Chapter 19: The War to End All Wars
June 28, 1914.
As we seniors basked in our hard-earned authority, watching the plebes wallow in the mud during Beast Barracks,
a gunshot finally echoed across the world from Sarajevo in the Balkans.
The very next day, on the 29th, newspapers across Austria unleashed a frenzy of extras.
Modern telecommunications carried the news across the Atlantic in a flash, and American outlets like the New York Times reported the horror just as swiftly.
And soon after,
West Point lost its shit.
"Holy fuck! Eugene! Where the hell's Eugene?!"
"Ow, my ass is killing me from all that marching. What?"
"Hurry up! Get your ass over here!"
Daring to order around a senior—no, the king of the castle, Eugene Kim.
I barely had the energy to twitch at a falling leaf, but their desperate pleas moved me to grace them with my presence.
"Fuckin' look at this."
"...It's started, huh."
"What? It's started? Shit, you gonna sit there all chill right now?"
My usual tight-knit crew of meatheads looked ready to riot en masse.
Hang on, I'm the one staying calm—why're you idiots flipping out more than me?
"Anyone can see this is a full-blown war crisis, right?"
"Is West Point's madman finally turning into its prophet?"
"Calm down, guys. We don't know how it'll play out yet."
Of course, war would break out.
But not for another month.
If they were this fired up already, they'd be hoarse by the time it actually hit. I'd need them screaming their lungs out then.
But my classmates' eyes had already shifted—glued to me.
Sure, Europe's war was someone else's problem.
Why should America jump in? Most folks clung to the Monroe Doctrine: you stay out of our hemisphere, we'll steer clear of your playground squabbles.
If I'd been born British or French, I'd be on the fast track to staff HQ. But nah.
After four brutal years at West Point, I knew the 1914 U.S. Army was a fossilized mess of dead weight. Without this chaos, I'd rot in some obscure coastal artillery battery till discharge.
Scratch that—wrong on two counts. If I'd been British or French, no academy for a yellow monkey like me. Loyalty to these United States surges anew.
Anyway, America had zero will or means to join Europe's big scrap. The Army lived in daily terror of Congress slashing budgets.
'President this time's some Democrat named Wilson.'
'A pacifist, right? Think he'll disband the Army?'
That crap came from the instructors themselves. Where was the future world cop's swagger?
As underclassmen, classmates, and even instructors eyed me like a freak, a month slipped by.
Contrary to expectations that Austria—blinded by rage over its heir—would crush tiny Serbia, the lack of war news cooled tempers.
"Knew it."
"Even if he wanted to show off... wars don't spark that easy."
"Even if one breaks out, Russia's gonna kick off a world war for a country that offed an archduke? That Russia that lost to the Japs? Suicidal."
"Aw, poor yellow monkey. All that big talk—gonna get his commission yanked?"
"As an educator, how could I be so heartless? I'll just remind him actions have consequences. Don't worry! Haha!!"
And on July 23,
Instead of a declaration and invasion, reports hit of Austria issuing an ultimatum to Serbia. The war scare sank.
Europe's gentlemen, rational as ever, opted for diplomacy again.
"You good?"
"Huh?"
Omar, ever the worrier who loved meddling, sidled up and patted my shoulder.
"It's fine. Could happen. Don't freak—focus on commissioning."
"What kinda bullshit is that..."
"They say no war."
"I never said a damn word about war from this!"
Injustice.
Sure, Sarajevo would ignite the war, but I'd never breathed a word. They hyped themselves into 'Whoa, prophecy!' then 'Eh, figures'—what could I do?
Even in the novel I ghost-submitted, the war trigger was a vague Balkan spat. Pinpoint an archduke assassination? I'd be Yellow Rasputin overnight.
"Huh... yeah, come to think of it..."
"Anyway! Don't even think about ditching commissioning!"
"I won't, I won't. You're too much sometimes."
Europe's crises always played out the same.
Powers' interests clashed head-on.
War drums beat louder.
Fleets with mighty dreadnoughts twitched at the ready.
'Yo, you know my bro Bismarck!' 'Hey, my Napoleon from the Louvre's with me!'—posturing like that.
Then some 'good mediator' pops up: 'No fighting~' and brokers a deal.
Divvy spoils based on who they favored. Done.
But not this time.
Sensations of full-scale wars had faded; colonial slaughters of spear-chucking natives dominated memories.
Americans here had tasted modern warfare best, but the U.S. was sidelined.
This wouldn't stop.
Had Austria swung the bat right after the assassination, it'd have public sympathy: 'They deserved it,' 'How pissed must they be?'—and crushed Serbia.
Opportunity gone.
