Chapter 111

Grinning Army Maker (5)

Americans had always been hungry.

Not hungry in the literal sense, of course. How could they be? America was a land of abundance. This was a country where lobster had once been considered low-class food and Black slaves gnawed on fried chicken—hardly a place where people would go hungry.

What they lacked was history and tradition.

An endless stream of accusations that they were a rootless nation.

Of course, most Americans never openly displayed any inferiority complex about such things. An inferiority complex? What nonsense. Any man petty and unmanly enough to act like that ought to have his manhood torn off immediately!

And yet, precisely because of that, such feelings piled up deep within their hearts.

Like a gleaming bald man feeling inferior about a full head of hair.

Like someone who never even knocked on a school’s door feeling inferior toward the educated.

Like a man who struck it rich overnight feeling inferior toward noble families.

This wasn’t about success or failure. It was simply anger at something you never had—and never would.

What was the point of inventing all sorts of things and churning out technology? Could that create a history where none existed?

Worse still, much of that innovation was built on technology stolen from Europe—while being cursed as uncivilized Yankees with no sense of fair trade. Just as Japan copied the U.S., Korea copied Japan, and China copied Korea, the United States had copied Europe.

Through The Sun, I began to scratch at that itch.

“Tanks? What kind of new weapon is that?”

“They say they’re going to fight wars with tractors.”

That was about the extent of public awareness.

“Do not hand over the symbol of the United States to foreign powers!!”

“We will not trade away our pride for thirty pieces of silver!!”

“The government and Congress must explain themselves immediately!”

Just look at that sea of waving Stars and Stripes.

It was intoxicating—thrilling. More addictive than opium, sweeter than whiskey.

With just a few lines of articles, tanks had somehow transformed into a symbol of the United States. They became a treasure coveted by all of Europe—a goblin’s hoard, a jewel of the nation that couldn’t be traded even for India.

How things escalated to this point was… complicated.

[The British Royal Family sends a secret envoy, offering gold equal to the tank’s weight?!]

[The Reds’ ambitions of invasion! The Jewish conspiracy hidden behind it!]

[Fire breaks out in Detroit! Sabotage by spies?!]

In the United States—the land of monsters birthed by capitalism—once people saw that The Sun made money, there was no way they’d sit still.

They called it urakka in industry slang, I think? Countless knockoff papers sprang up.

And it didn’t take long for them to realize that copying The Sun’s killer content was the easiest way to make money. If The Sun sold out, people would settle for their papers instead.

So when The Sun lit the signal fire in earnest, all sorts of kindling followed, churning out even more sensational, even more reckless, “believe it or not” articles. This was like swimming without even getting your feet wet.

But as long as Yujin Kim was around, they couldn’t keep up with cutting-edge flair. Try harder for another ten years, amateurs.

“Isn’t this working a bit too well?”

“It’s because others are following along.”

“Even so, this is beyond what I expected. Aren’t tanks just military weapons? They’re not like battleships—symbols of national pride.”

“True. But now they are. At least, that’s what the public believes.”

The chairman looked thoroughly bewildered.

“More importantly… how do you plan to handle the aftermath?”

“What’s there to worry about? Nothing’s happened, has it?”

“But it’s true you tried to sell them to the Soviets!!”

“If the deal fell through, then it’s over, isn’t it? Haha.”

Still, a bit of truth always makes a story far more destructive.

A secret proposal had indeed come, but the chairman rejected it outright. Diplomatic relations weren’t even properly established yet, and this was before the New Economic Policy (NEP) took off. Who would invest in a land crawling with Reds?

“Some of our associates are getting nervous. If The Sun gets investigated, they won’t be pleased.”

“I’ve already taken care of that.”

I had already coordinated with Hoover. And if things really went south, we could just slap on a flashy headline like:

[Chairman Ford Denounces the Reds, Proclaiming the Value of Freedom and the American Dream!]

The more I thought about it, the more impressive Hoover seemed. There were countless big names tied to The Sun—how did he trace it back to me?

Anyway, The Sun’s role ended here.

