Chapter 15

Joyful Party (1)

Winter, 1912.

Just as the first flurries of snow began to drift down, we were granted Christmas leave.

Anastasio, who had come to New York from the warm subtropical Philippines, pitifully turned into a Charmander with its tail flame nearly extinguished, wrapping himself tightly in blankets before retreating to the infirmary.
Around this time last year, he'd been like some kind of hibernating rodent, unable to emerge from under the covers—but at least after surviving a full year, he wasn't quite on the verge of death anymore.

And so, West Point's Suicide Squad—no, the Avengers—namely Ike, Omar, James, and I, formed a proud four-man party and set off for Kansas.

"Kansas! My hometown! Let me tell you how great Kansas is—"
"Backwater."
"Hey. Just listen—Kansas is—"
"Famous for tornadoes."
"Careful. You might fall asleep at Ike's house and get blown away to Oz."

Sleeping one day in a remote Kansas farmhouse when a terrifying whirlwind—
No. Let's not go there. I'm not some old fossil… I'm young and fresh… very young and fresh….

Despite having his patriotic hometown pride ruthlessly suppressed, Ike spent several hours on the train preaching the greatness of Kansas.
Bradley, who hailed from Missouri—another near-identical rural backwater—kept needling him with, "Everything you're bragging about? We've got that in my town too."
Van Fleet from Florida and I, a native of San Francisco, joined in gleefully: "Boo, backwater boys!"

Since Ike's home was an even deeper countryside within Kansas, we headed first to Dyke's house, which was closer to the station.

"…What."
"That house is huge."
"Are you sure you didn't get the address wrong?"

A stereotypical American mansion.
A wide front yard and a massive fence. At a glance, it radiated refinement—clearly not the home of an average middle-class family.

The four sons of modest households—none born into wealth—could only stand there muttering nonsense in front of the gates.

Ike shook his head with a faint rattle.

"No… You think he gave us the wrong address because he didn't want to see us?"

"If that's really the case, we'll have to carry out a proper Kansas-style execution. First, let's call someone—"

While we were muttering among ourselves, the front door burst open and someone ran out, shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Ike! Guys!!"

"Long time no see."

"I thought you'd have withered away crying your eyes out after getting expelled, but you've put on weight instead."

"That's not putting on weight… Looks more like he's been stuffing his face all day."

Dyke had very obviously… rounded out.
The sharp, muscular build he once had was gone. What stood before us now was less a cadet and more a well-fed muscle pig. West Point had claimed another life…

"Come on in! My father's been waiting for you!"

"Your father?"

"Of course. I asked if I could invite my West Point friends, and he insisted I bring you. This Christmas party's going to be pretty big—"

"Wait. I never heard anything about that."

The pupils of four humble commoners began trembling in unison.
Our idea of a "party" had always meant drinking, smoking, singing, playing games, gossiping, and lamenting our womanless lives until the night ended.

But this? A mansion like this? And what did he mean, "pretty big"?
If a fairly well-off guy like Dyke said it would be "pretty big," just how dazzling was this thing going to be? We couldn't even estimate it.

We let out awkward noises like lambs being led to slaughter as Dyke dragged us inside. There, a broad-shouldered, dignified-looking gentleman was waiting.

"Welcome, pillars of the future U.S. Army!"

"Good evening, sir."

"Thank you for befriending my disappointing son. After he was dismissed, he wept for days on end. If not for the letters you sent him, I might have shipped him overseas."

We spent some time in the sitting room, sharing light refreshments and polite conversation.

**

Dyke's father was a physician—one of the leading figures in the community. It seemed that being a revered doctor was lucrative in any era.

We had absolutely conspired among ourselves to "chat politely for a bit and then slip away."
But Dyke's father had already boasted far and wide that "the young men who will one day lead America" would be attending this Christmas party.

Well… there were roughly a hundred cadets in each West Point class, so I couldn't exactly deny the claim.
In fact, the three of them—excluding me—would truly become pillars of America in the original course of history.

But thanks to that outrageous overpromotion, we had no choice but to be dragged straight into the party hall.

"Wow."

"Wow, holy—"

"Shh. We might get court-martialed for failing to maintain decorum."

"What are we even supposed to do here?"

"No idea. Let's just hide in a corner and chew on dinner rolls."

