Chapter 5. Congenital Idiots
“I came here to learn football for free. I was originally aiming for Annapolis, but as you can see from my looks, I'm a bit too old for that. They wouldn't take me because of my age. Coming from the sticks of Kansas to New York has me a little dazed, though—”
“Hey! How much are you gonna talk by yourself?!”
“Sit down, sit down. That guy's eyes are gonna shake like an earthquake. Shut up already.”
This gambling degenerate was Dwight D. Eisenhower?
The guy who would later thrash Hitler's cornfields and end up in the White House.
In truth, I'd met a few figures who would carve their names into future history, but they hadn't strayed much from what I'd imagined.
But... Eisenhower was smashing my mental image to pieces without mercy.
After the simple introductions wrapped up, it was my turn. I gathered my wits.
“I'm Eugene Kim. From San Francisco. Korean-American.”
“Korea? Where's that?”
“Not Chinese?!”
Something was off about their reactions.
Sure enough, the damn fools started rummaging through their pockets, pulling out bills and coins one by one.
“No way. This is a scam!”
“So where's Korea?”
“There's a little peninsula between China and Japan. That's Korea.”
“Ohhh... I know the place. The spot Japan just swallowed up, right? Doesn't that make him Japanese too?”
“Shut up. I'm Irish—if someone called me British, I'd spin their jaw around. Bet he'd do the same.”
“Damn right. Back home, the Japs who got beat like that filled up a whole Union Pacific train car and then some.”
Whatever they said, these guys sitting here were all hot-blooded late teens.
Guys who'd chosen to throw themselves into the army right when their fiery youth was at its peak.
Fortunately, the first bunch I met were all decent fellows.
“Yo, amigo!”
“Uh, h-hi?”
“My name Anastacio Quevedo Ver. Uh, sorry, my English, kinda hard. Can you help?”
West Point wasn't so bad for a person of color—thankfully, I wasn't the only one.
The Philippines, freshly fallen into U.S. hands, sent one cadet a year to West Point. My classmate Anastacio was exactly that case.
“Sucks if English is tough on top of everything.”
“Filipinos, expect a lot from me. Learn good, go back. No worry.”
“Got it. Hit me up if anything comes up. I'll help with English whenever I'm free.”
“Thanks! You wanna learn Spanish maybe?”
It was a relief to have some breathing room like this.
“Company, rise! Enter the mess hall in rows and columns!”
“Hey, Eugene! Get over here quick. Gotta eat that chow sometime.”
“Won't sitting with the yellow guy make you uncomfortable?”
“Whether you're a nigger or a yellow, if that bugs you, you shouldn't be eating Uncle Sam's rice. Stay in Alabama or wherever...”
Ike grabbed me, dead serious.
“Alright, sit! Got some new friends to introduce here too. They're all good guys, right?”
“If I say no after you told 'em to fuck off to Alabama right in their faces, I'd be the asshole. Don't turn people into retards as casually as breathing.”
The two guys eating with Eisenhower nodded reluctantly.
“This here's Omar.”
“Omar Bradley.”
“James Van Fleet.”
The big shots just kept popping up.
Omar Bradley. WWII hero, no need to say more.
James Van Fleet. The tragic ace who rose late and fought in the Korean War.
What the hell was West Point in 1911?
“Anyway, we were having a very serious discussion right now.”
“Yeah. Sit your ass down and join this crucial debate already.”
What was it? Great minds recognize each other?
West Point after all. Gathering of the world's top dogs. My chest swelled with pride.
I took a seat casually, squared up at right angles, and started the regimented meal. The iron discipline oozing from every little detail kept snapping me to attention.
Stuffing bread into my mouth mechanically, I quietly eavesdropped on the “crucial, serious discussion” from these heroes who'd write America's great military history.
“So here's my take.”
“Mm.”
“Football's gotta be the king of sports, right?”
“What?”
“Hear me out. Football's the root of military science, the flower of strategy and tactics. All those bat-swinging idiots do is throw the ball, swing bats, and run around some square field like morons.”
The brutal trash talk flew from that Eisenhower's mouth.
“Hah... To think your insight's that shallow. Sigh.”
Bradley shook his head firmly, his mild face turning resolute.
Yeah, show me something real. Not this pointless bullshit that seems useless across the ages—give me some proper, dignified debate.
