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After stepping out and cautiously walking across two blocks, confirming no one was watching him, Josh finally let out a breath of relief and entered a nice restaurant by the roadside.
It had been a week since he transmigrated, and the best thing he had eaten was just a hamburger. Now that he finally had money, he naturally had to enjoy a proper meal.
Yes, there was no doubt—Josh was a transmigrator.
Originally, he had just been a low-level white-collar worker in a third-tier city in 21st-century Xia Country.
All he had done was have a few drinks with a heartbroken friend, and the next thing he knew, he woke up in 1943 Chicago, turned into a 15-year-old street kid.
God have mercy, Josh hadn't come from a wealthy background in his previous life, but at least he had a car and an apartment, living a fairly comfortable middle-class life. He was just past 30—his prime years.
Though he often read web novels, he had never seriously thought about transmigrating.
If anyone was a typical transmigrator candidate, it should've been that childhood friend of his—failed business, dumped by his girlfriend of eight years, life a complete mess. Wasn't that the usual template?
Had heaven misclicked when selecting?
Well, now he was in 1943 Chicago, forcibly enrolled in the "St. Orphanage" shared universe, constantly worrying about his next meal.
The only upside? He'd gained back over ten years of youth, now 15 again.
But this extra life wasn't exactly free—given the conditions of the era, who knew how long he could survive?
Another piece of relatively good news was that the original body hadn't always been an orphan. His parents, who were both legitimate U.S. citizens, had only died in an accident less than six months prior—not undocumented or anything.
Moreover, although they hadn't left him much, at least they'd left a small apartment, so he wasn't completely without a place to sleep.
Once inside the restaurant, Josh didn't order anything extravagant.
A big American-style meatloaf, a serving of fries, a mac and cheese, a salad, and a large glass of Coca-Cola.
A standard American blue-collar set meal—very filling.
As for the taste… it was just okay.
What surprised Josh was the Coca-Cola of this era—it tasted much stronger than the future version.
Since he was still in his growth years, Josh quickly devoured everything.
After eating, he paid the bill—75 cents.
Cheap? Not really. If you calculated based on the official gold exchange rate, this was equivalent to over thirty dollars in early 21st-century money.
Just a few years ago during the Great Depression, such a meal wouldn't have cost more than 50 cents.
The reason for the price hike now was wartime scarcity of resources.
Indeed, to support both the European and Asian battlefronts, even the U.S.—a country untouched by war—had seen rising prices since 1941, and by May 1942, had already implemented a nationwide rationing system.
Each person was issued a ration book every month with 48 blue points and 64 red points—plastic tokens.
'Blue points' were for canned, bottled, and processed foods; 'red points' for meat, fish, and dairy.
Ordinary citizens could only buy goods according to their rations. Only stores and restaurants received extra allotments. All remaining supplies were sent to the front lines.
At the front lines, an average infantry soldier's rations were three to four times those of civilians.
In short, everything was geared toward serving the war effort.
This rationing system would only begin phasing out in late 1944, when U.S. production peaked and surpluses started to appear.
Of course, just like the Prohibition-era bootlegging, as long as you were willing to spend, you could always buy more than your share.
After the satisfying meal, Josh left the restaurant. Once again confirming that no one was following him, he relaxed as he strolled down the street and flagged down a taxi.
Don't be surprised—even cities like Modu in Xia Country had taxis back then, let alone the U.S.
After giving the driver an address, the car started moving.
Soon, they arrived at a used car dealership.
As the world's number one industrial power at the time, the U.S. had an astonishing number of cars. By 1937, the car ownership rate had already reached 25%.
In other words, one in every four Americans had a car.
Most of them were concentrated in big cities.
Especially in major industrial hubs like Chicago.
Cars weren't expensive either. A brand-new base model Ford Model A only cost about five to six hundred dollars.
However, after the U.S. officially entered WWII, all major companies had been temporarily banned from producing civilian cars, shifting instead to full military production. So new cars were hard to find and, like most resources, were rationed—usually reserved for doctors, pastors, and other special occupations.
Gasoline and tires were also rationed.
Compared to that, getting a driver's license was easy.
Although basic traffic laws had been implemented more than a decade ago due to the high car ownership rate, they were still not strictly enforced.
So even though Josh was technically a bit underage, with a little extra cash, he could still get a license without issue.
He wasn't too fussy about getting a new car either—just needed a working used one.
After all, Chicago was huge, and having a car would make things much easier.
And though gas and tires were rationed, like always—money solved everything.
Eventually, Josh spent $200 on a well-maintained, fully fueled second-hand Ford.
But that also cut his remaining assets by nearly half.
With the car now his, Josh casually got on the road.
To be honest, after getting used to automatic transmissions in his previous life, switching to this old-school manual was a bit awkward at first. But traffic rules were simpler back then, so Josh didn't have much trouble on the road.
Soon, Josh drove to a somewhat remote gun store.
Walking inside, he was greeted by rows of various firearms.
Don't underestimate the firepower of this era—though not as advanced as later models, keep in mind that the U.S. didn't have anything like the 1986 Automatic Weapons Ban back then.
That meant stores could sell not just Thompson submachine guns, M1918 Brownings, and Colt automatic pistols, but even heavy machine guns like the Colt M1895—ridiculous.
But Josh was just window-shopping those—way too expensive.
Early Thompson guns were prohibitively expensive—over $200 each. Though the price had come down over the years thanks to improvements, it still cost over $70 wholesale.
Retail prices had also spiked due to the war—now marked at $108.
At that price, Josh could only afford two at most, and the ammo costs would be unsustainable.
Guns like the M1 Garand were even worse, with a retail price of $150—far out of his budget.
So Josh was eyeing a WWI-era relic.
Not the Springfield. Thanks to its excellent performance, the Springfield was still widely used in WWII, leading to high demand and steep prices.
Josh wanted its backup counterpart—the M1917.
Due to its simpler structure, it had been mass-produced during WWI and then retired post-war. Some were sold off, and over a million were put into storage.
Though later brought back for training or foreign aid in WWII, it saw little actual combat. That meant a huge domestic surplus—and a very cheap price.
A rifle plus 1,000 rounds of ammo for just $45—a true bargain.
At the time, many civilian hunters and sport shooters opted for this model.
"What can I get you, sir?" asked the chubby shopkeeper. Beside him stood a similarly plump young man, likely his son, about the same age as Josh.
"I'll take four M1917s. And one M1911," Josh replied directly.
The rifles were for resale; the M1911 was for his own self-defense.
Though a bit surprised by the bulk order, the shopkeeper didn't ask questions. Having lived through the Great Depression, he'd seen it all. Even John Dillinger once bought a gun from him.
As far as he was concerned—if the customer paid, what he did with the guns was none of his business.