Even our carefully laid Plan B—to hole up quietly in a corner—failed without exception.
After all, four broad-shouldered, tall young men in full West Point dress uniforms huddled together were bound to attract attention whether we liked it or not.

"Damn. We've failed at camouflage."

"I need to review small-unit tactics."

Muttering like that, we ended up diligently greeting the people Dyke and his father introduced to us.

"Oh! Welcome to Kansas, young gentlemen."

"Good evening, sir!"

As the party warmed up, the ones who had been nervously darting their eyes around finally began drifting toward the ladies in dresses, politely asking them to dance.

You traitors.
Don't abandon this poor yellow monkey…

Omar, wipe that grin off your face while you're dancing with her.

Even with a casual glance, the difference in race was impossible to ignore. If I barged in enthusiastically, there was a high chance I'd only make my partner uncomfortable.

Of course, standing around like a moai statue and merely observing wasn't exactly proper etiquette either.
But think about it. If an Asian man suddenly asked for a dance—
If she accepted, she'd be whispered about for dancing with a "yellow monkey."
If she refused, she'd be criticized as a racist.

So the optimal solution was simple: I would refrain from dancing and accept being labeled ill-mannered.

It was while I was sipping wine and watching my friends display the dance skills they'd so diligently honed that someone addressed me.

"…You're Mr. Kim, was it?"

"You may call me Yujin."

Dyke's father approached and spoke to me.
Well, as a host, it wouldn't be proper to simply ignore a guest standing around idly.

"Why are you the only one here?"

"Well… you understand, sir. The very act of me asking someone to dance could make them uncomfortable."

"…I've actually heard quite a bit about you from my son. You're just as thoughtful as he described."

"Thoughtful is too generous. Please consider it nothing more than the kind of caution one develops to survive as a person of color."

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he seemed to ponder my words for a moment.

"In truth, this gathering is not as hostile to people of color as you might think."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. When I arranged this party, I mentioned you in advance."

That was unexpected. Or perhaps not.
It might have been the simplest way to avoid unnecessary friction—better to let people know beforehand than to have them cause a scene later.

"There were a few who expressed interest in you."

"In me?"

"Ah, don't misunderstand. Nothing like some sort of zoo curiosity. Simply people who would like to meet you and have a conversation. If you're uncomfortable, that's perfectly fine. But would you be willing to spare a moment?"

"Of course. I'm very grateful for your consideration."

"Then follow me. They're waiting in the annex."

The annex?
Not the main hall, but a separate building?

All sorts of possibilities flashed through my mind.
The first thing that came to mind was some kind of minority association. Or perhaps Japanese. What if a Japanese man were waiting inside with a pistol, demanding I swear loyalty to the Empire of Japan—

No. Enough. There wasn't a single solid clue to go on.
Shoving the ridiculous fantasies to the back of my mind, I followed him to the annex.

"I'll leave you to it. Come back once you've finished your conversation."

"Yes, sir."

After offering a slight bow of thanks, I reached out and opened the door to the annex.

"Good evening. My name is Yujin Kim."

A family was waiting for me in the annex.

An older gentleman.
A young man about my age.
And two young women, likewise close to my age.

"A pleasure to meet you. After hearing about you from Dr. Dyke, I very much wanted to see you in person."

The middle-aged man in an elegant suit stepped forward first.
At a glance, he was not an ordinary white American. Which meant he was of mixed heritage. If so, perhaps his interest in me was indeed related to race.

"My name is Charles Curtis. I serve as a United States Senator from Kansas."

So he was a man of considerable stature.

"As you can see, I am of mixed blood. My mother was of Native American and French descent."

"I have been striving to overcome the barriers of race myself, Senator Curtis. Thanks to the efforts of pioneers such as you, I have benefited greatly."

"Benefit? Hardly. I am at least of mixed blood. You, however, do not possess a single drop of white blood. I wished to meet the young man who dares to walk a path even more difficult and painful than mine."

I truly hadn't known.
A senator of mixed heritage.
In the Washington D.C. I'd imagined, I half-expected someone to wrinkle their nose and mutter, "Do I smell Indian rot? The only good Indian is a dead Indian," before dragging him out of the chamber. Apparently reality was not so simple.

He then introduced his children.
Henry, the second son, three years older than me.
Leona, the eldest daughter, a year my senior.
Dorothy, the same age as I.
The eldest son was absent due to other obligations.