“Baseball's obviously number one. Football? Just stolen from the British rugby pussies. Lacks American spirit. Ball goes wherever the fuck it wants, no calculations, no elegance.”
Oh, please.
Stop trampling my illusions any more.
As I twisted my face into Munch's Scream, these idiots started raising veins in their necks over football versus baseball.
And the bigger problem? The louder they got, the more guys eating nearby joined the fray in this sacred baseball debate.
“Hey, Kim!”
“Yeah, me?”
“Yeah. Pick a side quick. You with the old man or me?”
“Eugene's obviously football. Guy's got a strategic mind. No way he doesn't love football.”
Ike laughed like it was obvious.
But sorry to disappoint.
“Baseball, obviously.”
“What? You traitor...”
“In San Francisco, everyone knows the mound's mound man... Sigh. Once you're at West Point, you gotta swing the bat.”
Ike, no use looking at me like the sky's falling.
Even traveling back 100 years, baseball's king. Unchanged.
In my past life, I was a die-hard Giants fan yelling “This is my life!” And in this second life's hometown of San Francisco, the Giants would come someday. Still a ways off, but.
Isn't this proof some supernatural force backs the bat?
Ah. Sudden regret flooded me like a tidal wave.
Coming to West Point was a huge mistake.
If I'd gone straight to the majors, I could've seen legends like Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Lou Gehrig up close and carved my name into baseball history.
Maybe God didn't send me to free Joseon or change WWII—but to rewrite bat history...!
Before I knew it, I jumped into the debate, belting out the mound's greatness at the top of my lungs.
“Who said talk during chow time?! All of you, out! Now!”
A roaring lion's fury filled the mess hall. Before the bread even hit our stomachs, we were rolling on the parade ground.
In the end, we only got half our lunch that day.
Whatever. I was just another hormone-driven idiot too.
To sum up West Point's curriculum in one phrase: insane old-fart denture-clacking indoctrination.
I'd mutter, Ah, what a dogshit era, but deep down, I had sky-high respect for the almighty United States of America.
But the U.S. Army was way... stupider than I'd thought.
“Thus, basic small-unit tactics are—”
Yawning through class was inevitable.
Second-rate great power's second-rate army.
That was the U.S. military in 1911.
Class materials and major battles focused mostly on the Civil War, where Grant and Lee played.
Doctrine? Forget it. Not even Russo-Japanese War lessons made it into West Point lectures. Their enemies were Mexican bandits, Filipino guerrillas, armed Indians at best.
Tests hammered “How well did you memorize the material?” No creativity or originality. The “American education = creativity focus” I knew wasn't this era's vibe.
So in class, I'd jot notes just for grades, but focused on recalling past-life knowledge.
What they taught here would be obsolete soon; the massive World Wars would etch those lessons in blood, becoming my past life's doctrines.
Non-military classes were the same crap.
Growing up, I was fluent in multiple languages.
English and Korean as base, plus constant run-ins with Japanese and Chinese meant decent Japanese and Mandarin.
Hanging with Vicente senpai and Anastacio here added Spanish. Second foreign language? Free pass.
The worthwhile stuff was architecture and engineering, but I'd covered basics in the ROK Army.
Precisely because engineer tech lagged the future, I had to learn “this era's feasible construction.”
With classes all like this, my original plan went to shit.
Pre-enrollment master plan: As an ex-officer, ace top of the class, earn “Wow, he's amazing!” or “Yellow or not, the guy's got real talent.” First stepping stone to future career.
But now? Couldn't stomach sitting through it.
The more of this insane crap I crammed, the rustier my future knowledge felt.
Plus, late discovery: West Point's top scorers all defaulted to engineers.
Engineers? Hell no. Scary as shit.
Cavalry sucks too. I wanted tank legions with steel main guns or heliborne assaults from the sky—not cowboys popping carbines on horseback.
No motive or will for top grades meant diving into side hustles instead.
Proving my talent would have to come another way.
Crack!
“Run! Fail to catch it, and your balls get sliced!”
“Kim nailed it again! All you assholes calling a yellow batshit, drop and give me fifty!”
“Lucky shot.”
Baseball bats, baby.
That day, the West Point baseball team tasted wonders from 100 years ahead.