Chapter 12. The Start of Sophomore Year
Dr. Yi's intentions were as plain as day.
The overwhelming advantage I held over Syngman Rhee stemmed from knowing exactly what kind of man he was—and what he'd do in the future.
Of course, that didn't mean I could just cut him loose. Not yet, anyway.
Not when he had ties to Woodrow Wilson, who would soon become president.
The next eight years belonged to Wilson.
And during those eight years, the world would plunge into the colossal hell of the First World War.
More crucially for me, my commissioning as an officer and my early career as a junior one would overlap perfectly with Wilson's tenure.
In other words, until I forged myself into a genuine war hero capable of surviving in the U.S. Army on my own merits, Dr. Yi was my ace in the hole—the joker to play when things hit rock bottom.
Begging to be shipped off to Europe? That was a last resort. No, I'd save him for the real shitstorm, when I might otherwise get screwed out of my uniform unjustly.
After that?
If my plans panned out and I became a World War I hero, Dr. Yi's usefulness would expire right around the end of Wilson's term.
Once my popularity exploded, a power-hungry Machiavellian like Syngman Rhee would see me not as a successor, but as a rival—100% guaranteed. Whether An Chang-ho or Park Yong-man ended up leading the Korean community in Hawaii, it'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable than dealing with this doctor.
Would I take him down first?
Or would he slap a collar around my neck?
We were still a good ten years from that crossroads, and if I didn't rack up merits in the Great War, all this scheming was just pointless fantasy.
Time was running shorter than I'd thought.
I shoved the worries to a corner of my mind and finally got to spend some quality, if brief, time with my family.
Days slipped by in a flash,
and I found the right moment to broach the subject.
"Money? Need some pocket change?"
"No. Thinking of starting a business—"
"We don't have that kind of cash."
Dad's firm tone left me speechless.
"Sure, liquidating the businesses would free up some funds. But even as my eldest, I plan to pass my work to your younger brother."
"Ugh…"
I'd boasted at the Korean National Association about throwing in my family fortune, but in the end, there was no money to throw.
"Above all, whatever you're proposing… its viability is questionable."
"Bro, guns aren't profitable right now. Scale issues, tech gaps—the works."
"I get that much, but still, doesn't feel right."
My second brother, Kim Yushin, and third, Kim Yuin.
With my damn brothers ganging up against me, I was totally isolated.
"There must be a reason you're suddenly into guns. Hard to explain, huh?"
I mulled it over.
The impending World War I wasn't as directly tied to the "business" I had in mind as one might think.
The reason I'd zeroed in on guns was image-making—my top priority.
But with only two years until the war kicked off, piling up capital now felt too late.
Time was tighter than expected.
"You think… war's coming?"
"Damn right."
"Then maybe textiles or—"
"Even that's too competitive. Military contracts ain't easy."
Aigoo, my head.
I could only shake mine in defeat.
"Fine. For guns, I'll lean on U-nam and Dosan for help and minimize dipping into family assets."
"Sorry I can't be more help."
"Instead, if there's any spare cash… look into barbed wire companies."
"Barbed wire? For the farm?"
Right now, that's the reaction barbed wire got.
But any modern soldier who's tasted the 21st century would lose their shit over it.
Not plain straight-line fencing, but Yun-shaped barbed wire—the nightmare of the trenches. Sell that, and I could rake in patent fees from armies worldwide, especially those poor European bastards.
"That seems doable."
"And if there's really room, tractor companies too."
At this point, war vehicles were basically "armored cars"—fancy passenger cars with absurdly thick plates.
Come my 1915 graduation, just show the War Department a "tractor with a cannon on top and extra armor plating." No production needed.
Too late to prep?
Should I have been a child prodigy, spouting genius ideas from the cradle?
Couldn't happen.
It wasn't just about knowing the future.
I needed the reputation of precisely predicting Armageddon-scale war and preparing for it.
The image I craved was "promising young officer with visionary foresight," not some fortune-telling shaman on a seesaw. Foresee war before West Point? I'd be the Asian Rasputin or a laughingstock shaman.
Imagining that distant European storm cloud while still chained as a cadet? It burned me up inside.
