Chapter 9

Things needed for unity

Pikachu, Raichu, Charmander, Squirtle, Butterfree, Slowbro, Pidgeot, and Koffing may all look different, but they're all friends.

But these bastards—two eyes, one nose, one mouth, two arms, two legs, all built exactly the same—somehow manage to hate each other like this.

No, that's not quite right. It's more accurate to say the white guys are the ones who hate unilaterally.

Anyway, what really matters right now is that we're seriously screwed.

"You maggot bastards! Just because you barely crawled up from being animals into humans, you think you can already start throwing punches at your comrades?!"

"In all my years, I've never seen a class with discipline this trashed! You little shits, move like you've got some damn sense!"

After that glorious bench-clearing incident, it went without saying that dragon's breath spewed from the instructors' mouths.

And our magnificent Cadet Bennion, the brigade commander, shielded us from the worst of it, so thankfully none of us ended up dragged into a court-martial.

But just because there wasn't a court-martial, did that mean it was over?

Of course not. The greatest skill in any army, across all eras—"shit rolls downhill"—was bound to make its appearance.

"You think just because you're fourth-years now you can slack off already?! You can't even keep the lower grades in line and you want to become officers?!"

"You third-year punks! Already loosening up just because you're upperclassmen now?! If you weren't such a mess, would the underclassmen have learned this crap from you?!"

"Hey!! You second-year motherfuckers!!! It's only been a few months since you stopped being called chicks and you're already acting like this?! We're supposed to get chewed out because of you? Huh?!"

As a result of this terrifying domino effect, it was hardly surprising when the second-years—bodies smeared head to toe in dust, eyes blazing like lava from hell—mercilessly drove us onto the parade ground.

"Don't slack your shoulders, you bastards. You were real strong when you were swinging fists at someone's face—why are you pretending you're already running out of strength?"

"No, sir!"

"We're outside, so what do you mean 'no, sir'? Are you screwing around right now?"

"We will correct ourselves, sir!!!"

"That's all the voice you've got?"

Ah, the ill-fated first-years.

At the very bottom of the food chain, the little chicks exist only to jump when told to jump.

The atmosphere on campus was absolutely fantastic.

With the campus store shut down under the noble pretext of "everyone's fault," the upperclassmen evolved into monsters that could give Diablo a run for his money.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been the perfect moment for the Al Capone of West Point to make a killing—but if I'd tried doing business in a situation like this, I'd have been the one hauled off to an actual court-martial.

To begin with, this hellish hazing was something we had staged in collusion with Senior Bennion.

"Right now, the only enemy we can really set up is the upperclassmen."

"That's right."

"If everyone gets punished together under the banner of collective responsibility, at first there'll be a surge of hatred toward the ones who started it."

"But as more time passes, they'll start grinding their teeth at the upperclassmen instead, wondering how long they have to keep suffering through this?"

"Exactly. So work them like dogs."

I must've been out of my mind.

I really must've lost it.

Loose lips sink ships—they say that for a reason. I must've smoked too much that day and fried my brain.

I had no idea they'd be worked this brutally!

But what I was going through was only the tip of the iceberg.

"Hey, McNarney."

"Yes, sir!"

"Right. You should at least be able to handle that bastard easily. Go all out."

"H-hiiiik!"

Thud! Thud! Thuuud! Wham!

Swordsmanship class.

Under the merciless blade of Senior Vicente—renowned as the finest swordsman in West Point—McNarney, the central figure in this whole affair, was being beaten as thoroughly as a dog on the hottest day of summer.

"Y-yes, sir!"

"Why can't you land even a single proper strike? Huh?"

"No, sir! I'm sorry, sir!"

"Enough! Switch!"

McNarney, drenched in sweat as if caught in a downpour, visibly brightened at the order to rotate out.

"Ah, you stay right there."

"What?"

"I'm up next, you bastard. 'Cannibal' Vicente may be lowborn because he's black, so let's see just how low a Jew can be—prove it."

McNarney's face turned a sickly shade of blue.

Only now did it seem to dawn on him that running his mouth had consequences.

Unfortunately, McNarney's suffering didn't end there.

There were countless upperclassmen who wanted a legal excuse to beat the instigator of this whole mess—Jewish, Polish, Irish, and plenty who simply felt like throwing punches regardless.

Honestly, from the start I'd thought his name sounded like MacArthur plus maniac. They say you can't hide your physiognomy—apparently you can't hide your surname either. If I ever get the chance, I'll seriously suggest he consider changing it.

Meanwhile, on the other side, Anastacio was getting the stuffing knocked out of him.

"Hey, blackie! Are you going to do it properly or not?!"

"I'm sorry!"

"You can throw punches that easily, but why can't you swing a blade?! Fix your stance! Put your weight into it! Keep that up and your jaw's getting knocked off!"

By the time it was over, we were completely ragged.

Dragging our exhausted bodies, we made our way back to the dormitory.

