Chapter 8

We Are All Friends

On the mound at West Point, the shouting and profanity were flying as usual.

"Idiots! Watch the ball before you swing! If you're going to close your eyes and swing, do it in your bed!"
"Uh… the field right now looks like a herd of Indian buffalo just stampeded through it, you know? The ball's bouncing wherever it pleases. Shouldn't West Point hurry up and build a domed stadium or something…?"
"Hey!Yujin! Get your head in the game! Cook up one of those brilliant ideas of yours!"

Baseball a hundred years ago was, of course, quite different from today.
This was before Babe Ruth ever joined the New York Yankees. It would've been stranger if nothing had changed.

But what's common sense in our era could be revolutionary in the dawn of baseball a century ago.

They say humble beginnings lead to grand endings.
Sure, at first I had to show quite a bit of "sincerity" to nail down a spot on the team—but before long, I'd carved out an irreplaceable position. Not quite a baseball god… but at least treated like a promising future expert who actually knew the game.

And Americans are insane about sports.
American cadets aren't just enthusiastic—they're rabid.
If nothing else, when it came time to swing the bat, I'd channel my inner Zhuge Liang and strategize my way through it. Thanks to that, my image-making campaign among the cadets was, in its own way, a success.

"Nice play!"
"Ha! Well done, well done!"

The game wrapped up warmly, and I thought we were heading for a pleasant ending.
But in life, trouble usually starts with someone who lacks even basic awareness.

"Kim! That was amazing again. Not Asian at all."

"…What?"

What the hell did this bastard just say?

Despite my icy response, our classmate Joseph Taggart McNarney didn't seem to feel a thing. He answered casually.

"Come to think of it, you're not as dark as Anastacio, are you? Must be because you're Japanese—you could totally pass as an honorary white. You're American-born, and you're not low like the negroes. Looking forward to working with you."

He grinned and stuck out his hand.

Ah, fuck. What now.

When I didn't take his hand, the atmosphere started to turn into something close to a bench-clearing brawl.

From the outfield, Ike was sprinting toward us like a madman. A truly impressive advance—worthy of West Point's quarterback.
Omar, who had been right next to me, wrapped both arms tightly around my waist and began muttering like he was praying.

"Hold it. Hold it. Hold it hold it hold it—"

Van Fleet flared up and tried to lunge forward, but other classmates had already grabbed him.

"Jin. Jinjinjin."
"What."
"You have to hold it in. Fuck. You know it too. I know it's a shitty thing to hear, but from guys who won't even treat darker skin like human, this 'honorary white' crap is—this is their way of trying, in their own twisted way."
"I know."
"Right now you've got people here who understand you, but what about after graduation?! You gonna knock out the teeth of every bastard who says something like that? Hold it in. Please. Your demerits are already hanging by a thread—"

Bradley's whisper was turning into a near-scream.

But honestly, what was a little unfair was this:
I could have let it slide.

The fact that these thick-skulled idiots even uttered the phrase "honorary white" was, in its own way, surprising progress.
These fools who believed only white men were great and had the right to rule other races—imagine how shaken they must've been when they encountered a towering figure like Yujin Kim, West Point's horseman-slash-Al-Capone.

Their internal "Great White World" had cracked, so of course they had to construct some new logic to patch it together.
After all, I'd given them cigarettes, bought them drinks, done everything short of taking them golfing or to a sauna—what else were they supposed to do?

And so this was the result: a prickly, awkward reaction dressed up as praise.

Upperclassmen were already approaching. "What's going on?"
Ike, who had sprinted here with everything he had, was panting as he tried to get to my side.

I flashed the broad, capitalist smile I'd learned from our Prince Rhee and clasped McNarney's hand.

"Sure, sure. Let's get along."

"Fuuuuuuuh—"

You can't start swinging in front of this many witnesses.
No matter what, trading punches in broad daylight with a crowd watching isn't something a man decades older in experience should be doing.

I was just about to ease the mood properly when—

"This motherfucker just said what? 'Negro'? 'Low'?"

Crack!

Anastacio threw a full-force punch straight into McNarney's face.

Fuck. We're screwed.

When I was a kid, Sajik Baseball Stadium had been a beautiful place.
Of course, we didn't burn buses or anything. Giants fans were refined, dignified people who cared about children and upheld proper supporter culture.

