Chapter 30. Opening (1)
Of course, being pulled back to the rear didn't mean a cushy order to return to Washington D.C. and tend to my pregnant wife.
Back in San Francisco once more.
The ones who'd yanked me from the front lines to the rear were those goddamn newspaper bastards.
"Pancho Villa Bandit Leader Slain by U.S. Army!"
"Bandit Killers Feel the Iron Fist of American Vengeance!"
"Headhunters Claim Equatorial Scalps in Triumphant Return!"
The more they went on, the more the press's tall tales ballooned, and by the yellow journalism rags, we might as well have been Cortés returning to Aztec lands.
It was Patton who'd gone berserk from the start, not me. As his underclassman and errand boy, I'd done my damnedest to rein in his madness, but it was beyond me.
So why the hell did I end up with those ridiculous nicknames too? Drop the "killers" part already, for fuck's sake.
Anyway, according to the articles, I was the first Asian officer in U.S. Army history, outraged by the filthy bandits invading America, who'd called for retribution using a "new weapon" for the first time—and finally shattered the enemy with the "tank," a wonder weapon just starting to see use in Europe, bathing in their blood like some berserker who shrugged off mortal wounds.
My "wound" was just a scratch on the neck. One millimeter deeper and it'd have been serious, but as it was? Minor. Hell, basically fine.
And to top it off, the publicity-hungry PR department had blown it even further out of proportion.
Even the 21st-century ROK Army's morale and PR folks were the same—starving hyenas who had to hype up jack shit.
So when juicy stories of "victory," "corpses," and "severed heads" landed in their laps, what do you think happened?
"Prepared Talent! General Pershing's True Prodigy, Lieutenant Patton!"
"Every Step Makes History! The First Asian Officer—Eugene Kim!"
The result? A massive explosion of secondhand embarrassment.
When these twisted, distorted articles hit Washington D.C., Dorothy was over the moon, her father was floored, and Henry Ford was horrified at the nightmare of losing his investment.
In the end, that's how I wound up in San Francisco.
Congress had finally amended the defense act, kicking off massive military buildup and large-scale mobilization.
National Guard units from across the country were called up for border duty, and short officer training courses were established for the huge troop surge.
But the results were a clusterfuck.
"Seventy-five thousand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Deserters, fine, whatever... but no weapons. No ammo. Jesus."
"Some don't even know how to fire a rifle. Others showed up from Texas in fur coats."
"Fucking incredible America. And I gotta whip this into an army?"
No matter how much of a shitshow, I couldn't turn my back on the U.S. Army's mess.
Americans were so ignorant they didn't even know it got hot near Mexico, and willful beyond imagination.
They were utterly useless as soldiers.
The officer training for college grads and students? ROTC existed back then too, but it was pure American militia-level crap.
Anyway, my new posting was under General Benjamin Franklin Bell's Western Command training camp.
Knock knock.
"Excuse me. Lieutenant Eugene Kim, reporting for transfer as of today."
As I stepped in, several officers stood like they'd been waiting, welcoming me.
"We've been expecting you, young hero!"
"...Come again?"
"Haha. Everyone's buzzing about the Bandit Killer from Mexico. Is it true you snapped seven bandits' necks with Eastern kung fu?"
"Pardon?"
What the fuck kind of bullshit was this? If I could do that, I'd be in kung fu tournaments, not the army.
"Uh... was it a lie?"
"I engaged the enemy as a soldier, but it wasn't 7-to-1, and no kung fu."
"Goddamn PR hacks. But you're wrong about one thing."
Officers who'd been buried in paperwork, looking beat, now surrounded me.
A guy I pegged as the personnel officer grinned.
"We were definitely getting a Eugene Kim. But... the one assigned to us is Lieutenant Eugene Kim."
"Lieutenant?"
"Congrats on the promotion! Those PR assholes made you a kung fu master on their own, so we figured we'd bump your rank too."
Just like that, right after check-in, amid applause, I learned I'd been promoted to first lieutenant.
I was a bit flustered.
Even Patton, six years my senior, was still a second lieutenant. And here I was, already a first lieutenant?
