How to Fight the Darkness (6)
After chatting with Ike, I managed to get a brief chance to have tea with the Army Chief of Staff, General Fox Conner.
"So you're Kim? I've heard a lot about you."
"Thank you, sir."
"Yes, well. I met that fellow Ike back in Panama, and every time he opened his mouth, it was about you. I thought my ears would start bleeding from it! Hahaha!"
"General?"
"He'd go on and on—'Jin this, that bastard that~'—honestly, anyone listening might've thought you were his lover or his son! Hahaha!"
Ike's face turned bright red like a carrot.
Poor guy. Most people blush up to their forehead—he's blushing all the way to the crown now. Makes me crave some boiled octopus. Come to think of it, I haven't had octopus in ages.
Anyway, I should rescue poor Ike from becoming a human octopus. It's not like hair transplants exist in this era… maybe I should start a wig company?
In any case, even after speaking directly with someone as high up as the Chief of Staff about the tank issue, nothing much changed.
"The tank problem is something the high command, myself included, is taking very seriously."
"That's good to hear."
"But the Army currently has too many money-devouring projects. Do you know what those congressmen—who don't know a damn thing about war—are saying about adopting a new rifle? They're raising hell, asking why we need a new one when the Springfield rifle is good enough."
Whether in Korea or the United States, higher-ups all seemed to share the same mindset:
If it still works, why replace it?
Back in my previous life, I'd even seen soldiers carrying canteens stamped "US ARMY 1944," probably tasting like Normandy water. At least we weren't still using 60-year-old rifles—so that's something.
"Better guns, better ammunition, better tanks, better trucks, better aircraft… yes, we need all of it. But we don't have the money."
"In that case, I'll find the most efficient development plan within the budget. I'd appreciate it if you could entrust me with development authority."
"Well, that might be a bit—"
"What is the purpose of the experimental mechanized division in the first place? To develop and introduce experimental equipment, isn't it? I'll take full responsibility."
"Jin!!"
Ike nearly jumped out of his skin, but I didn't back down.
At the end of the day, soldiers are just government officials in uniform. And when bureaucrats clash, the one who says 'I'll take responsibility' is the one who wins.
"You don't need to bear that burden. However, you'll certainly be attacked over ties with defense contractors… are you prepared for that?"
"I've seen firsthand just how incompetent the Army arsenals are. Call it collusion or whatever you want—I'm not putting my men into those steel coffins."
After I said that much, General Conner slowly nodded. I'd already heard he was the type to go with the flow.
"Very well. Do as you see fit."
Right. Should've said that from the start.
***
With authority secured, the next step was identifying the root cause.
I immediately headed to the Deputy Chief of Staff's office to meet the evil German spy who had produced that horrific twin machine-gun turret.
Bang!!
"Who dares enter without an appointment—Kim?"
"…General Drum?"
"Of course. Didn't you see the nameplate outside?"
…Was this really what he looked like?
I glanced back and forth between the name "Hugh A. Drum" on the door and the man sitting before me.
"Colonel Kim, if you're here, sit down."
"You've… changed quite a bit, sir."
"Say one more word about my forehead getting wider, and you'd better be ready to get shot."
Right.
Even Drum—who lived and breathed ruthless politics—couldn't defy the iron command of genetics.
But that wasn't the only change. His eyes were hollow, his face gaunt to the point of emaciation, and his usually immaculate uniform looked worn and disheveled…
Had he turned into a wreck?
"Coffee?"
"Thank you."
"Hmph. I hear you've taken charge of the experimental mechanized division. Let me guess—you're here about the tank."
Before the aide could even bring the coffee, Drum had already nailed my purpose.
"That's right."
"So you came all the way to question why this Deputy Chief of Staff made that thing?"
"I'm not here to accuse you. I simply thought there might be… circumstances behind why someone as brilliant as you would design such a thing—"
"Circumstances? Circumstances?! Of course there are!"