"Aaaagh! How long is this going to keep up?! I'm dying here!"

"Shut up… you got any cigarettes left?"

"Here."

Anastacio, beaten to a pulp, headed back to his room. Van Fleet, who'd injured himself back in high school, complained that his joints were aching and turned in early as well.

Only Bradley and I gathered in Ike's room, endlessly lamenting our misery.

"You're still full of energy?"

"Haha. The only thing I've got going for me is stamina."

Ike's roommate, John Henry Dyke, joked lightly. Like Ike, he was from Kansas—and the guy was seriously athletic. Good personality, too.

"Yujin, you hear anything?"

"Hear what?"

"You got dragged in front of the brigade commander that time. Didn't you pick up anything?"

Sorry, guys.

The truth is, I was the one who suggested we work them like that.

Maybe it should've pricked my conscience a little—but the triangular corners of a man who's lived decades longer than these guys have long since been worn smooth.

So I answered without the slightest hesitation.

"Mm… he was furious. Kept asking why we were fighting over something this stupid."

"Yeah… that figures."

"Senior Vicente didn't get off easy either. We've at least got you, Yujin, but last year's class? I heard they practically got lynched."

Dyke grumbled under his breath.

"Anyway, there's only one way out of this hell."

"What is it?"

"Annapolis."

"You think that's up to us?"

A few weeks from now, there's a friendly baseball game scheduled against Annapolis.

And by "friendly," I mean a guillotine match where victory earns you hero status, and defeat turns you into a traitor who spends every waking hour—except sleep—duck-walking around campus.

"If we lose to those seal bastards, we won't be able to show our faces until winter break."

"Why're you talking about losing already? Worst case, we just crack their skulls with bats when no one's looking."

Even Bradley—normally kindness incarnate—had venom practically dripping from his eyes. Looks like we really have been run into the ground.

"But it's not like only first-years play in that game, right?"

"That's true."

Right now, there are barely any first-years on the West Point baseball team.

To put it bluntly, we're benchwarmers. Even Senior Bennion couldn't pull strings that far.

Still, I'd heard another interesting idea instead.

"So. I've got a plan."

"Oh? Yujin's scheming again."

"As expected of the Richelieu of West Point. Go on—put your Three Musketeers to work."

You idiots. Stop slapping nicknames on me.

Sure, I was the one who set the whole thing in motion. And if I told them even this endless hazing was part of my grand scheme, these lunatics would happily bury me alive in the West Point cemetery.

"The first-years beat each other senseless and that's how we ended up like this. So if the first-years unite and restore West Point's honor, that should fix everything, right?"

"Right?"

"And the only way to restore our honor is to crush those Annapolis bastards."

No. It won't fix anything, you morons.

This is straight out of some Imperial Japanese Army mindset.

Of course, in an era stuffed to the brim with macho pride and honor, it's still an argument that works.

"So here's the deal—"

A few weeks later.

After grinding us down to the bone, the Annapolis baseball team paid their "friendly" visit to West Point.

As expected, the killer intent in the eyes of those Annapolis seal bastards made it seem like they wanted to wipe out everything south of the equator with their bats.

"Listen up. Briefing starts now."

Over the past few weeks, the "military operation" we'd started drafting in Ike's dorm room had quietly spread, passed along during breaks, until every first-year was in on it.

Under normal circumstances, at least a few of them would've realized how insane this was. But after weeks of relentless punishment, they'd all clearly reached the stage of, "Eh… this is probably fine," and let their last scraps of reason slip away.

"Those Annapolis seal bastards dared to set foot on West Point soil. You saw their faces, right? Didn't even lower their eyes. Walked in with their shoulders squared like they owned the place."

"Kill them!!"

"Kill them all!!!"

At this point, I couldn't tell whether we were at West Point or a Viking war council.

"Therefore, tonight, we steal their arrogant flag and show them exactly whose territory this is!"

"Waaaaah!!"

"Uraaaaaah!!!"

No. Stop. You idiots.

This is insane.

I want out.

"But just stealing their flag won't have enough impact. We hit the armory and make the ceremonial cannon dance, too."

Seizing the cannon.

An unofficial tradition of West Point.

Dragging out that massive parade cannon in the dead of night and using it for some outrageous stunt was considered one of the greatest feats a cadet could achieve.

There's even a legendary tale: upperclassmen once hauled that heavy ceremonial gun up onto the library roof under cover of darkness. It took a full week to get it back down. Until the day West Point collapses, that story will probably live on as myth.

If first-years pulled something like that off?

Even if it wasn't quite on that level, it would still be talked about for decades.

"Applause for Yujin Kim, mastermind of this flawless operation!"

Thunderous applause broke out from all sides. Hands reached out for congratulatory shakes.

It was mortifying.

These idiots—these were the comrades I'd be standing back-to-back with in the future. The thought alone was embarrassing.

And yet, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the corners of my mouth from creeping upward.

That night—

"Move. Quietly."

"Crawl properly. If we get caught, we're dead."