…But even I, who went to Sajik with rose-colored glasses on, had found Masan Stadium just a little—a liiiittle—intimidating.

And the brawl that broke out that day?
It felt about twice as bad as Masan.

"Kill him! Kill that black bastard!"
"Break it up! Somebody pull them apart!"
"You son of a bitch!"
"You damn negro!"

At that moment, we weren't cadets devoted to honor and duty.
We were just rabid hooligans.

Everyone was torn up, bleeding from somewhere, uniforms ruined. It was almost artistic.

"Everyone there—down! Front-leaning rest position!"

The instructors stormed in and dragged the situation apart. Not long after, their faces flushed red, they gleefully punished all of us together.

But that was just damage control.
Nothing had been resolved.

"Aigo, you're a mess. A complete mess."

I tapped Anastacio's bandaged forehead.

"Ahh!"

"Why'd you go from zero to a hundred like that?"
"That bastard! Some dogs only learn when you beat them with a stick!"

"Whoa, whoa. Calm down."

I, Ike, Omar, and James had gathered in Anastacio's dorm room, happily smoking away.
His roommate, George E. Stratemeyer, had borrowed one from me as well and was doing his part to turn the room into a raccoon den.

"Still, you should've read the room. Throwing a punch in front of everyone? That only hurts you."
"…I'm not calm enough to shake hands like you did."
"Me? Calm? You've got to be kidding."

Right now, no amount of life advice or wise sayings would improve the situation.
If anything, it would only irritate Anastacio further. He might even start thinking, Look at this bastard, acting different now that they called him an honorary white.

So instead, I slipped a hand into my uniform jacket and decided to give my poor Filipino friend the medicine he needed most.

"Here. Take this."
"Huh? What? Where'd you get that?"
"Shut up and drink."

I handed him a juice bottle with a bit of alcohol mixed in.
Despite his face being a complete mess, it brightened instantly.

Was he just simple?
Or did West Point turn everyone into amoebas eventually?

"Where's mine?"
"Yujin. You're only giving it to him?"
"So if I punch someone, do I get a drink too?"
"You bunch of idiots…!"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Is Cadet Yujin Kim in there?!"
"Shit. Shit!"
"Open the window! Ventilate! Ventilate!"
"The bottle! Hide the bottle!!"
"Cadet Yujin Kim!!"

What the hell—why are you looking for Yujin Kim here?

Like rats scrambling on a sinking ship, we flailed about in panic, only to finally surrender to the overwhelming aura radiating from the other side of the door and quietly open it.

"…Come in."

Thick smoke hung in the air.
Some suspicious liquid was seeping out from under the bed.
Six cadets with faces flushed bright red.

An upperclassman, Dillow, scanned the biological-warfare-level disaster scene with hawk-like eyes, then spoke in a voice that sounded like it had crawled up from hell.

"Cadet Yujin Kim."
"Yes, sir."
"Follow me."
"…Sir, not Cadet Anastacio—but me?"
"Yes. You."

Why me?

I'm the innocent victim here.

Dragged out without understanding a thing, I trailed behind him like a lamb being led to slaughter.

Late evening.

In the room I was brought into, someone I hadn't expected at all was waiting.

"Cadet Yujin Kim. Sit down."
"Yes, sir."

Howard S. Bennion.
The brigade cadet commander—in simple terms, the student body president.

He flicked a set of unidentified documents in his hand, then fixed his gaze on me.

"I've already spoken with Cadet McNarney. I've heard the general outline."

"Relax. In any case, I know you weren't the one who started it. I have a few things I'd like to ask you."

If you knew, why call me in? Just to make my heart pound?

Dragging in someone who wasn't even directly involved and interrogating him like this—typical brigade commander cadet. His face practically had strict, solemn, serious engraved on it.

No doubt he'd pull out some obscure regulation no one had ever heard of and say, "In any case, you were there watching. That's your fault. You failed to be a Good Samaritan." And then he'd start scratching away with that damned quill.

If I got hit with demerits again, how many would that make?

He rose from his seat, rummaged through a drawer for a moment… and then held up a small rectangular box.

"Want one?"

"…Sir?"

"Oh. You don't smoke?"

"Thank you!"

