Chapter 10. End of Boyhood
The madness had finally died down, and with our satisfaction at having crushed Annapolis, the upperclassmen's scolding came to an end as well.
Of course, Annapolis was furious about our little escapade, and West Point promised a "thorough investigation and strict punishment" while vowing to root out the ringleaders.
"You guys didn't steal their flag, did you?"
"No, sir."
"Good. I knew my fine cadets wouldn't do something like that."
But even after the instructors lit a fire under everyone with their stern, dignified, and utterly serious internal probe, they regretfully came up empty-handed.
The blank cartridge incident should've been dragged into the mess too, but the flag heist had such a massive impact that it all got swept under the rug. What can you do when you can't find the culprits?
"Next time we raid Annapolis, those bastards'll try to steal our flag."
"Whatever. I'll just stuff it in my panties and sleep with it."
"Those fuckers would steal it right out of your panties."
"Ugh."
Of course, whispers like "those vicious plebes" or "this year's freshmen are total psychos" circulated among the upperclassmen, but no one spilled the truth.
Well, to be precise, even the instructors didn't seem eager to hear it.
Now there was just one peak left in sight.
Midterms.
"Aaaargh!"
A horrific scream of agony echoed through the halls.
No doubt about it—that was the wail of someone who'd just taken math straight to the skull.
"Why! Why the hell do soldiers need to learn math?!"
"Math's basic. You wanna starve all your men to death down the line? Study it."
Ike shot back at Omar's grumbling without even glancing up.
"I... I guess I'm not American after all... Why is English so damn hard?"
"Snap out of it! Just do it. You can do it."
I forcibly talked Dyke down as his soul tried to escape his body.
Truth be told, I didn't even need to study. The last thing I wanted was to top the class, draw too much attention, and end up with some nightmare scenario like "Oh ho ho, what a promising talent. Off to the Engineer Corps you go—only the chosen ones get in!"
For whatever reason, whatever Bennion had blabbed about me, civilian instructors and teachers would sometimes stare at me intently after class and mutter, "Are you that second coming of MacArthur everyone's talking about?"
No, fuck. MacArthur's dad was a war hero from the jump. Different leagues, man. He's titanium spoon; I'm dirt-farming clay.
I snapped back to reality from visions of uga-uga cave life, firing pottery over open flames and scooping rice with my bare hands, thanks to the howls from Dyke and Bradley next to me.
"Omar."
"Yeah? What?"
"Screaming like that won't solve the equation."
"Maybe if I yell loud enough, the medic'll come and solve it for me?"
"He'll come, all right. To dock you demerits."
Future U.S. Army Marshal Bradley... couldn't study.
Like, abysmally.
To be honest, hanging with me hadn't exactly motivated him to crack the books. I'd been slinging lead like crazy.
But this guy teetering on the edge of failing? Shocking. How the hell did he become a general in the original timeline?
Ike was solid overall—weak in math, but no risk of flunking.
Bradley was low-flying through math, English, and history, with failing territory dead ahead.
Van Fleet was safely mid-pack, aiming higher than just scraping by. Dyke's math and English were dicey. Anastacio was a special case, so exempt.
My goal right now? Figure out exactly how much to solve to land smack in the middle of the pack.
Bonus: teach these idiots enough to pass and commission without a hitch.
If Bradley got expelled after our spectacular plebe adventures together, I'd lose my goddamn mind.
They were always fretting over my demerits, but birds of a feather—guys who rolled with me weren't walking around with spotless records.
So, I carved out time to tutor them.
Then came a knock. Knock knock.
"Who is it?"
"Uh... is Kim here?"
"Yeah, yeah. Come in."
The door cracked open, and a classmate peeked in.
"It's... not a big deal, just had a question."
It was Hubert Reilly Harmon. Lurking behind him was our resident prick No. 1, McNarney, looking like he'd eaten shit.
"Yeah? What's up?"
"It's about history, actually."
"Huh? Why me...?"
"Asked the teacher, and he said he was busy—go ask you."
"Said you're especially versed in East Asian history. Looks like the exam's hitting that."
What the hell?
Sure, the guy was one of those yapping about me as the "second MacArthur."
But dumping it on me like this? What kind of backwater bullshit is that? Least he could've done was toss me store credit or something.
But my goal was to be West Point's Howie Mandel–Al Capone–Richelieu–MacArthur–octopus-network kingpin.
Harmon wasn't a bosom buddy, and McNarney still eyed me like a cow staring at a chicken—awkward as hell. Flip side? Perfect opportunity.
"Fine, come in. What's tripping you up?"
