Chapter 14. A Sure Gamble
“Eugene Kim! Cadet Eugene Kim!”
A booming voice echoed through the room.
The classroom door slid open with a rattle, and the history instructor burst in halfway running.
“Yes, sir.”
“What the hell is this!”
He thrust a wad of papers at me, flapping them wildly.
Hmm, covered in elegant handwriting from someone clearly brilliant and scholarly. In other words... undoubtedly a note from a great man who’d one day be something like a future U.S. marshal.
“It’s the report I submitted, sir.”
“You trying to pick a fight with me? You think I’ll grade this fairly?”
“I believe you’re a man of great character who can accept a cadet’s fresh take on academics with an open mind... so even if the answer’s wrong, as long as the logic holds together, you won’t give it a zero.”
Did I lay it on too thick? If he takes it as sarcasm and blows up, that’d be a problem.
Ike’s been exploding enough lately with all his pent-up frustration.
Come to think of it, Ike had turned into a proper delinquent.
A 6-0 home loss to our rivals was pretty brutal. It was shocking enough to turn a diligent student into a West Point gangster.
Dorm-room chain-smoking, boozing, fists flying before words, and a mouth full of thick profanity—it had me wondering if he was planning to run a moonshine racket in Chicago after graduation.
Blame those Annapolis bastards. If I hadn’t screwed up, Ike wouldn’t have gone off the rails like that.
It just so happened that my mistake led to a critical injury, yanking a key team member out of action right when we couldn’t regroup, leaving us to get slaughtered by those seal pups.
6-0. One goal shy of respectability. Seven straight losses. If Ike had been fine, we’d have won easily. Hell, people were saying it outright.
If the great Marshal Eisenhower got expelled, veered into Boardwalk Empire territory, and that somehow let Hitler win World War II—what a ridiculous butterfly effect. A web novel like that wouldn’t pull 300 views per chapter. Or the author’d get shot.
“This... this...!”
While I was lost in my rambling thoughts, the poor instructor stood there, face flushing red in front of all the cadets staring him down, lacking the guts to say, “Yeah, I’m not grading it right. You get a zero.”
Sorry, sir. No malice intended.
But still.
It was about time to stand out.
“—Therefore, the prevailing opinion among intellectuals is that the possibility of a large-scale war breaking out in Europe at present is slim.”
The history instructor rattled off a few theories, and we copied them down to memorize.
Textbook 1910s education.
“Of course, there are places where war could erupt. Take the Balkans, for instance. That region has been tainted by infidel Muslims for far too long, corrupting the temperament of its people, and it’s where the interests of the Austro-Hungarian and Russian Empires clash. But the nations of the world are more interconnected than ever, united in faith under the teachings of Jesus Christ, and with multiple precedents of averting crises through dialogue and compromise—”
How naive these intellectuals of the era were.
At least that’s how the instructor’s lecture sounded in my ears.
Sarajevo was less than two full years away.
Too sudden?
No way. Assassinations of officials and royalty had been revolutionary basics since the 19th century.
Dialogue and compromise?
Crazy bastards. It’s like delinquents smoking at a gas station saying, “It didn’t blow up this time, so it never will!”—then flicking the lighter. Boom. That’s World War I.
Calling every last-minute scramble “dialogue and compromise.” These people were even more unhinged than I thought.
But that “common sense” was my opportunity.
To repeat: less than two years left.
Play Dr. Doom now, and I could reap the rewards before graduation.
“I have an objection.”
I raised my hand and spoke low. The classroom temperature dropped about three degrees Celsius. Damn Americans drilled Fahrenheit into my head!
“What is it, Cadet Eugene Kim?”
The instructor looked a bit flustered.
No wonder—raising an “objection” in sacred West Point lectures only happened during grade disputes.
“You said a large-scale war is unlikely, sir. So why have West Point’s incoming class sizes increased?”
“That’s entirely separate. I was talking about a massive war involving the European powers.
You cadets have a duty to uphold the Stars and Stripes against savages and cannibals in the jungles of the Philippines, the coasts of Panama, that barbaric China, and every corner of the globe where Old Glory flies.”
Fuck. Staring right at me while saying “barbaric China.”
Screw it. Plan change.
Taking a slap like that without hitting back would trash my gao—er, reputation.
Time to personally demonstrate the causes of World War I with this one body of mine.
“Understood, sir. So a full-scale war in Europe is impossible.”
“Right. Now, back to the lesson—”
“But didn’t all that dialogue and compromise happen right up to the brink of war? If it fails or conditions shift, doesn’t war inevitably follow?”
“Enough. Your job isn’t to imagine ‘ifs.’ That’s for pulp fiction hacks and scribbling novelists. New report due today. Topic: ‘Why a large-scale war involving three or more great powers is impossible.’ Length—”
Cadets all around were clutching their heads.
Oof, the stares stung. Guys hit with a sudden report glared at me with curses and resentment.
