Chapter 31. Opening (2)
George C. Marshall had a habit of keeping a diary.
It was immensely helpful. It organized his day, and made it easy to reflect on events later.
Lately, he'd realized that the entries about him were piling up more and more.
Lieutenant Eugene Kim has been newly assigned here. Contrary to the War Department's idiot propagandists, he's a truly intellectual and clear-headed officer—not some bloodthirsty headhunter. It's astonishing that this country promotes someone to lieutenant in just a year, but Lt. Kim seems more than worthy, setting aside all racial prejudices.
Prepared a training manual for reserve officer candidates with Lt. Kim. Considering the constraints, he'll handle the physical training for the troops, while I focus on officer education. Thirty days? No matter how I think about it, this feels wrong.
Observed Lt. Kim's first training session. He showed up in a bright red baseball cap with a skull emblem on the front—questionable taste, to say the least.
His methods seemed bizarre at first glance, but he stuck to certain lines. The personal attacks never stopped, but he didn't swing wildly with violence. He tested the candidates' endurance with grotesque calisthenics that seemed researched from how the human body twists in agony. Especially vicious was how he cleverly tied in collective responsibility, spreading the blame and hatred among the candidates themselves.
Afterward, when I asked the meaning of those bizarre exercises, Lt. Kim replied, "I can't be the only one suffering... Figured there were a couple more guys inwardly looking down on me as an Asian, so I struck first." Seemed sincere. Is West Point teaching that nowadays? End times.
That damn whistle echoed through drill the entire time. Peep-peep-peep, pee-pee-pee-peep—still ringing in my ears. Combined with those exercises and collective responsibility, by sunset the candidates' feet finally synced up. Feels like my educational philosophy is crumbling.
Lt. Kim's eyes were as red as that cap he always wears. During low-crawl practice, candidates protested the gravelly ground en masse. When he sprayed machine-gun fire over their heads, they finally did it right.
Lt. Kim's disciplinary hearing was held.
But ridiculously, it wrapped up in under thirty minutes. Reports came in from other training camps praising "machine-gunning overhead" as highly effective for low crawls. Candidates who'd experienced bullets whizzing overhead said it felt "just like combat—heart-pounding" and expressed satisfaction.
Unanimous verbal reprimand. General Bell immediately commended Lt. Kim for introducing realistic training.
Afterward, supply argued ammo shortages while training advocates pushed effectiveness—wasted hours bickering. This country is insane. My common sense is shattering.
That pretentious prick. Acts all innocent, but flip the switch and he turns rabid dog. I'm a soldier, not a beast tamer.
His diaries were filled with unwitting records of that guy.
Marshall clutched his head, thought for a moment, then began writing today's entry on a fresh page.
I think I finally understand Lieutenant Eugene Kim. He's undoubtedly capable, but he always uses about 30% of his ability just hiding that he's a madman.
Throw him an impossible task, and he'll roll his eyes in confusion at first, then revert to rabid-dog mode and somehow pull it off. In the process, he blows away common sense and conventions like a storm uprooting trees. Onlookers get ulcers, but results are solid—no room to complain.
Not sure if it's from Asian cultural humility or minority survival instincts... but...
Marshall paused, pondering.
What kind of soldier was this Eugene Kim he'd observed up close?
The answer was simple.
...If we create an environment where he can fully unleash his abilities without worrying about others' opinions, that young officer will grow into a pillar supporting the United States and the U.S. Army.
About to set down his pen, Marshall added one last line.
His subordinates down the chain will go mad, though.
Lately, Marshall's stares at me have been downright unsettling.
Honestly, I'm wronged.
No matter how harsh or painful the environment, I gave it my absolute best.
Sure, some Southern rednecks—raised on cotton fields learning how to wield nigger-whips—got uppity. But as their future superior officer, how could I not teach them a lesson?
No choice. In the increasingly diverse U.S. Army ahead, bucking a superior just 'cause he's yellow? I applied Patton-style custom education, harvesting two corns from the poor candidate, but I prevented a court-martial future for him. Valuable experience.
Of course, the red cap and sunglasses influenced it—a little, very little. Uniforms control people, right? Once in this getup, couldn't resist ordering PT eight times.