"Guess you gotta see combat to promote."
"I'd rather skip the kung fu headhunter title and stay a LT."
Yeah, exactly. This felt off.
As we swapped introductions, someone else entered.
"You the new LT Kim? The general's waiting."
"Yes, sir. On my way."
"I'm First Lieutenant George Catlett Marshall Jr., the general's aide. Nice to meet you."
Who?
This goddamn army was like a Dragon Ball episode—name-brand legends popping up everywhere.
If this Marshall was that Marshall, I had to latch on. Even if it meant kissing ass, I needed his favor. Ten Pattons' goodwill wasn't worth one Marshall's. Hell yes.
"Lieutenant Eugene Kim—er, First Lieutenant Kim. Pleased to meet you!"
"Heh, full of spirit. The general himself will pin your new rank. Let's go."
"Yes, sir!"
And so my new gig in San Francisco began.
Officer training.
Thinking back on West Point's four-year grind still gives me mixed feelings.
Those memories and experiences? The most valuable of both my lives.
But this?
"Sorry, did I mishear the English?"
"No, you heard right."
"Make officers in 30 days? What the hell?"
My mind reeled.
Who the fuck dreamed this up? Even Nonsan Training Center wasn't a 30-day course, you lunatics.
I knew about WWII's infamous "90-Day Miracle" officer training. But 30 days? A 30-day miracle? Exam kids call 30 days prep for retakes, and this for officers?
But the army says jump, you jump.
I got drafted into that hellish officer course to taste the abyss.
"Don't worry."
Marshall's eyes sparkled like prime Korean beef headed to slaughter.
"I'm stepping down as aide to join the training too."
"Hah... hahaha... ha."
Fun times training with Marshall.
No, even so... 30 days was insane.
Despair at the impossibility mixed with my duty to brown-nose Marshall into an oriental salad of deep hopelessness.
Fine. He's the one I can count on.
Finally, a normal, rational, reliable senior. Just follow Marshall's ass and I'm golden.
That mindset brought instant peace.
Being in the rear meant letters—blessings of civilization—finally arrived fast.
Friends who'd seen the papers or heard of my promotion sent congrats, and I hustled replies.
Dearest Eugene,
We all knew you were a madman, but shattering Mexican skulls like a baseball bat? Never saw that coming...
Eugene, you doing okay? I got married too, and now... (excerpt omitted) So when I heard you took the enemy chief's head in Mexico, it was so you.
No, you idiots!
Don't buy the rumors! How could upright, rational me do some Aztec jaguar warrior shit? It doesn't make sense!
After penning endless corrections to their misconceptions, I finally opened Dorothy's letter with pounding heart.
So glad you're back alive. Still dizzy thinking I almost had a fatherless kid. I was a fool to believe that guy who said you'd be safe in the rear—
This wasn't even our first letter since deployment, but the first line stabbed my heart like a dagger as always. Sorry. It wasn't my fault; it was all Patton, that medieval berserker. Please believe me.
Every line drips with worry and concern. I'm so sorry.
But the more I read, the less I wanted to settle—the urge to head to Europe grew stronger.
Her father had about 3/8 Native blood. Dorothy maybe 3/16, 19% person of color. Our kid would get my Korean genes too.
Even with this bullshit second chance, navigating America was tightrope-walking every step. How rough would it be for that kid?
Only one answer.
By any means, smash every barrier and climb to the absolute top.
Rooting out racism? Dream on. I'd make sure no one called my kid "yellow monkey" to their face.
Even if I died in the Somme or Ypres mud, the kid would at least have a war hero dad's honor.
I wrote back to Dorothy, leaving Ford's letter and package last.
The package was what I'd requested; the letter? No expectations, but what was it?
What the...? Ominous. "Don't you dare dream of combat!" or some shit?
This guy's scaring the hell out of me. Godfather material? Our kid's backing is getting monstrous—my heart swells with pride.
I tore into the package next.
"Yes, perfect."
Very satisfying. Custom orders hit different.
Stroking the bright red baseball cap from Mr. Ford, I pondered how to forge these chirpy chicks into elite U.S. officers in 30 days.