Now that was the kind of generosity befitting a brigade commander cadet. Truly a man capable of leading hundreds at the cradle of the U.S. Army—West Point. How had someone this impressive failed to leave his name blazing in the history books?

Bennion casually pulled out a pipe from his pocket, lit it, and shared the flame with me.

We sat there, companionably filling the room with smoke for several minutes.
Once a bit of nicotine had seeped into my brain, he finally spoke.

"I've been hearing quite a bit about you lately."

"About… me, sir?"

"Mm. Academic average. Physical training average… but during Beast Barracks, your marksmanship, drill, and basic soldiering were excellent. Ever serve in a militia or get scouted somewhere?"

Serve?

If you counted my previous life, I had more time in uniform than these chicks had spent breathing. Compared to these fresh hatchlings, my old comrades would've laughed in unison.

"No, sir. I've lived in downtown San Francisco my entire life. No such experience."

"Interesting. Perhaps you're just naturally suited to the military."

He tilted his head slightly, then glanced back at the papers.

"What do you think about what happened today?"

"I should have resolved it more quickly at the scene. My delayed response seems to have allowed the situation to escalate. In the future, as a cadet of West Point, I will conduct myself with greater dignity—"

"No, no. Not that kind of answer. Not the sort instructors like to hear. I gave you a cigarette, didn't I? When someone does that, you're supposed to take the hint."

He leaned back fully into his chair and blew a neat ring of smoke into the air.

Judging by that technique, this was not a man new to tobacco.

"If you're bold enough to aim for the smuggling king of West Point, then you know I'm not looking for some textbook answer, right?"

"Kh—! Cough—!"

I choked.

The smoke hit the wrong way, and for a moment I thought I was going to suffocate.

Startled, the upperclassman hurriedly brought me a glass of water. Only after gulping it down several times did I manage to steady my breathing.

"Whew… whew…"

"Feeling better?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"Good. Smugglers pop up every year anyway. I don't make a big fuss about it. Just don't bring in anything too dangerous or something that'll cause real trouble."

The way he said it so casually only made it scarier.

"But what still fascinates me is that I haven't figured out your supply route. In any case… I'm interested in that kind of creativity."

Ah.

Now I understood why this meeting existed.

"In that case, I'll state plainly: today's incident stemmed entirely from Cadet McNarney's careless remark."

"Is it wrong to say that negroes are inferior?"

"Yes. It is wrong."

He tilted his head slightly, as if telling me to continue.

All right then. From here on out, I'm dancing on a blade.

"Admission to West Point means that the United States Congress has deemed the individual worthy of being educated at the expense of American taxpayers. By questioning a fellow cadet's worth based on race, Cadet McNarney is effectively doubting the government's judgment. As a soldier, he introduced private bias that risks dividing cadets within the ranks."

"So discrimination itself is not the central issue. Defiance of institutional authority is."

"Yes, sir."

After hearing my answer, he let out a long sigh.

"I see. Framed that way, McNarney doesn't have much room to argue. The complication is that his uncle happens to be fairly high up in the Army. Makes things… inconvenient."

Of course.

Without backing, the world is a dirty place.

"Then the second point."

"Yes, sir."

"If a problem arises, there must be a solution."

"A solution… sir?"

Why are you asking me that?
I could feel my eyelids twitching.

"Midterms are coming up. After that, Christmas leave. Only the first-years remain here—upperclassmen will all be gone. If something like this happens again, it can't be handled at the cadet level. It becomes a much larger issue."

So that was it.
He'd likely gone to some trouble to keep this from escalating to a formal disciplinary board.

If he'd shown me this much consideration, then basic decency dictated I offer something in return.
Besides, if this problem festered, I'd be the one suffocating under it for the next four years.

"I have an idea."

"Oh?"

"With assistance from the upperclassmen, I believe it could work… I'd like to propose something."

"Go on."

I forced my brain to spin at full speed and carefully laid out the first piece.

"At its core, the issue is simple. They cannot accept darker-skinned cadets as friends."

"Correct."

"Whether in the past or now, if you want people to bond quickly… you give them a common enemy."

A smile tugged at Bennion's lips.

"Specific measures?"

"Then, sir… allow me to begin the briefing."

I don't care anymore. I'm all in.

And so, over the course of several hours, my first-ever "military operation"—one that could hardly be described as sane—was planned.

Please, for the love of God, just become friends, you idiots.