My lecture kicked off like that, but soon:
"Listen! Our goal ain't some well-rounded genius bullshit. Nah, we just grind out the points. How? Read the exam-maker's mind! What kinda traps does this old fart wanna spring on us? That's what you study!"
"Ooh, oooh..."
"Classic Eugene. Skips studying but pulls grades—'cause he's scheming like this the whole time!"
"Hmph. Game the system for scores like that, and you'll crash hard later."
Screw McNarney the grade-grubber. I wanted that "ooh" reaction at first, but not this vibe.
Was my image rehab going down the shitter? Serious worry now.
"Whew. Head hurts. Let's call it."
"Yeah. Gotta wash up anyway."
"Need to polish my shoes tonight."
"Do mine too?"
"Fuck off."
Ah, friendship central.
Oblivious to my angst, midterms hit with the end of 1911.
The multi-day midterm gauntlet was over.
Upperclassmen howled "Freedooooom!" and ebbed out of West Point like the tide.
First-years? Exempt. No home for the plebes.
"Huuuuh... barely scraped by."
"Thought I was done for."
Ike and Omar survived.
No shit—they'd crammed bullets into those thick skulls of theirs.
Me? I tried tanking scores. Nearly bombed on purpose, but overshot the mark. Landed mid-upper pack.
Mid-chatter, we all shut up.
"Ah... aaah... aaaaaah...!"
A thud nearby—Dyke dropped to his knees.
"No... Mom... Mommy..."
"Calm down! Dyke!"
"No! I hate this! I... I...!"
Ike and James grabbed him, but tears poured like faucets as he wailed.
I checked his scores quick.
Math and English.
Failing.
Expulsion material.
Reclaim your stowed gear, first-year.
Hand in the uniform.
Retrieve your civvies.
West Point graciously provides fare home for washouts—but that "kindness" etches the debt of failure into your bones like nothing else.
"Hey."
Dyke rubbed his puffy eyes, glancing our way.
"What...?"
"Gonna slink off all lonesome?"
Bitter taste in my mouth, even saying it.
Of course he wanted to ghost solo.
But we couldn't let him.
"Cadet or not, we're friends, right?"
"..."
"Drop us a line. Nah, gimme your address. We'll swing by later."
"Piss off. No room for you assholes at my place."
"For real?"
I handed him pen and paper. He hesitated, then scrawled it out.
"Y'know, back then, damn near everyone called me a yellow monkey on sight. Can't ghost a friend with character like that heading to another school—makes me the trash."
"Write when you get there. We'll reply."
Ike patted his back—fresh tears leaked.
"Yeah... I'll hit you up for sure... See you next time."
"Promise. No letter? We'll hunt you with bats—send it!"
Holding on longer would just hurt more, so we shook and turned away.
But we all kept sneaking glances.
Until we were out of sight.
Shitty day.
Dropouts had trickled out before.
Mostly injuries mid-training.
After seeing Dyke and a few off, we slogged through winter in glum awkwardness.
Ike second-guessed: "Shoulda kept him longer..." James tsked at over-focusing on his own studies.
West Point wasn't cozy Hogwarts.
This was taxpayer-funded officer mill for future U.S. Army commanders—fail the bar, get your one-way ticket home.
Ran into Bennion by chance once; blurted it out.
"Okay with classmates washing out? Figures—you're at that stage too."
"Yeah?"
"Obviously. And it's not something you 'overcome'—you get used to it."
He ruffled my fresh buzzcut.
"You're green, but I've already gotten obits from seniors I knew."
Choked me up.
"In that light, this goodbye's a mercy. Curriculum says those guys... they'd struggle leading troops into battle."
"But—"
"'Died honorably'—emptiest words ever? If your shortcomings drag your men to death too, would they rest happy? Or haunt forever?"
Bitter pill, but it sank in.
War death was too close here.
And what dizzied me more? World War I Armageddon hadn't even kicked off.
Suddenly regretted romanticizing plebe life like some missed college nostalgia.
Head knew the World Wars loomed, but I'd blanked on the trench-grunt oblivion waiting any second.
We buckled down on studies and drill—no more epic stunts.
Those lonely departures haunted us.
Winter thawed, spring bloomed.
Summer hit June.
Promoted to sophomore, I got leave for San Francisco.
WELCOME! HERO OF GREAT KOREA
US ARMY ACADEMY CADET
Eugene Kim
The moment I stepped off the train,
Expecting family faces, I froze solid.
"Hahaha, Eugene! You've arrived!"
Syngman, Syngman.
Where's my family? Why the fuck are you here?