Drum slammed the table in frustration.
"What the hell was Douglas MacArthur thinking?!"
"…Sir?"
"After becoming Chief of Staff, MacArthur kept pushing for mechanization and motorization. I agreed with the overall direction, even if we differed on specifics."
"Of course."
"But how the hell did he manage to stand in front of those lunatics and ask for more funding for tank development? Is that even humanly possible?!"
Drum twisted his body like a man having a PTSD episode.
The fact that he was defending MacArthur… just how deep did the darkness of Congress run?
No matter how skilled you are at politics, being torn apart by hundreds of career politicians would break anyone.
"When I argued that we needed powerful heavy tanks to safely deliver infantry to enemy trenches, do you know what they said?"
"What did they say?"
"They said heavy tanks would be hard to transport—so when war breaks out, we should just buy tanks locally. After all, no one's going to invade the United States."
Drum's hand trembled as he held his coffee. My head started shaking too.
Sure, in World War I the U.S. had used artillery from Britain and France—but still! What kind of insane logic is that?! It's so absurd it feels like something's about to burst out of my chest like an alien.
"Even so… that light tank turret seems a bit excessive—"
"I didn't propose it. Once heavy tank development was rejected, I lost all interest in tanks. I never realized the U.S. Army had this many multi-turret fanatics."
Coming from the Deputy Chief of Staff, that's a bit too honest.
I'd come here to confront him about that monstrosity—but instead, I ended up listening to his long rant and consoling him.
"Oh, by the way."
"Yes, sir?"
"You're getting a bit too close to George C. Marshall, aren't you?"
…What now?
I steadied myself and replied carefully.
"What do you mean?"
"You and Marshall are rivals, aren't you?"
This was getting ridiculous.
Still, I forced myself to hear him out.
"I'll most likely become the next Chief of Staff."
"Of course, sir."
Really? Will you?
"Conner is openly supporting Marshall, yes. But most of Marshall's support comes from field-grade officers—he lacks power. The senior generals are backing me. With that kind of support, even with Conner's backing, the next Chief of Staff will be me."
It wasn't entirely wrong…
But in the end, the Chief of Staff is chosen by the President.
Would Franklin D. Roosevelt—a man known for his sharp judgment—really pick someone as shallow as Drum?
…That was the real question.
Since I wasn't sure what to say, I just kept my mouth shut.
"Then you'll have to compete for the position after the next one. And by then… wouldn't your name start coming up too?"
"I'm still far too young for that, aren't I?"
"Douglas MacArthur became Chief of Staff in his fifties. And you've already been through battlefields alongside him. During the last war, George C. Marshall was just a colonel—but you already had stars on your shoulders."
Drum leaned in close, whispering like a snake hissing.
"A rising star of the Army like you should at least consider aiming for Chief of Staff. I'm saying this for your own good—start managing your career properly."
Me?
Chief of Staff?
Yujin Kim, Army Chief of Staff.
I'd only ever mentioned that as a bluff. I couldn't even begin to picture it.
Like I'd been possessed, I left the War Department in a daze.
***
"You're back? Why do you look like you sold your soul somewhere, junior?!"
"Ah… yes. I left my soul behind in D.C."
I brushed past the loudly rambling George S. Patton and sat down.
"First things first—we're scrapping those ugly twin-turret abominations."
"Good!!"
Patton clenched his fist tightly. At least one problem was solved.
"I'll contact Detroit immediately. Reassess the requirements for light and medium tanks to be adopted by U.S. Army units, and send new guidelines to Ford and the Army arsenals."
"What about heavy tanks?"
"They made such a fuss about costs that we had to abandon them."
Not my fault. You win some, you lose some.
"And the light and medium tanks—where will they be used? Infantry support?"
"They'll be used in separate armored units, or in cavalry roles. Oh—and let's also research a variant of the medium tank with a short-barreled 50mm or 75mm gun for infantry support."