Strike Team A infiltrates the quarters where the Annapolis bastards are staying and captures the enemy flag, demonstrating our valor.

Strike Team B drags out the ceremonial cannon and sets it up aimed at Annapolis.

A covert operation carried out under the noses of the senior cadets on guard—so dangerous that if we were caught, we'd be hauled straight to a court-martial without mercy.

…Except that was all a lie.

By secret order from Senior Bennion, tonight's guard would be looser than the most undisciplined rabble imaginable. Every last one of them would conveniently be as blind as bats in the dark.

But the first-year cadets, completely unaware of the truth, were suppressing their pounding hearts as they launched what they believed to be a life-or-death commando raid.

'All right. Ready."

"Hook the rope. We're hauling it out!"

Screeeech— screeeeeeeech—

A horrifying metallic wail tore through the night.

"Shit, why's this thing so damn loud?"

"Anyone who isn't deaf can hear that!"

"Pour some oil on it. We just need it to roll smooth for a few minutes."

Deaf, huh. Sorry about that.

Still, the guys carefully greased the carriage and began hauling the cannon with everything they had.

"McNarney, Anastacio, Dyke, Ike—you push from the back. We'll pull from the front."

"Huh?"

"Got it. What are you doing? Move!"

"Y-yeah!"

By the time we dragged the cannon up the low hill, Strike Team A was marching in from the opposite direction, proudly waving Annapolis's flag.

…And they expected not to get caught looking like that?

Thud!

Van Fleet planted the flag triumphantly beside the cannon and grinned, shrugging his shoulders.

"Operation successful."

"Good. Perfect!"

We threw our arms around each other without hesitation.

Yeah. This was why we'd gone through all that insanity.

Having accomplished a feat that would echo through West Point history, our chests swelled with pride as we embraced our comrades.

Yes—even McNarney and Anastacio.

"Uh… I was out of line. I'll watch what I say from now on."

"Forget it. The swelling in your face's gone down, hasn't it?"

"You bastard. Your punches hurt like hell."

To stage this heartwarming scene, Director Yujin Kim, Producer Yujin Kim, Screenwriter YujinKim—co-written with Bennion—had put together this grand epic.

Watching those two idiots share a fiery hug and exchange manly words, I realized maybe it hadn't all been for nothing.

I'd done everything I could.

All that remained was tomorrow's game.

Crack!

"Hoooooo!!"

I flung the bat with all my strength and sprinted toward first base.

That seasoned bat flip. Now that is KBO class.

"Yujin Kim!"

"Run! Second! Go for second!!!"

"Omar! Home in! Hooome!!!"

A timely hit. The ball tore toward the outfield grass.

Perfect. All I had to do was run like hell.

Beeeep!!!

"Game over!"

That morning, the Annapolis boys had woken up to find their flag gone—and promptly lost their minds.

Then they saw the ceremonial cannon aimed squarely at their quarters, their own flag planted beside it.

They nearly exploded.

In that state, was there any way they were going to play at one hundred percent?

And on top of that, West Point had a true Giant from a hundred years in the future.

With a thunderous roar, West Point cadets poured out of the stands and flooded the field.

Senior Bennion strolled over at an easy pace and draped an arm over my shoulder.

"Well done, junior."

"Thank you."

"So, do they seem a bit more united now?"

"I'm not sure. Just because they pulled off one ridiculous prank together doesn't mean they've suddenly become inseparable."

"You cynical bastard."

Even though it was my doing, I didn't believe in it all that much.

McNarney had grown up learning to look down on Black people right at the dinner table.

Of course, if this made him even a little better, that would be fortunate—but I wasn't holding my breath.

"You knew that stealing the ceremonial cannon is something every class practically does as a rite of passage, right?"

"If you don't do it, you're considered a loser, aren't you?"

"Right. But usually it's just hot-blooded idiots showing off."

Like drunk college kids who spot a tiny car on the street and lift it onto the sidewalk for no reason.

"But in the records left by past brigade commanders, there was a case where someone deliberately staged a cannon theft to unite his classmates."

"Guess people think alike."

"You've heard about the cannon on top of the library, right? That class was supposedly riddled with internal strife. But after that one stunt, they became incredibly tight-knit."

…He knew all that, and still nodded like he was hearing it for the first time?

Bennion's late confession left me dumbfounded. It wasn't like I'd been performing tricks for his amusement.

"You've got the makings of something special. I won't deny that your skin color will make your path a hard one. But for the Army—no, for the United States—you need to rise high. This year we share at West Point will be our last together, but I sincerely hope you survive for a long time."

At Bennion's serious tone, I decided to satisfy a small curiosity.

"The brigade commander you mentioned. The one who put the cannon on the library roof."

"Hmm? Yes."

"Did he become a distinguished officer?"

"Of course. A legendary figure whose name will endure in West Point history. And you will be, too."

"What was his name?"

Bennion grinned.

"Douglas MacArthur."