It had done more than enough to stir public interest. There was nothing more to squeeze out of it—and it shouldn’t be pushed further.

And just as I expected, things began unfolding accordingly.

[Treasure of the United States? No—A Burden on the Nation!]

[Disposable Scrap Metal, Built on Taxpayers’ Tears!]

[How Many American Soldiers Equal One Tank?!]

Naturally, if the tank program collapsed, other military contractors would profit. In this capitalist jungle, win-win situations were rare. It was a brutal battlefield over a limited pie.

Seeing how quickly they responded with low-grade propaganda and fabrication, America truly was something else.

The National Defense Act, which had been on the verge of a vote, was dragged back into the center of political warfare. Regardless of party lines, lawmakers clashed fiercely—support and opposition, slander and counterattacks—driven by their own interests and beliefs.

Amid that chaos, I attended a party held at Pershing’s residence.

“Welcome.”

“It’s been a while, General.”

The authority of King-God-Emperor-General Pershing now resounded across the entire United States.

General March, the de facto leader of the opposing faction, had finally retired.

And naturally, without dispute, Pershing became the new Chief of Staff of the Army.

The Chaumont faction achieved complete victory, and those who had once opposed March scattered in all directions. Their only options now were to take off their uniforms or be demoted to obscurity.

Yet despite this overwhelming victory, Pershing—now at the pinnacle of the U.S. Army—seemed… somewhat drained.

The Pershing I met in Chaumont had burned with anger at the dismissive treatment from Britain and France, determined to uphold the honor and glory of the United States, and deeply conscious of his responsibility.

But had reaching the top extinguished that fire? Or was it the lingering regret of never becoming president, like Andrew Jackson or Grant?

The Pershing I saw today lacked that same blazing passion.

“So, how’s military life treating you?”

“Thanks to your consideration, I’m doing well day by day.”

“More than mine, it’s Marshall’s consideration that matters.”

Pershing then subtly gestured toward the woman clinging to his arm.

Yeah. I’d been curious this whole time. Who is this young lady? Definitely not his daughter.

“This is Louise Cromwell Brooks. A very prominent lady in high society.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Yujin Kim.”

“I’ve heard so much about you from Mr. Pershing. Please, call me Louise.”

Looks like he’s getting remarried. No wonder he kept smiling faintly whenever he looked at her… though… that age gap…

“I’ll greet you again properly when I have the chance.”

“Thank you for being considerate. There are quite a lot of people trying to get a word with me. Enjoy yourself.”

“Come visit sometime~”

Wherever Pershing and Miss Brooks took a step, crowds swarmed around them like a school of sardines—everyone eager to exchange a greeting or leave an impression.

Which made me wonder… did being personally greeted by Pershing mean I was held in fairly high regard?

I glanced around just in case, and the looks people were giving me were anything but ordinary.

‘Why is that bastard here?!’
‘Why would the General invite that punk?!’
‘For a yellow monkey, no less!!’

Hmm… I could practically see the speech bubbles. The jealousy and envy were pouring down like rain.

If someone hates me for no reason, I’m the kind of guy who’ll gladly give them a reason. Life’s only going to get more miserable for you because of me, so look forward to it, you bastards.

In the distance, I spotted Drum chatting with a few people, smiling the whole time.

On the complete opposite side, Marshall was engaged in a serious conversation. Just looking at him, it was obvious—he’d come all the way to someone else’s party just to talk business.

If I wandered over there carelessly with a wine glass in hand, I’d definitely get roped into work too. Better to go later. A wise man avoids danger. No way I’m voluntarily diving into that overtime hell.

So then… who am I supposed to hang out with?

“Junior.”

“Whoa, you startled me. Wait, you got invited here too?”

“Well… it just worked out that way.”

MacArthur grinned.

Right. The living have to keep living. MacArthur still had a military career ahead of him, so he’d bend where needed and play it smooth.

In a few years, he’d be mentioned as a candidate for Chief of Staff anyway. No point stirring up trouble here.

“Seems like the mood back home is changing.”

“Yes. The public’s more favorable toward tanks than I expected.”

“Was that your doing?”