"Excellent. Now things are finally starting to make sense! I knew we needed you to deal with those empty-headed fools! I'll get right on it and build the world's greatest ass-scratcher—something that'll tear apart Jerries and Tommies alike!"
His way of expression was getting more creative by the day. Truly impressive.
"So, why do you still look so out of it?"
"Drum told me to start preparing to become Chief of Staff."
Patton, who had been practically dancing moments ago, froze mid-motion.
"Chief of Staff?"
"Yes."
"You?"
"Even you think that's a bit much?"
"What are you talking about? Someone of your caliber absolutely has the right to aim for that position."
The fact that Patton said that calmly—without shouting or going wild—was somehow even more unsettling.
"But!"
He slammed the table with all his strength. Why was everyone banging tables today?
"Would you really be satisfied? Yes, I know the Chief of Staff position is an honorable one! But didn't we promise to lead our beloved tanks and crack open the skulls of any enemies threatening the United States?!"
No. No, you lunatic. I never made that promise. Stay away.
"If you become Chief of Staff, you can't become a war hero! You'd lose the chance to race across open fields with roaring engines, turning the screams of the enemy into a lullaby—while still being respected by all!"
Any lingering thought that he might be sane lately completely vanished.
There was no doubt—Patton was insane.
"You'd give up such a golden opportunity?!"
"The more I hear, the more I want to give it up."
"What nonsense is that?!"
Patton stomped his feet in frustration.
"You and I are the same kind of people! The type who'd rather rush to the front lines and fire guns than sit in the rear handling paperwork!"
"No, we are not! I'm not a psycho!"
"Don't deny your destiny! People like us only get treated like humans during war!"
"Stop talking nonsense and get back to work."
"Mark my words! If you ever have to choose between being Chief of Staff and the battlefield, you'll choose the battlefield every single time!"
That damned man left after hurling his final curse.
I'm exhausted.
Still… he wasn't entirely wrong.
Me? Chief of Staff? Beating out Marshall?
Are you insane?
That job is for someone like Marshall—someone who can manage the logistics and organization of millions of troops as easily as breathing. It's not suited to me.
And if I want to reach my goals, I'll have to go to the battlefield eventually. Sure, it felt a bit uneasy leaving the boys behind—but by the time World War II breaks out, I probably won't be fighting on the very front lines anyway. So it should be fine.
As I flipped through a calendar, thinking about future plans, one date—marked heavily in all sorts of colors—caught my eye.
"Adjutant."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll be taking about a week of leave soon. Make a note of it."
"Understood. May I ask the reason?"
"My father's seventieth birthday."
This time, I'd better do it properly—make it big enough to at least avoid being called an unfilial son.
But as the saying goes, too much courtesy can become a burden.
The result of three brothers' overlapping "small plans" to show filial piety was…
***
[Celebration for U.S.–Korea Relations]
[70th Birthday Banquet of Mr. Kim Sang-jun of Jukheon]
***
"Greetings, I am Vice President John Nance Garner. I came to congratulate a living embodiment of the American Dream—"
"Haha, welcome. Please, enjoy yourselves to the fullest."
"Hello, I'm W. E. B. Du Bois. Thank you for your continued efforts toward improving the rights of Black people—"
"Oh, not at all. It's thanks to the hardworking Black community that my sons' company prospers more each day."
"Greetings, I'm Charles Luciano, in the distribution business. Thank you for always supporting our operations—"
"Oh? I'm glad to hear that. Please, enjoy the food—there's plenty."
Watching this endless procession of guests, I began to feel a creeping sense of dread.
"Yushin."
"…What is it, hyung?"
"Why the hell did you invite that mafia bastard?"
"Then why did you invite the Vice President?"
"I didn't know he'd actually come!"
"I didn't know the mob boss would show up either!"
While we exchanged sighs, our father continued laughing heartily, warmly welcoming every guest.
At this rate… it seemed like we brothers were destined to remain unfilial sons forever.
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