Chapter 13. How to Deal with Despair
West Point was an isolated hellhole.
You hardly ever got a chance to step outside, except for summer break, Christmas, or the occasional away sports game. No wonder my sports-loving buddies were starting to lose their minds.
The place was so damn cut off from the world that even Churchill, who'd gone to some real-deal British boarding school, supposedly called it a monastery. Believe it or not.
Spend a year staring at the same grumpy faces day in and day out, and guys like us start shedding our shame and pride like old skin.
"Ahh~ I wanna get laid!"
"Don't yell it, you dumbass."
Lock up a bunch of energetic 10-to-20-somethings with testosterone boiling over, and this is what you get.
In a shady corner of West Point's sprawling campus.
James Van Fleet belted out his usual bullshit, and Omar Bradley just puffed on his cigarette without a word.
"Running low on smokes."
"The guys who went out will bring more. Eugene, when's the next shipment?"
"Instructors are cracking down lately. Even the dimmest ones have started noticing all the butts around since last year. Took 'em longer than I thought."
Was this West Point or Alcatraz? I was starting to question my own sanity.
"Ike's got it good. He gets to go off-campus. When do we get a turn?"
"He's basically running that team now. Jealous? Become a baseball god so good they overlook you're only a sophomore."
"Ha. Lucky bastards. Play one game, give the crowd those misty-eyed looks from the field, and the girls go wild, right? Then snag the hottest one—"
"James, James. Your head's full of nothing but horse shit. Where'd you sell off duty and honor?"
"Let the guys outside worry about that crap. We've got another year rotting here before we touch any of it."
Omar grumbled.
"Just watch. Baseball's era is coming. When it does, the West Point baseball team will rule over those football pricks. And the names Bradley and Eugene Hou will live forever in baseball history."
Sorry, buddy. Not happening.
In my memories, no matter how big MLB got, it never knocked the Super Bowl off its throne.
Especially not West Point—they were famous for football.
I must've stared at him like a pitiful idiot because he scowled.
"Whatever. When that day comes, why not ditch the uniform and go pro? West Point's great manager—you could coach a pro team out there."
"Sure, sure. The day crowds don't shoot the yellow monkey on sight, I'll be your coach."
"Twisted bastard... Watch your mouth."
Try living as a yellow monkey sometime. That's how it goes.
Always the same damn thing—get dirty to climb. Hell, they won't even let me play because who knows how the other team would react to an Asian ballplayer?
To avoid that slur in my lifetime, I'd need to become a war hero at minimum. But my kids' generation... in a free Korea...
"Old man's coming. Bounce."
"What? This is prime spot."
"Get caught again and you'll rack up demerits. Don't be stingy."
"It's loaded! Fully loaded, you prick!"
"Then get caught alone. Eugene, let's go."
"...You assholes. I'll curse you."
We crawled out in prone position, just like the fine school taught us, slipping away from the crime scene quietly.
At least with the friends I made here, I never had to hear that suffocating skin-color bullshit.
What a fantastic youth.
The trouble started that evening.
"Ike? What happened to your leg?"
"Tore a ligament. Fucking hell."
Back from an away game, the football team shuffled in, and Eisenhower was the only one on crutches.
"Not a big deal. It's one of those... glorious wounds, right?"
"Cut the crap and get proper treatment."
"Yeah, gotta treat it. What I need most right now is a nicotine cure."
He unwrapped the bandages around his leg, and out popped a full carton where the splint should've been.
"You... you..."
"This crazy son of a bitch! You're the best!"
The guys around him cheered the brave smuggler, stuffing cigarettes into pockets and shirts.
"I like Ike! Finally, Kim Trading Co. falls and Ike Enterprises rises?"
"To smoke or not to smoke—that is the question."
"Pay up, assholes. No tongue promises."
We hung out in Ike's room, smoking happily together, and I thought that was that.
But of course not.
"Heard the news?"
"What now? Mess hall grub even worse? Can't get blander than this."
Next day at lunch.
Munching on the usual tasteless stew and bread, Anastacio whispered from beside me.
"Ike fell off his horse in riding class."
"What? Why?"
"Knee injury was worse than thought. Place is in an uproar."
"Instead of proper treatment, why ride...?"
Something felt off.
Did this happen in the original history?
Had I changed history just by enrolling?
If some butterfly effect made the great general Eisenhower drop out of the academy, what the hell would happen to this world?
I'd felt this spine-tingling chill every time something involving these historical figures went sideways—like when I learned Bradley sucked at academics.
"Why the death face? You didn't smash his knee."
"Just... bugs me."
The slop wouldn't go down.
If it were those asshole jocks, I'd clap. But not this.
Not the Ike I'd watched up close—not the history-book icon, but my Ike—derailing like this.
