Chapter 12

The Beginning of Sophomore Year

Dr. Rhee's thinking is painfully obvious.

In my relationship with Syngman Rhee, the overwhelming advantage I hold is this: I know exactly what kind of man he is—and what he will do in the future.

Of course, that doesn't mean I can simply discard him. At least, not for the time being.
After all, the man has connections to Woodrow Wilson, who will soon become president.

The next eight years will belong to Wilson.
And during those eight years, the world will plunge into the vast hell known as the First World War.

What matters more to me, however, is that my commissioning and early career as a junior officer will coincide precisely with Wilson's era.

Which means that until I become a genuine war hero—until I reach a level where I can survive in the U.S. Army on my own—Dr. Rhee is the joker card I can play if I'm ever driven into the worst possible corner.

Begging to be sent to Europe would be the worst move imaginable. When things truly go to hell—when I'm unjustly forced to take off the uniform—that's when I keep him in reserve as my emergency escape plan.

After that?

If I succeed in becoming a war hero in the First World War as planned, then once Woodrow Wilson's presidential term ends, Syngman Rhee's usefulness will be over.

If my popularity explodes, then that power-addicted Machiavellian, Rhee, will undoubtedly start seeing me not as a successor—but as a rival. Whether Ahn Chang-ho or Park Yong-man becomes the leader of the Korean community in America, either way it would be far more comfortable than dealing with Dr. Rhee.

Will I eliminate Syngman Rhee first?
Or will Syngman Rhee put a leash around my neck?

There are still ten years before I need to worry about that. And if I fail to earn distinction in the First World War, then such thoughts would amount to nothing more than utterly useless delusions.

Time is shorter than I expected.
Pushing those worries into a corner of my heart, I was finally able to spend a warm—though brief—time with my family.

A few days passed in a blur.

And when the moment felt right, I carefully brought up the subject.

"Money? Do you need an allowance?"
"No. I was thinking of starting a business—"

"I don't have that kind of money."

At Father's firm reply, I found myself at a loss for words.

"Of course, if I liquidate the business, the money would come. But no matter that you're the eldest son, I intend to pass my work down to the second."

"Ugh…"

At the Korean National Association, he had spoken boldly about dipping into his private funds—but in the end, there simply wasn't any money.

"More importantly… I'm not even sure whether what you're proposing has any proven business viability."

"Brother. The firearms business won't make money, at least not at first. The scale is a problem, and we lack the technical expertise."

"I know a bit about it too, but… I don't think this is it."

Second brother Kim Yushin. Third brother Kim Yuin.
When even my damned younger brothers opposed me, I was left completely isolated.

"There must be a reason you suddenly want to go into firearms. Is it difficult to explain?"

I thought it over carefully.

The future war—the First World War breaking out—was not, in truth, as directly tied to the 'business' I had in mind as one might think.

The real reason I had chosen firearms as my business item was simple: it was the most essential piece for shaping my image.

But to accumulate capital and prepare something properly right now… there were only two years left until the outbreak of war.

There wasn't as much time as I had thought.

"Brother… do you really think a war is coming?"

"Yes."

"Then wouldn't it be better to go into something like uniforms—"

"That would be just as hard. Supplying the military is never easy."

My head was starting to ache.
I had no choice but to shake it.

"In that case, regarding anything related to firearms, I'll seek help from Teacher Woodrow and Teacher Dosan, and try to proceed in a way that doesn't heavily rely on the family estate."

"I'm sorry I can't be of help."

"Instead, if you have any spare capital… please look into a company that manufactures barbed wire."

"Barbed wire? You mean the kind they put up around farms?"

For now, that was the sort of reaction barbed wire drew.

But any soldier who has tasted the 21st century would be obsessed with it.
Not just simple straight-line barbed wire—but the circular coils, the kind that haunt soldiers' nightmares. If we manufactured and sold that, we could probably make a killing just off patent fees from armies around the world—especially our friends in Europe.

"That much might be possible."

"And if there's truly enough capacity, please also look into a tractor company."

At this point in time, vehicles used for war are practically just 'armored cars'—to be precise, nothing more than ordinary automobiles with absurdly thick iron plates bolted onto them.

Around 1915, when I graduate, all I would need to do is present the War Department with a 'tractor fitted with a cannon and reinforced with steel plating.' There's no need for full-scale production or anything of the sort.

Was my preparation already too late?

Should I have flaunted genius from childhood, doing something extraordinary to set myself apart?

But that wouldn't have worked.

What I needed was not merely a reputation for knowing the future.
What I truly wanted was the reputation of having precisely predicted a cataclysmic war of Armageddon proportions—and having prepared for it.

The image I desired was that of a "young officer with remarkable foresight and promising potential," not some shaman riding a ritual blade. If I had started predicting war even before entering West Point? The moment I was labeled an Asian Rasputin or a mystic fortune-teller, I'd be finished—nothing more than a sideshow.

Imagining the massive storm clouds rolling in from distant Europe, I burned inwardly with frustration at still being bound to cadet status.

The short leave ended.

I returned to my sanctuary—my second home—West Point.

"Freshmen, huh."

"I wonder how many of them will survive?"*

"Hey, want to bet on who gets expelled first?"

Waiting for me was the happy Beast Barracks.

Ah… I had been waiting for this day. 