"So, what do you intend to do after graduating from West Point?"

"Serve my country to the best of my ability."

"That is only natural. And after that?"

"Well… I may not even be allowed to serve."

He frowned.

"You mean to say that, because of that damned matter of race, the War Department might refuse to commission you? Those blasted fools in the War—"

"Oh, no. It's not that. I wagered my diploma, you see."

Not only Senator Curtis, but his children listening beside him all perked up at once.
Of course—they say watching a fire, a fight, or a bet are the three great entertainments.

I slowly recounted the enormous wager that had taken place during history class and the stakes involved.
The further I went, the wider the four of them opened their mouths.

"Hah. So if war does not break out before you graduate, your diploma vanishes without a trace?"

"That would be the outcome."

"Ridiculous. The nation cannot discard a man trained for four years on taxpayer money over some trifling bet. If, two years from now, there is any issue with your graduation, you write to me."

"That won't be necessary. I am certain war will break out."

It will happen.
If it doesn't, then this isn't the Earth I know—it's some Earth-18. In that case, I'll simply live as an ordinary citizen.

Naturally, stating that invincible logic outright would land me in an asylum, so I had to phrase it more carefully.

"If that is truly your conviction, I will not argue further. However, even if your prediction proves wrong, it would still be far wiser to accept your commission first and consider your path afterward."

"Thank you for the advice."

"In any case, that instructor likely has little room to maneuver. What sort of petty instructor places a student's entire future on a gambling table? If you truly were denied your diploma, that damned instructor would have to remove his own uniform as well. I guarantee it. That would be a question of his qualifications as an educator."

Unexpectedly, he was less concerned with the wager itself and more focused on the position that had driven me to make such a bet in the first place.
Perhaps because he had faced similar barriers himself.
Even though I had not spoken openly about it, he grasped my intent and purpose with remarkable clarity.

"Well then. We've taken up quite enough time. We mustn't keep our dear Dr. Dyke waiting any longer. Would you return to the party hall first? We'll join you shortly."

"Of course. I'll see you there."

After offering my respects once more to the Curtis family, I stepped out of the annex.

As a fellow man of color, he seemed inclined to watch my back in some fashion.
But whether it was wise to entangle myself with a politician at this stage, I could not say.

More importantly, Curtis was a Republican.

Only a month earlier, it had been decided that next year's president would be the Democrat Woodrow Wilson. If my memory served, he would win reelection, meaning that from my commissioning through my early years as a junior officer, Democrats would dominate for eight straight years. It wasn't for nothing that I maintained ties with Syngman Rhee.

Power would later return to the Republicans, but not before a notoriously corrupt administration stumbled into office. Then Hoover's government would collapse under the Great Depression, paving the way for Franklin Roosevelt and his successor Truman to govern for nearly twenty years combined. In other words, it would effectively become an era of Democratic supremacy.

As minorities, there was certainly reason for us to cooperate.
But would a Republican connection help me—or harm me?

That was a problem I would have to think through carefully from here on.

"How was he?"

After Yujin Kim left, Senator Curtis turned to his children.

"He's bold. And interesting."

As he listened to his son's reply, he lit a cigar.

"Indeed. A man needs that kind of nerve to survive in a white man's world. When you were his age, could you have thrown a gamble like that?"

"Absolutely not."

Henry shook his head vigorously.
Leona, the eldest daughter, seemed to share the sentiment.

"Isn't it too dangerous? If things go wrong, four years of study will all be for nothing."

"That," Curtis replied calmly, "is the price of not being born white."

"It's unfortunate, certainly… but I don't know if I could get close to someone like that. What if he ends up in prison or something?"

"Prison? For what?"

Dorothy let out a faint scoff, as though the idea were absurd.

"You heard him talk. A judge and jury would just sit there listening to him spin his tale like it's some bedtime story and go, 'Well… not guilty, I suppose,' and tap the gavel."

"…You may have a point. Still, how does someone talk so casually about staking his own diploma?"

While Leona chuckled, Dorothy stepped closer to her father, who was calmly exhaling thick cigar smoke.

"Father."

"Yes?"

"There's something I'd like. Do you think you could help me obtain it?"

"And what might that be?"

He nodded as if already prepared to indulge her. Dorothy smiled brightly.

"Don't you think life would never be boring with a lunatic like that around?"