Sorry, fellas.
But I want you all to remember this day when you commission.
Spread my prediction far and wide across the whole damn Army.
And that was the result.
I’d meticulously filled pages with “Why war in Europe is inevitable,” and turned it in.
Germany’s diplomatic isolation.
The resulting German-Austro-Hungarian alliance born of isolation.
British-French cooperation.
Austro-Hungarian-Russian rivalry.
No democracy to blame, so the closed decision-making of absolutist states.
Poor communication between military, bureaucracy, and politicians.
All the reasons future historians would scramble to explain “Why the hell did the war start?”—I pinned them straight as triggers for war.
One thing was sure: posterity’s historians would treat that damn paper like a holy relic.
Of course, submitting that crap had the instructor furious right now. Like a grenade with the pin pulled.
“Sorry, but for fairness’ sake, I can’t do that.”
“I’d bet everything that war’s coming soon.”
“What?”
The classroom erupted in murmurs. Cadets whispered, “What’s his deal?” The instructor couldn’t hide his shock anymore.
“I’m certain a world war will engulf Europe within five years. This isn’t wishful thinking—it’s logical deduction.”
“And?”
“But five years from now, I’ll already be graduated, so there’s nothing worth betting. Make it three years. No.”
Everyone stared, mouths agape.
I let the silence hang for a few seconds, savoring it.
“I dare predict that before I hold my diploma in hand, ‘the war to end all wars’ will come. If it doesn’t, I won’t accept my diploma.”
“You crazy son of a—”
Van Fleet started to lunge to cover my mouth but clamped his own instead. Wise choice.
“Conversely, if I’m betting my diploma, what will you stake, sir?”
“Hoo... Cadet Eugene Kim. I’ve seen plenty of students. The smart ones who clawed their way to West Point especially tend to overconfident in their intellect.”
Yeah.
Because they weren’t on their second life.
General Pershing once said: Don’t bet unless you’re sure. That means bet when you are.
What if the butterfly effect butterflies away World War I by then?
Fuck it, I’d lose.
Me flunking changes Franz Ferdinand’s fate two years later? That alone could fill a whole alternate history novel.
By then, most of my future knowledge would be scrap paper anyway. My rep would tank with it, so forfeiting graduation would actually be a sweet deal.
Win-win for me. Nothing to lose.
“Last chance. Take this report back, rewrite it by tonight, submit fresh. I might see it as the courage of a cadet with convictions.”
He flapped the report he still clutched.
“Refuse, and I’ll accept your bet.”
“Sir! Don’t indulge one student’s nonsense!”
“A man’s wagering his future right now—stay out of it!”
Whoa, macho era through and through.
Bradley’s desperate shout drowned under the instructor’s roar.
The room felt like January in Cheorwon. Everyone looked frozen solid.
“So, sir, what do you stake?”
“If war erupts in Europe before you get your diploma, I’ll shout from the War Department, State Department, press—anywhere my voice reaches—that a great visionary has emerged at West Point. Hell, I’ll get you a spot at State if you want.”
“No way. Gotta commission first.”
“Fine. I’ll give you credit for confidence.”
He finally dropped his arm and pocketed my report.
“I’ll frame this and hang it by my bed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I won.
This is why we gamble.
Ignoring the stares like I was insane, the instructor resumed class, and I listened leisurely.
“You crazy fuck!”
“Grab that bastard. He laid low for a while, now he’s picking fights with the instructor.”
“My plan: On graduation day, stuff Eugene in the cannon, kneel as a group, and beg, ‘Please just give this fucker his diploma. We’ll fire the salute.’”
“Won’t happen. Instructor’ll drag in reporters like a pack of dogs, and they’ll all swarm me for handshakes.”
Taking my cockiness for bluster or insanity, my so-called friends decided on psychiatric intervention.
Of course, this era’s psychiatry meant physical therapy.
“Beat the shit outta him!”
“Begone, demon!”
“Ow! Fuck! That hurts!!”
After a solid beating, Ike pulled an envelope from his pocket.
“Enough. He blocked his own path—what can we do? Let’s brainstorm how to beg the instructors to tug their heartstrings when the time comes.”
“What’s that letter?”
“From Dyke. Inviting us all for Christmas. Says RSVP if we’re in for the party.”
Party, huh.
West Point had its share of social events—hell, they taught dancing in class.
But poor yellow monkey’s got no lady to escort.
“Party? Obviously going.”
“Lotsa pretty girls?”
“Booze okay?”
“You assholes. That’s all you think about?”
I muttered in pity, and the jerks grabbed me again.
“The guy who squared up to the instructor is mocking us.”
“You’re the craziest of us.”
Party.
True, no date was a real sting by this era’s standards. Brutal on solos—no mercy.
“Fine, whatever. Party’s secondary—gotta see Dyke’s face at least.”
“Kansas is my home state too, so you might swing by my place.”
Nodding at Ike, I busily pieced together my next future plans.