It seemed I wasn't the only one thinking that way. Van Fleet was grinning ear to ear, and Ike, too, was smirking like a boy who'd just been handed a fascinating new toy. Even the gentle, good-natured Bradley looked positively bloodthirsty. At that moment, West Point's corrupting influence on human character stood revealed for all the world to see.

But still… they were chicks.

Underclassmen. Our toys, really. Heh heh.

Thinking about all the things we'd endured in Beast Barracks last year—and how generously we might "pass them down" to our juniors—made it impossible not to beam, my shoulders almost bouncing in a cheerful rhythm. It wasn't my fault. This was entirely the fault of West Point's educational philosophy, which actively encouraged rotten hazing traditions and hierarchical abuse.

"From this moment on, you are beasts! Not human beings! If you wanted to be treated like humans, you should leave West Point right now!!"

Ah… a year ago, I had stood there and heard those very words.

Now that I looked at it, there must be a script. The line was delivered exactly the same, not a single syllable different, as if stamped from a mold. But judging by the way those trembling little lambs quivered, the speech was undeniably effective.

"Hey, Jin. Have a good trip home?"

"Don't tell me you came back empty-handed. Bring anything good?"

"Of course. West Point's general store is open for business again."

Upperclassmen Anastasio and Vicente approached, barely concealing their sly grins. As expected, the only thing on their minds was how to grind the new cadets down.

"Like every year, we've got a Filipino friend again."

"No worries. It's a bit awkward for us to help directly, you know?"

"Yeah. Look at that one. Frozen stiff."

In the distance, a cadet who unmistakably looked Filipino was energetically digging the ground with a shovel.

"Hey, hey. If he keeps shoveling like that, he'll wreck his back."

"We'll have to teach him properly, one step at a time. Want me to go give him a kick to get started?"

"Ah. The role of the bastard senior? McNarney's taking that this year."

"You're playing the savior."

Vicente grinned.

Wait—what? So all that before… was a scam?

"Oh, last year? What you went through was completely real."

Vicente shook his head and answered quickly.

"Well, you see… this year we don't have anyone that vicious. We've got a classmate who already wrote a page in West Point history as a cadet of color, so it seems there's no one bold enough to go around shouting 'blackie' or 'monkey' anymore."

According to Anastasio's ridiculous explanation, the cadets who had remained on campus went back and forth endlessly—"You do it." "No, that bastard's an Alabama hick, let him handle it." "You're the leader, so you do it."—until, in the end, the most vicious and heartless former racist among them, McNarney—who still believed that "blacks are a bit inferior anyway"—was "selected" for the role.

"How are things with McNarney? You okay?"

"Oh, he's improved a lot. Anyway, you and I are officially recognized as honorary whites by the United States, so we're comrades."

Good grief.
Right. If a person really changes, are they even the same person?

"Lately he's twisted it into some nonsense about 'it being the white man's duty to guide the colored races.'"

"Well, as long as he doesn't spout that 'inferiority' crap to a fellow cadet's face, I can live with it."

In any case, small talk could wait. This year, my assigned role was to play the knight in shining armor—rescuing the pitiful Filipino cadet from the wicked McNarney's enthusiastic hazing.

"And the new Cadet Brigade Commander has given you a secret directive, Yujin."

"What is it."

Benion, the former Cadet Brigade Commander, had of course left for commissioning. This year's Brigade Commander was an upperclassman named Francis Newcomer. I barely knew him—just a few classes together and a handful of times seeing him alongside Benion. What secret directive could he possibly have for me?

"Apparently we've got an exchange student from Nicaragua this year. He wants you to play the white knight for that one too."

"These people are all dumping the work on me."

"Think of it as trust. Better you than me, right?"

I'm a third-year now. Let me take it easy for once. Do your own damn work.

Vicente tossed out that final infuriating line, then burst into laughter and quietly disappeared.

As expected, our resident lunatic McNarney had grabbed hold of two cadets of color and was delivering his usual enthusiastic barrage.

"You bastards wanna die? Huh?? Who told you to drop your rifle! Get up and grab it, now!"

"Yes, sir!!"

"Yes, Upperclassman!!"

"You little punks. Your eyes look like rotten fish! Can't you get up faster? What are your names!"

"Garcia, sir!!"

"Diaz, sir!!"

"Screw that. Too hard to remember. From today on, you're 'Charcoal' and 'Coal.'"

No matter how I looked at it, that was his true calling. In his next life, he was clearly destined to be a drill sergeant straight out of legend. If this kept up, he might actually get shot in the middle of the night. I'd better step in before that happened.

"Hey, McNarney."

"What now, you el—" He bit his tongue mid-word. "I'm in the middle of training these brats. Go do your own job!"

That bastard. He almost said "monkey" just now—I could see it. Judging by the look on his face, biting his tongue must've hurt like hell. I'll let it slide.

"No matter how much they're beasts, you can't go around calling them that because of their skin color. Tone it down."

"…! Then you handle them! If these idiots get expelled, it's on you!!"

McNarney scurried off like a sulky little girl.

The wide-eyed chicks stared at me, their eyes shining as they watched me drive off the foul-mouthed white terror. Naturally, I had to live up to those expectations.

"What's this? Your grip's already weak on that rifle?"

"No, sir!!"

"What do you mean 'no'? This is outside—there is no 'no'! Drop and hold it!!"

Might as well put them through their paces a bit myself.