Sharp ones might've sensed something off.
Not full acceptance.
And the answer was set.
That's right.
I'd been waiting for this day.
From the trenches, go die, you white bastards.
The past few days at West Point had been walking on thin ice.
July 28. War between Austria and Serbia erupted.
Daily papers chronicled how that spark ballooned into a continent-wide inferno.
My prediction wasn't some piddly skirmish. History had plenty: Russo-Japanese, Boer.
The war to end all wars.
A maelstrom sucking in Britain, France, Germany, Austria, Russia, Italy—three or more world dominators.
News from Europe reeked of mobilization orders from Russia and Germany.
August 1, 1914.
Another routine day after four years of grind: wake, wash, reveille, mess hall. Long free of perpendicular dining terror.
BAM!!!
An instructor burst in, face ashen, clutching a crumpled newspaper.
Spoons paused mid-scarf; heads swiveled. He stomped to the faculty table.
Nearby cadets glimpsed the massive headline on the mangled rag.
"What the hell's that mean?"
"France and Germany?"
"God, no."
Like dominoes toppling, the whisper "war" rippled from front to back, turning the hall into pandemonium.
Normally, instructors and seniors would've quashed it, punishing plebes. But they parroted "Holy shit, real war" while trembling.
In that madhouse bazaar,
I calmly popped the last bread crumb and chewed.
Only I had to stay cool.
Watch closely, you fucks.
And right on cue,
My friends' heads snapped my way, followed by cadets and instructors.
"Hey."
"Yeah."
"Heard?"
"Yup."
Silence hung for seconds after the dumb Q&A.
"Hey!!!"
"Hey! It's war!!"
"You... you crazy bastard!! You're for real!"
"Woooooo!!"
Friends leaped up, pounding my shoulders. Inspired, classmates swarmed.
"Me! When do I get married?!"
"Fuck off, I'm first! What assignment you think I'll get?!"
"Who you calling a fortune teller? You ain't marrying—no wife for second-place engineer scum like you!"
While bullshitting them off, the hall devolved into chaos. Some bolted outside bellowing "War!! Eugene Kim nailed it!!"
Shouldn't world war news bring horror, gloom?
Even knowing decades in this era, this war inevitable for my future, my modern soul whispered of coming hell and tragedy.
But they were different.
This whole era was.
Like these cadets raving, Europe's youth must be equally berserk right now!
They weren't just cheering a bet win.
Promised victory, future, glory.
A storm lifting them from ponds to skies—they welcomed it.
In that frenzy, stone-faced instructors approached. Yeah, time to simmer down.
"Cadet Kim."
"Yes, sir."
"How... how did you foresee this?"
Shit.
Even these guys' eyes were glazed.
Say 'Eastern mystic' or 'Holy Spirit visited my dreams, warning of calamity' and they'd buy it. Hell, they would anyway.
I chose words with surgical care.
"The backdrop for war was long set. I simply reasoned without bias."
"Prediction? You call that a prediction?"
"Obviously."
No need to add what'd you expect?—they'd cringe.
"Eugene Kim nailed it!!"
"West Point's Richelieu knows all!!"
"West Point's Jeremiah prophesied war!!"
"False prophets, bow your heads!!"
"Hey, hey! Put me down?!"
Buffoons grabbed limbs, hoisting me for a chair toss. Don't drop me! I said don't!!
This fanatic horde, instructors joining, spilled from the hall toward somewhere.
Instructors witnessing the Army's deranged future froze—then "War!! Prophet Eugene Kim marches!!" hooked them like Pied Piper rats into the madness.
Everyone snapped.
Crazy. All fucking crazy.
"Heretic there!!"
"Heretic! Heretic!!"
The parade halted at my betting instructor.
"What the fu—"
"Sir."
Ike, leading the lunatics, spoke coolly.
"Cadet Eugene Kim was right. Europe's powers are in the war vortex."
"...Yeah."
"So you'll honor the bet, sir?"
"Fine. I'll do what I can—"
"Booooooo!!"
Mass jeers.
His hedge attempt triggered instant mutiny.
"Fine! I'll help! Now get inside! All wanna lap the parade ground?!"
"Hey, quit embarrassing yourself. You've threatened to shred Cadet Kim's diploma plenty."
Even trailing instructors roasted him. Grimacing, he nodded vaguely and ducked inside.
"Booooooo!!"
"Coward!"
"No honor?!"
Raging zealots primed for rebellion, I—still hoisted—smiled leisurely.
I never expected much from that prick anyway.
Better if he ignored me.
Prophets shine brightest persecuted.
Here at West Point, they'd etch me deep.
No coastal battery exile from this moment on.