Honestly, full PT only day one—and skipped some moves. Trench warfare recruits doing "guerrilla" training from the start? Nonsense. Just light warm-up and dominance assertion.
"Left! Left! Left! Yeah! Good job, maggots! Feet finally syncing! First time since weaning off mom's tit! Cadence! On the march! Sing the cadence!"
Collective responsibility is the best.
PT perfected for squeezing humans, plus group blame. Plus every American's innate "my state's the best" mindset.
Scratch that itch gently—
"All you Midwesterners only good for that pussy shit? New Yorkers were sharp day one! No numbers in those cornfields?!"
"Western boys sure shoot well! Great Lakes punks only touched conveyor belts—never seen a gun! Quit soldiering, go home, I'll build you a Model T Ford!"
"College grads? Bullshit, chickenheads! Civil War black units would smoke you—at drill, melee, even dick size!"
Performance graphs trending up daily.
At first, feared Hartmann-Sergeant-style shooting death, half-scared. But luckily, candidates burned with rivalry, training passionately.
Total perfection. Truly satisfying.
And Marshall was a genius.
From dawn, I'd grind these guys, then exhausted, he'd scoop them up like a pro and cram essential officer knowledge into their skulls. That was our routine.
I wondered "will this work?"—but he made it happen. Future nation-builder's sprout was extraordinary.
Nights, we'd review and tally the day's training.
But as time passed, chit-chat overtook work inevitably.
"So that was pure setup, huh?"
"Indeed. Patton—lieutenant now, I suppose. Anyway, that senior picked up the damn taco-head, and all hell broke loose. Pershing's contemptuous look crushed me. I tried my utmost to stop it."
"Hm... You tried. Sure. Regrettable."
Unlike his cold, strict look, Lieutenant Marshall was reasonable, humorous even.
But lately, his nagging felt off—worried he'd think "yellow's hopeless; add to kill-list." Had to stay vigilant.
Wrong side of this guy? Our pal James Van Fleet's living proof.
Capable guy, but Marshall once confused him with some drunkard officer of similar name.
James failed promotions repeatedly; only cleared up much later, rushed ahead. While classmates Eisenhower, Bradley soared in WWII, he hit Korea.
One misunderstanding blocks a talent—that's Marshall's power. Branded "incompetent—don't use"? Hard pass.
So, social virtues: more loyalty, flattery.
"Lieutenant."
"What?"
"Short career, but no superior's inspired such loyalty as you."
"Lately, pointless flattery's up. Something wrong?"
"No, sir!"
"Good. Cut the bullshit; tell me more about tanks. Curious your thoughts."
Marshall into tanks? Not bad. Though not my original path, positioning as expert early can't hurt.
"First, tanks' core—"
I slowly opened my mouth, avoiding his devouring gaze.
John Beadle, newly appointed commandant of West Point replacing Clarence Townsley, grumbled at Washington's order right after arrival.
"So, find a report one cadet wrote."
One report buried in the commandant office cabinets. Painful for a newbie.
He summoned an instructor.
"War Department wants a cadet document."
"Which one?"
"Report by Eugene Kim, West Point class of 1915. Personal speculation on future war—why the face?"
Instructor's grimace like he'd eaten rat meat. Beadle baffled.
"Eugene Kim's West Point report?"
"Yes."
"Probably the 'Armageddon Report.'"
What? Grand name for a cadet paper?
Beadle's bafflement grew. What happened at West Point? Why War Department?
"Previous commandant took and stored it personally; we don't know where."
"I see."
"..."
"...What? Find it."
"Yes, sir."
Orders from above: move mountains. No whining over paper.
Instructor and cadets ransacked cabinets; finally found the yellowed, tattered report.
"This sorry state—embarrassing to send. Copy it, return original later. Wonder what madness is inside."
"Understood."
That night, Colonel Beadle received the original: Predictions on the Aspects of Future Warfare and Proposals for Preparations Thereto.
"What the hell is this? Satan? Satan whispering in his ear? This ain't 'Armageddon Report'—it's no mere report! Townsley, you lunatic, hid this?!"
Soon after, similar wails echoed in Washington D.C.'s War Department.
Author's Note
Patton as lieutenant for 6 years?: Historical fact.
U.S. Army hated trucks?: Historical fact.
30-day officer training realistic?: Historical fact.