expedition Army," I was cleared of all charges.
Of course, to make that testimony happen, Drum and I had quietly coordinated things at Uvoke. As a result, Drum's earlier report about my detention was brushed off as "a minor confusion caused by poor information sharing in a rapidly evolving situation."
But if the intelligence division's initial assessment—that "Yujin Kim joined the protesters"—had gone through, I would've been in serious trouble. So in the end, Drum's involvement was a net positive for me, not a negative.
Meanwhile, within the Republican Party, the glorification of MacArthur reached its peak.
"Recognizing his distinguished service in the Great War, the United States Congress hereby awards the Medal of Honor to General Douglas MacArthur (Retired)!"
"Woooooah!!"
"MacArthur! MacArthur! MacArthur!"
['The Conscience of the United States,' General MacArthur Awarded the Medal of Honor!]
[Justice Prevails!]
[Even the White House Could Not Stop This Great Conscience!]
Officially, the award was for his unrecognized achievements during World War I.
But in reality, everyone understood the true reason:
He had defended the justice and honor of the United States against baseless red-baiting.
Thus, the Milk Expedition Army incident—now far removed from the course of the original history—ended with the birth of a great hero.
Surprisingly, despite all the chaos, the early bonus payments the protesters had demanded were quietly buried. Republicans and Democrats alike—politicians really are something. How do they manage to act as one like that?
At least some good came of it. The government provided compensation for injured protesters, and unemployed veterans were given public works jobs.
In any case—
A victory was a victory.
***
At the same time, across the Atlantic—in Germany.
Crash! Bang! Smash!!!
"This can't be happening!! This cannot be happening!"
"Mein Führer?"
"Oygen Kim! How—how could he betray the revolution like this?!"
Adolf Hitler roared, violently sweeping documents and a typewriter off his desk.
"This was an opportunity! A golden chance to liberate America from the evil capitalists and Jewish control! Why—why would he throw away the opportunity for a National Socialist revolution granted by heaven?!"
While Joseph Goebbels fumbled, unsure how to handle the outburst, Hitler trembled like a child witnessing something he shouldn't.
"How could he do this?! Unless he's sided with the Jews—unless he's chosen to join the corrupt—how could this be?! Traitor! Turncoat! You vile bastard! You can't trust anyone who isn't Aryan—this disgusting—!"
"We… we can't know the full situation in America, can we? Perhaps—perhaps something went wrong? Revolutions aren't exactly easy to carry out…"
At Goebbels' hastily improvised attempt at reasoning, Hitler dropped into a chair that had been knocked over and fell silent for a moment.
After a long pause, he began calmly gathering the scattered documents.
"That's right. Yes… that must be it."
"…Pardon?"
"There must be a reason. He's probably using this incident as a stepping stone for a National Socialist revolution. He'll seize power within a few years. Yes… Oygen Kim could never be a traitor."
"…."
Even a boy in first love wouldn't be this blinded. Goebbels had to suppress the irreverent thought that crept into his mind.
"Have you heard the news?"
"What is it? If it's about the upcoming election—"
"No. Oygen Kim is coming to Europe on an extended leave."
"Is that so? Will he be visiting Germany?"
"I'm not certain about that."
"Then we must invite him. Yes—what he lacked must have been conviction! If we show him that there are comrades of National Socialism all across Europe, he'll surely rise decisively! Call Hess—bring Hess here. Perhaps we can arrange for him to attend a party congress. Damn it, we need a gift. Something to display our might—"
"Understood."
"Don't call Hermann Göring. That pig is predictable. He'll just pester Kim asking for some 'card' or whatever. And if I suggest dinner—would that make him uncomfortable?"
"…I'll… try to arrange it appropriately."
I want to quit.
Watching his superior's absurdly intense, almost romantic obsession from the sidelines was giving Dr. Goebbels a splitting headache.
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