"Where's he laid up?"
"Infirmary."
He rolled his eyes, then whispered lower.
"Don't do something stupid?"
"Stupid? Call it comradeship with dignity."
"You madman. Weren't you done with that shit after the cannon incident? Sergeant Richard's still raging to boot your monkey ass outta school."
"Oh, that pecking cotton-field daddy's girl threatens? Can't abandon a brother-in-arms."
"No. No way! That pecking cotton-field bitch grabs her damn quill and writes 'Eugene Kim, demerits exceed limit—suspension.' You're fucked."
Anastacio's voice dropped to a thick baritone, echoing like in a tunnel. Worry clouded those innocent eyes—like staring at Hong Seong Hanwoo, made my chest ache... Hong Seong... Hanwoo... craving a Hanwoo bulgogi burger.
"Listen. That sentimental Ike, four years older than us? He's probably twisting in agony right now, bawling that no friends came."
"He twists when they confiscate smokes, idiot. Vicente warned me—if you pull dumb shit in fencing, he'll snap your rib."
"Dear amigo, no fencing left today."
I replied kindly, but his face soured more. Poor guy.
Couldn't tell this innocent friend, but leaving a mark on history with the future marshal? Worth any demerits short of expulsion.
So, tonight, I'd hop the window to see his face.
Not out of worry, of course.
That night.
I leaped from the window with conviction, maintained perfect stealth an assassin would envy, and headed to the infirmary.
Guards rotated shifts, and getting caught sneaking out meant real trouble—but
"Martin, sir."
"Kim? You lunatic. You actually came? Sergeant Richard—"
"Spare me the Richard crap—I've heard it thirty-five times from you. Korean saying: without ears, it's a corpse. Pick that lock quick."
"Fifteen minutes. No more. Someone comes, chair falls—you hear and bail. Got it?"
Martin, on infirmary watch now, was a baseball zealot rivaling Bradley.
Once he'd tasted Giants-style true batting, no going back to his old Dixie racist days. Sports bridging racial divides again!
"Get caught by instructors, you die by my hand first. Annapolis game soon—suspend you, and I'll dunk you in the syphilis pond."
"Yessir."
Click!
The heavy 19th-century lock turned, infirmary door cracked open.
"Who the—who? Gene? You nuts?"
Why did everyone call my true friend visit crazy?
"Thought you might be bawling alone, so I came. And you call me nuts? Harsh."
"That Southern blockhead Richard's dying to redline your name—"
Fuck, Richard again. Losing it.
I tossed my last cigarette pack instead of arguing.
"My comrade. I, Eisenhower, won't forget your courage and devotion."
Such an easy mark...
"Gene."
"Yeah?"
Finally, opening his heart to me.
Snagging best-friend spot from Eisenhower. Worth the hassle!
"Gimme a light too."
"Fuckin' hell."
Overhand match toss—he snatched it quick.
We smoked in silence for a good while.
He finally spoke when the second cig was half-gone.
"They told me to quit football."
"..."
"Keep playing, legs go to shit. What can I do? Gotta stop."
"......"
"Goddamn West Point! Never even wanted to be a soldier. Just... came for free football. Now can't even do that. How'd it... ha..."
I was speechless.
No rambling from me would fix this.
"Gene."
"What."
"If they told you you'd never do what you want again—how'd you handle it?"
"Our situations differ. 'Can't be soldier without legs' ain't 'monkey can't be soldier.'"
"Looks same difficulty to me. Still amazed you stick it out here."
I pondered.
What to say to help this despairing friend?
Decided to share my story slow.
"Wanted Annapolis originally. Figured fighting Japs meant sea, not land."
"Yeah? I aimed there first too. Age forced West Point."
"Similar story. West Point took a tiny few blacks; Annapolis, zero."
Contrary to what you think, I'm no unbreakable warrior.
Just challenged the least impossible spot.
Ike puffed, listening quietly to my mutterings.
"Never once thought 'if this fails, I'll die.' Annapolis no-go? Fine, West Point. That's it."
"So, just do something else decent since football's out?"
"My life's my story. Your future's yours."
Clang!
Heavy metal crash outside.
Chair tipping, no doubt.
"Shit. Someone's here. I'm out."
"Hey, wait!"
"Quit moping! Fuck, you're shit at football. Nah, you're good—but not pro good. You're the stake-in-the-ground type: soldier till you die an old general with five stars. That's you. Bye!"
"You—"
I bolted out the window, missed his comeback.
Whatever it was, probably cringey.
Soon after, Ike returned to classes, smile back quick.
But days later,
West Point football lost soul-crushingly 6-0 to Annapolis on the home field, and Eisenhower's face went dead again.