Chapter 13

How to Cope with Despair

West Point was an isolated place.

Aside from summer break, Christmas, or the occasional away sports match, there were almost no chances to go outside. With a setup like that, it was no wonder the sports-obsessed types were slowly losing their minds.

The place was so closed off that even Prime Minister Winston Churchill—who had attended a genuine British boarding school—was said to have remarked, "West Point is a monastery." Believe it or not.

After staring at the same tiresome faces for a year straight, a bunch of young men inevitably began shedding even their sense of shame and dignity.

"Ah~ I wanna have sex!"

"Don't shout that out loud, idiot."

Lock up a bunch of energetic teenage and twenty-something men, and of course this is what you get.

In a secluded corner of West Point's vast grounds, Bradley, who had just snapped at Van Fleet for his moronic outburst, did nothing but chain-smoke in silence.

"I'm running out of cigarettes."

"The guys who went out will bring some back. Yujin, when's the next shipment?"

"The instructors have tightened surveillance lately. Even the most oblivious idiots must've noticed by now that there've been a lot more cigarette butts around since last year. Honestly, they're slower to catch on than I expected."

Is this West Point or Alcatraz? Even I was starting to question my own sense of identity.

"Ike's lucky. He gets to go outside and everything. When do we get our turn?"

"He's practically half the leader over there now. If you're jealous, you should've become such a god of baseball that they'd ignore the fact you're only a second-year."

"Hah. Lucky bastards. Play one game, then sweep the stands with those brooding eyes, and the girls must swoon. Then he picks the prettiest one and—"

"James, James. Your head is truly full of demons. Where have you pawned off your duty and honor?"

"That stuff's for the guys who get to go outside. We've got to rot here another year before we can even think about that."

That was Omar's grumbling.

"Just you wait. The age of baseball is coming. One day, the West Point baseball team will reign over those football thugs. And the names Bradley and Yujin-Ho will live forever in baseball history."

Sorry. That era's not coming.

No matter how big Major League Baseball gets, I don't think it ever manages to shove the Super Bowl off its throne.

West Point was especially famous for its football team.

Maybe it was too obvious that I was looking at him like he was a pitiful idiot, because he frowned.

"What. When that day comes, why don't you quit being a soldier and go pro in baseball? A great mastermind coach of West Point like you could manage a professional team out there."

"Sure, sure. The day the crowd stops shooting yellow monkeys, I'll gladly become a coach."

"You twisted bastard… Can't you ever say anything nicely?"

You try living as a 'monkey' once. See if you stay polite.

I always feel this way, but it makes me want to succeed out of sheer spite. The idea that I can't even play because no one knows how the opposing team might react to an Asian baseball player—does that make any sense?

If I want my own generation to stop hearing "yellow monkey," I'll probably have to become a war hero at the very least. But the next generation… at least they should live in a free Korea.

"The old man's coming. Scatter."

"What? That's just a cigar."

"You'll get demerits if you're caught again. Stop being stingy about it."

"It's a cigar! A cigar, not a cigarette!"

"Then get caught alone. Yujin, let's go first."

"…You bastards. I'll curse you."

As this illustrious institution had so thoroughly taught us, we dropped into a crawl and quietly vacated the scene of the crime.

At least among the friends I made here, I didn't have to suffocate under endless talk about skin color.

It really was a brilliant youth.

The problem began that evening.

"Ike? What happened to your leg?"

"Tore a ligament. Damn it."

Among the football team returning from an away game, Eisenhower stood alone on crutches.

"It's nothing major. You know… a glorious wound."

"Cut the crap and get proper treatment."

"Yeah, yeah. Treatment. What I really need right now is tobacco therapy."

He casually began unwrapping the bandage around his leg.

Instead of a splint, an entire carton of cigarettes popped out.

"Y-you… you…!"

"You crazy bastard! You're the best!"

The guys beside him erupted in cheers for the brave smuggler, immediately stuffing packs into their pockets and inside their jackets.

"I like Ike! Is this the fall of Kim Trading and the dawn of Ike & Co.?"

"To smoke or not to smoke—that is the question."

"Pay up, you bastards. Don't think you're getting this on credit."

We gathered in Ike's room and happily lit up, thinking that was the end of it.

Of course, it wasn't.

"Did you hear?"

"Hear what? Mess hall food getting worse? That'd be impressive."

The next day at lunch.

As we forced down the usual flavorless stew and bread, Anastasio, seated beside me, whispered:

"Ike fell during riding class."

"What? Why?"

"Guess his knee injury was worse than we thought. It's a mess right now."

"Why the hell is he riding a horse instead of getting proper treatment…"

Something felt off.

Did something like this happen in the original timeline?

If my presence here had altered history in some way—

If some unknown butterfly effect caused the great soldier Eisenhower to quit the academy, what would happen to the world?

I'd felt the same chill when I learned Bradley wasn't exactly a stellar student. Every time something happened involving these future historical figures, I couldn't help but feel a strange shiver run down my spine.

"Why the long face? It's not like you smashed Ike's knee."

"I don't know… I just can't stop worrying."

The mess hall food wouldn't go down.

If it had been some rotten bastard with a trash personality getting sidelined like this, I might've applauded.

But this wasn't some distant historical figure named Eisenhower in a textbook.

It was Ike—the guy I'd watched up close.

He wasn't allowed to derail like this.

"Where is he lying down?"

"In the infirmary."

He rolled his eyes for a moment, then lowered his voice even further.

"You're not about to do something stupid, are you?"

"Stupid? Please. It's called 'comradeship.'"