“You think a mere major can manipulate public opinion? Are you having delusions again? Like… mind control waves or something—”

“You keep treating me like a lunatic. I had my reasons back then.”

“The brave men of the 1st Division captured a German spy~ Oh, Brigadier General MacArthur of the 84th Brigade is a German spy~ Mmph! Mmph!!”

MacArthur quickly clamped a hand over my mouth—the one not holding his wine glass.

“If you sing that damn song one more time, it’s a duel. And tell Patton I’ll be visiting him with a pistol soon enough.”

“Mmph! Mmph!!”

“Understood?”

“Mmph!”

Whew. I could finally breathe again. For a second there, I genuinely felt killing intent.

“I have an appointment today, so I’ll excuse myself for now. I’ll see you later if there’s time.”

“Understood. I’ll be around, so drop by if you get a chance.”

Left alone, I began making the rounds—greeting various officers and high-ranking figures, working hard to put my face out there.

“Major Kim! Is Chairman Ford in good health?”

“Of course. He’s a man who could work another fifty years.”

“Really? With tanks suddenly getting all this attention, did he happen to… say anything?”

“He’s quite bewildered. Honestly, he’d probably rather people pay more attention to the Model T.”

“Haha!! By the way, we’re curious whether Chairman Ford might be interested in a new tank procurement project. If possible, perhaps a consortium with us—”

Work.

“I heard you had a daughter. Congressman Curtis must be delighted.”

“He is, very much so, haha.”

“Kansas is benefiting from this US MILK deal, so I imagine he hasn’t stopped smiling. Do you think I could pay him a personal visit?”

“Of course. I’ll send my father-in-law a telegram soon.”

Work.

It was work everywhere.

Wow. I feel like I’m going to die.

As I went about this, the back of my head kept itching. When I glanced back, Drum and Marshall were practically shooting laser beams at me with their eyes.

What the hell is this? Why are they glaring at me like that—like they’re asking why I haven’t come over yet?

This place is hell.

Now that I look closely, those two are in a pride battle. They’re competing over which one I go to first! These grown men—acting like children!

Is this why people say all men are just kids? I’m sick of it. At this rate, before all these people split me into “Yu/Jin/Kim,” Drum and Marshall are going to chop me into pieces first.

So I deliberately avoided both of them, stuck to purely work-related conversations, and eventually, unable to stand the suffocating atmosphere any longer, slipped out into the backyard.

The moment I stepped outside, laughter echoed everywhere, along with the sounds of men and women tangled together—playing in vivid Dolby surround. Well, that’s what parties are like.

I tried to find a secluded spot, but that was a mistake. The most secluded places were exactly where people came to get… intimate. Naturally, someone was already there.

After wandering around for quite a while, I finally found a hidden corner where I could at least smoke a cigarette.

Click. The match lit, and the harsh nicotine filled my throat.

Yeah… at this rate, when am I ever going to quit smoking?

As I absentmindedly smoked, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Soon, I could vaguely make out a couple nearby, locked in a heated kiss.

“What the…?”

I couldn’t see the man clearly, but the woman—

It was Miss Brooks, the one I’d just been introduced to.

But no matter how I looked at it, the man wasn’t Pershing.

What the hell is this? At a party hosted at Pershing’s own house, the lady of the house is making out with another man like that? Even if they’re not married yet, that’s just basic manners!

The Confucian gentleman inside me couldn’t tolerate this. No matter how much of an old-school man Pershing was, he didn’t deserve this.

I immediately strode toward the damn couple.

I’ll shoot the man, shoot the woman too. Fair and equal—then toss them both into the Hudson River.

“Ah!”

“Hey, you thunderstruck idiots! No matter what, whose yard do you think this is?! Did you really think you’d get away with this?! Huh?!”

“Junior?”

What?

“Why… are you here, sir?”

“It’s a misunderstanding—a misunderstanding! Just… just hear me out. Put the pistol away.”

MacArthur frantically waved both hands while wiping a mark off his cheek.

…What the hell.

America really is something else.

Now it’s come to this—a full-blown romantic scandal?