Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 337 Yu Qian's Father, Old Master Wang (Bonus Scene at the End)
Several years ago, I had a rather profound conversation with a special figure in Washington.

For security reasons, I cannot disclose his identity further, but that conversation left a lingering question in my mind:

Can history be rewritten in a few moments?
In academic terms, these nodes are often referred to as "critical nodes." They often exhibit path-dependent effects; once a choice is made at this point and established, it becomes embedded in the system, becoming a long-term and difficult-to-reverse direction of development.

From a materialist standpoint, we must acknowledge that macroscopic structural forces are often more decisive than individual choices. The so-called "critical juncture," strictly speaking, may simply be an abstract description born of hindsight.

So, do material conditions ultimately determine an individual's choices? Or, at certain moments, do an individual's choices, in turn, influence the structure?

We don't know.

However, if we set aside these teleological and deterministic paradigms for the moment and try to re-examine these moments in a "what if" way, we will find a unique narrative.

A parallel timeline.

An unfulfilled part of history.

The information involved in the following creation is of unknown authenticity due to its antiquity; readers may wish to treat it as entertainment.

June 3, 1965.

Nearly a year and a half has passed since the Dallas shooting that shocked the nation.

Kennedy was killed by an assassin's bullet.

Successor Lyndon Johnson has just settled into the Oval Office.

He was faced with a complex and intricate world.

Protests continued in the streets of the South.

The calls for civil rights rose and fell.

The shadow of the Cold War is everywhere.

Arms race and nuclear proliferation.

The repercussions of the Cuban Missile Crisis have not yet subsided, and the Kremlin's rhetoric remains cold and hard.

In Asia, U.S. military advisory groups went deep into rural South Vietnam.

The front page of the newspaper was filled with discussions of the "domino theory".

If Vietnam falls, the entire Southeast Asia will fall into the red camp.

The Joint Chiefs of Staff repeatedly submitted documents demanding an expansion of the operation.

Johnson understood that his vision of a “great society” at home could be swallowed up by this rainforest at any moment.

He has always been adept at the calculations and compromises of congressional politics.

However, the current predicament goes far beyond the scope of Texas-style trading.

Fortunately, Johnson has Richard Russell.

More than 30 years of political experience.

The leading figure of the Southern Democratic Party.

Georgia State Senator.

Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee.

More importantly, he was Johnson's "mentor", "brother", and even "father".

Russell provided him with protection and guidance.

Johnson reciprocated with loyalty and respect.

However, this close relationship is now facing a test.

Washington, D.C., West Wing of the White House.

The office curtains were half-drawn, letting in the last rays of the setting sun.

Johnson couldn't help but let out a long sigh.

“Dick, I’ve fucking had enough of these generals’ advice.”

“McNamara and Westmoreland have a different plan every day. Today they say to send 20,000 more troops, tomorrow they say to bomb Hanoi. The day after tomorrow? Who knows what they'll say the day after tomorrow. In the end, nobody tells me when we can win.”

“Do you know what Congress thinks of me? They say Lyndon is spineless, that I’m afraid of communism. Those damn Washington journalists sitting in air-conditioned rooms, typing away like they’re the ones fighting the war.”

Richard Russell leaned back in his chair.

“You care too much about what they say, Lyndon.”

He took a deep drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled.

"You know what I think: Vietnam isn't worth it." "The French wasted decades and finally withdrew in disgrace."

"If we jump in after them, we'll inevitably be in another quagmire."

Johnson, however, didn't listen to a word of it.

"But if I back down, Dick, if I give in, then LBJ will lose the whole of Asia!"

At this point, his voice involuntarily rose a few decibels.

"How will history view me? Tell me—how will history view Truman? Truman who lost China!"

Russell simply shook his head calmly, as if he had heard this rhetoric before.

"History? Lyndon, history isn't written on the front page of a newspaper."

"History is like a young person lying in a coffin, whose parents faint from crying at the funeral. You think you can win by throwing hundreds of thousands of children into rice paddies?"

You can't win anything.

Johnson was stunned for a few seconds by his decisive conclusion.

His attitude softened quickly.

“Dick, you have to help me. You’re someone I trust.”

“You’re someone I’ve known since my first day in Washington. You have to help me. I need you on my side in this.”

Russell looked up and stared at Johnson for a long time.

“I support you, Lyndon.”

"But I do not support Vietnam."

After he finished speaking, the room was silent for a few seconds.

Johnson's fingers tapped incessantly, his expression filled with anxiety.

His voice was very low, almost as if he were talking to himself:

“I should be doing something else, like school, healthcare, or civil rights. But I’m constantly tied down by Vietnam. Damn it, every morning when I wake up, it’s on my desk.”

"Can't you just support me, Dick? If you just nod, half the Senate will follow you."

Upon hearing this, Russell extinguished his cigarette.

"Lydon, I told you, I support you."

"But I will not support a war that cannot be won."

"If you really want to make up your mind, that's your choice. Don't drag the whole country down with you."

Johnson remained silent for a long time before letting out a long sigh.

He looked at Russell, a hint of weariness flashing in his eyes, as if he had suddenly aged several years.

“Damn it, Dick. If you weren’t the person I trust most, I would have taken this as a betrayal long ago.”

He shook his head with a wry smile, then stood up, his movements clumsy.

"Forget it, you can go back now. I still have to see those damn reporters. Let them write whatever they want—'The President is indecisive,' 'Johnson is in a dilemma.'"

Johnson walked to the door, then turned back and stared at Russell.

"You're still my friend, right, Dick?"

There was a subtle plea in his words.

“Always,” Russell replied.

Johnson said nothing more and left the room.

The door slowly closed behind me.

"Click" sound.

Russell pondered for a moment, then got up and went to his desk.

He casually pulled out a notepad, picked up a pen, and wrote a few lines:

—Tomorrow, I will speak with the staff of the deputy director of the Armed Forces Commission.

—Send someone to Saigon and report by the 23rd at the latest.

Russell mentally reviewed the timeline again before folding the items and stuffing them into the inside pocket of his coat.
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The old photos will be posted at the end of the main text later.

This also avoids compressing the image quality.
@fob
(End of this chapter)