"You insane bastard. Didn't you say you'd keep your head down and live quietly now? After the artillery salute incident, Sergeant Richard's still itching to kick that 'monkey' out of the academy, you know that, right?"

"Oh, just because that cotton-field son of a bitch barks a little, you think Yujin Kim's going to abandon a comrade?"

"No. No! The moment that cotton-field bastard writes ' Yujin Kim—suspended for exceeding demerits' with his damn quill, you're actually screwed."

Anastasio's voice had dropped into a deep baritone, like an echo rumbling through a tunnel. The worry pooling in his soft eyes almost made my chest ache—

Hongseong… Korean beef… man, I suddenly wanted a bulgogi burger.

"Listen. That overly sentimental Ike—who's four years older than us, by the way—is probably twisting himself into knots right now, whining that none of his friends came to see him."

"He's twisting because they confiscated his cigarettes, idiot. Vicente specifically told me that if you tried any nonsense, he'd break one of your ribs during fencing practice."

"My dear amigo, there's no fencing class left today."

I replied with utmost politeness. His expression darkened further. Poor guy.

I couldn't tell that innocent friend of mine the real reason—but if I could leave even a small, meaningful episode in the life of the great future General Eisenhower, then a few demerits—so long as I didn't get expelled—were a small price to pay.

Which meant that tonight, I'd have to climb out a window and pay him a visit.

Not because I was worried.

Absolutely not.

**

That night.

I made a quiet leap of conviction from the window, landing softly, maintaining such perfect stealth that even an assassin would weep in envy, and headed for the infirmary.

Naturally, there were rotating guards on watch. If I got caught sneaking out of the dormitory, it would be serious trouble—

"Senior Martin."

"Kim? You lunatic. You actually came? Sergeant Richard—"

"I've heard about that damn Richard bastard from you exactly thirty-five times already, sir. There's a Korean saying: 'Without loyalty, you're a corpse.' Now please, open the door."

"Fifteen minutes. Not a second more. If anyone comes, I'll kick this chair over. Hear that and run. Got it?"

Martin was on infirmary watch tonight—a baseball zealot rivaling Bradley.

After tasting true Giants-style baseball, he was no longer the stiff, old-school Dixie racist he used to be. Once again, sport had leapt clean over the wall of race and prejudice.

"You. If the instructors catch you, I'll kill you before they do. You know we've got a game against those Annapolis bastards soon, right? If you get suspended and can't play, I'll toss you into that pond where you catch everything but syphilis."

"Yessssir."

Click.

The heavy nineteenth-century lock turned, and the infirmary door creaked open.

"At this hour, who— Jin? Are you insane?"

Why does everyone call me crazy when a true friend shows up?

"I figured you'd be here alone, crying your eyes out in misery. And you call me insane? I'm hurt."

"That Southern redneck Richard is dying to draw a red line through your name—"

For the love of—Richard again? I'm going insane.

Instead of answering, I tossed Ike the last pack of cigarettes I had.

"My comrade. I, Eisenhower, shall never forget your courage and devotion."

You are so damn simple…

" Yujin."

"What?"

At last. He's opening his heart to me.
To claim the spot of Eisenhower's best friend—this suffering was worth it.

"You've gotta give me a light."

"You son of a—"

I overhand-threw a box of matches, and Ike caught it cleanly.

We sat there in silence, smoking for a long while.

He finally spoke when the second cigarette had burned halfway down.

"They told me to give up football."

"If I keep playing, my leg'll be wrecked for good. What can I do? I have to quit."

"Damn West Point. I never even planned on becoming a soldier. I just… I just came here to play football for free. And now I can't even do that. How the hell did it end up like this…"

I couldn't answer right away.

This wasn't something a few clever words could fix.

"Jin."

"What."

"If someone told you you could never do the one thing you wanted most again… what would you do?"

"That's not the same. 'You can't use your leg, so you can't be a soldier' and 'Monkeys can't be soldiers' are two completely different sentences."

"Feels like the same difficulty level to me. Honestly, I'm still surprised you're even holding out here."

I paused.

What could I say that would actually help the friend in front of me—this friend sinking into despair?

For now, I decided to tell my own story.

"I originally wanted to go to Annapolis. No matter how I thought about it, if there was going to be a war with the Japs, it'd be on the sea, not on land."

"Really? I was going to try for Annapolis too. Ended up here because of my age."

"Similar situation. West Point had, however rarely, accepted cadets like me before. Annapolis had never done it."

Contrary to what you might think, I'm not some indomitable crusader.

I just chose the place that seemed to have even the slightest chance.

Ike put another cigarette between his lips and quietly listened.

"I've never once thought, 'If this doesn't work, I'll die.' If Annapolis didn't work out? Then fine, West Point it is. That's all it was to me."

"So you're saying I should just… find something else, since football's over?"

"This is my life story. Your future is yours to decide."

Clang!

A heavy metallic crash echoed from outside.

No doubt about it—the chair had been kicked over.

"Shit. Someone's coming. I'm out."

"Hey—hey!"

"Quit moping! Damn it, you suck at football. No—actually, you're good, but you're not the kind of guy who makes a living off it. You're the type who plants himself in the army and sticks around till you're old and gray—five stars and all. That's your calling. I'm going!"

"Hey, you—!"

I dove out the window and ran like hell, so I never heard the rest of what Ike shouted after me.

Whatever it was, it probably would've been unbearably sentimental.

Not long after, Ike returned to class.

The laughter came back to him quickly enough.

But a few days later—

When the West Point football team got their souls ripped out 6–0 by Annapolis right on our own field, Eisenhower's face turned funereal all over again.