Short leave over.
I returned to my true sanctuary, my second home: West Point.
"Fresh meat."
"How many'll make it?"
"Wanna bet on who washes out first?"
What awaited me was the joyful Beast Barracks.
Aaah, been waiting for this day.
Apparently not just me—James Van Fleet grinned ear to ear, and Dwight D. Eisenhower—Ike—smirked like a kid with a shiny new toy.
Even mild-mannered Omar Bradley thirsted for blood. West Point's toxic influence on character laid bare for all.
But hey… chirpees?
Underclassmen. Our toys. Heh heh heh.
Picturing how to pay forward last year's hazing had me grinning, shoulders shimmying in an impromptu Arirang dance. Not my fault. Blame West Point's culture of shit discipline and top-down abuse.
"From this moment, you're beast cubs! Not people! Want human treatment? Leave West Point now!!"
Aaah, a year ago that was me down there.
Looks like they had a script—word for word, no deviation.
But those trembling lambs? The speech hit home.
"Hey, Jin. Good trip home?"
"Didn't come empty-handed, right? Bring anything?"
"Of course. West Point's Everything Store, back in business."
Anastacio Quevedo Ver and senior Vicente Podico Lim approached, barely hiding smirks. Same one-track minds: hazing plebes.
"Another Filipino this year."
"No worries. Can't exactly help directly, huh?"
"Yeah. Look at that kid—frozen stiff."
Over there, a obvious Filipino cadet shoveled dirt with gusto.
"Digging like that? Back'll snap."
"Gotta teach 'em step by step. Want me to kick his ass?"
"Nah. McNarney's on bad-senior duty."
"You're this year's savior."
Vicente grinned.
What the hell? So we'd been scamming all along?
"Nah, what you got last year was real."
He shook his head emphatically.
"Just… no one as vicious this time. We had that colored roommate who made history, but no bellowing racist calling 'nigger monkey' or whatever."
Cadets still around had ping-ponged: "You do it." "That Alabama hick over there." "You're the boss." Winner: vicious ex-racist Joseph Taggart McNarney, who still thought blacks were a cut below. Anastacio's hilarious recap.
"How's McNarney? Better?"
"Tons. Anyway, you and me? Honorary whites per Uncle Sam. Comrades."
Aigoo.
People change, huh.
"Now he's twisted into 'leading coloreds is the white man's burden'…"
"Long as he doesn't spew inferiority crap to our faces."
Chit-chat later. My role: white knight saving poor Filipino from evil McNarney.
"Oh, new regimental commander cadet has a secret mission for you, Eugene."
"What?"
Ex-commander Howard S. Bennion commissioned out, new one: senior Francis Newcomer.
Barely knew him—class nods, group hangs with Bennion. Secret mission?
"Nicaraguan exchange student this year. Play white knight for him too."
"These guys are all riding their seniority."
"Means you're trusted. Better than me stepping in?"
Third-year me wanted rest. Spin the top hard~
Vicente dropped that bombshell, chuckling as he vanished.
As expected, psycho McNarney terrorized two coloreds with glee.
"You wanna die, punks?! Who dropped their rifle?! Get up and grab it!"
"Sir, yes sir!!"
"Yes, sir!!"
"Your eyes like rotten pollack! Can't you stand?! Names?!"
"Garcia, sir!!"
"Diaz, sir!!"
"Fuck that. Hard to remember—you're 'Charcoal' and 'Coal' from now on!"
Born for this.
Next life: Gunnery Sergeant Hartman. Might get shot at night—time to intervene.
"Hey, McNarney."
"What, you y—cough, educating plebes. Do your job?!"
This prick. Almost said "yellow monkey," bit his tongue. Face screamed pain—spared.
"Even if they're beast cubs, name-calling by skin color? Ease up."
"…Hmph! You manage 'em! They wash out? Your fault!!"
Sulky McNarney scampered off.
Chirpees' eyes sparkled at me banishing the foul-mouthed white brute.
Time to meet expectations.
"Look at you punks? Rifle grip gone limp already?"
"No, sir!!"
"Outside, and 'no'? Drop and give me twenty!!"
My turn to grind 'em.