Chapter 6. Meeting the Jap
“Battalion, attention!”
The cadets snapped into perfect ranks and files.
“Present arms to the superintendent!”
They threw up a razor-sharp salute.
Perfect.
A human hive stripped of individual will, unified solely by commands and orders.
This was the ultimate instrument of violence humanity had wrung from its twisted ingenuity: the army.
No matter how much we cursed the superintendent inwardly for dragging us out into this blistering sun to drone on with his pep talk, a soldier's duty was to take it like a man.
Today, I was seriously wondering how the hell I'd stay awake through another one of his endless speeches.
“—And one more thing I must ask of you.”
Don't bullshit us, you chickenhead.
That was the third time he'd said it.
“A distinguished state guest will visit our United States and observe West Point.”
We're fucked. Totally fucked.
A guest here?
I thought we'd catch a break after Beast Barracks, but now we'd be kissing ass prepping for visitors. No need to see it to know it'd be a Blu-ray disaster.
I wasn't the only one struggling with my poker face—the other plebes were coughing up a storm: “Ahem!” “Fu—cough!” “Kehm!” echoing everywhere.
Who the hell was this big shot that even the superintendent was personally begging us to behave?
State guests in this era were usually royalty. Not the king himself—that'd be overkill—but some prince or royal cousin shaking hands with VIPs to foster goodwill, sightseeing along the way.
It reminded me of when the ROK-US Combined Forces commander visited my old unit. I'd wanted to off myself every five minutes.
“You all surely know him well. Our guest is none other than the hero of Tsushima, the legendary admiral of the Japanese Navy, Togo Heihachiro.”
Sleep vanished in an instant.
Togo was coming.
This future knowledge hadn't been in the script! If I'd known, I'd have delayed enrollment till next year at least.
Togo Heihachiro.
The real deal among Japanese generals.
Saying “Japanese genius general” out loud felt weird as hell.
Off the top of my head, the first “Japanese military genius” was the great independence fighter Mudaguchi Renya, then Tojo Hideki. After some self-reflection, the true one popping up was Admiral Won Gyun, hero of Chilcheollyang.
Anyway, counting actual Japanese greats on one hand, Togo was top-tier.
The man who'd sent the Russian Baltic Fleet to Dragon Palace and clinched the Russo-Japanese War victory... Fleet Admiral?
My head spun.
Sure, I'd hummed “Kill the Japs” like a lullaby, but I wasn't gunning to be some martyr for Korean independence.
I knew the future: Pacific War, Tokyo firebombings, mushroom clouds. Stabbing Japs in the back would come thirty years later, naturally.
But like it was testing my resolve, the symbol of the Japanese Empire appeared before me.
“Why you spacing out? Not eating? Want me to finish it?”
“Fuck off, James.”
Even Van Fleet eyeing my bread pissed me off right now. This chow was mine. My precious!
“He's been like that since they announced Admiral Togo.”
“Uh... that bad, huh?”
“Say one more dumb thing and you'll be checking Hudson River depths—with your body.”
“Why? What's up?”
Bradley sighed first at that idiot response.
“James. Eugene's Korean.”
“Yeah, like I don't know that?”
“And which country annexed Korea?”
“Oh. Sorry if I offended you.”
Even apologizing, he kept going.
“But hey, you know now, right? Soldiers just follow orders from above. Togo's no different. We're all chess pieces for the politicians. No need to overthink.”
“Fair point.”
Explaining how Japanese military defied common sense, how the Empire was a dumpster fire—my mouth hurt just thinking about it.
Come to think of it, even a century later, the US military's national trait was ignorance of other cultures.
I didn't respond, just stared rotten-cucumber-faced, gnawing bread. Van Fleet's mood soured too.
“Uh... whatever. If you're that pissed, just shoot the bastard.”
“What?”
“James. Enough.”
“No! I was trying to cheer him up—”
Headache city.
I was just moping, not plotting to ventilate Togo's skull.
“Hmm. James, if you help a bit, I'd feel better.”
“Yeah? What ya need?”
“This.”
I ripped a chunk of his bread and shoved it in my mouth.
“Mmm. Full now, feeling good. Thanks.”
“My... my precious bread...!”
“Full belly means no shooting Togo. Relax.”
Perfect troll bait.
Made me wonder if he stalled on promotions in WWII 'cause he couldn't prank brass anymore.
Randomly apologizing in my head to a trash-persona George Marshall, I stood up.
August 4, 1911.
Togo Heihachiro arrived in New York.
History's funny: his liner was the Lusitania.
A few years later, sunk by a German U-boat in WWI, sparking US entry.
Japan soared in WWI, peaked, then Pearl Harbored. Ironic as hell.
Despite prepping hype, no real intersection with Togo and me.
Review for VIPs? Sure, but seniors handled it. Not us fresh plebes.
...Or so I thought. Despair hit.
“The guest will observe classes, but act normal. Normal. Normal. Focus on lessons, no big deal.”
Three times. What the fuck?
Rumor: “Observing fresh plebes shows West Point's essence better than polished seniors.”
Find that guy, borrow Van Fleet's gun for real.
Nearly a week, Togo haunted our classes. Losing my mind!!!
Digging trenches.
Artillery lectures.
Riding in the new grand stables.
Always arms crossed, staring. At me, maybe?
“Cadet Eugene Kim.”
“Yes.”
One day, Sergeant Mark whispered.
“The admiral wants a word. Follow me.”
Fuck.
Open field. Togo Heihachiro stood there.
After formalities, he spoke first.
“Pleased to meet you, young man. Thanks for giving your precious break time.”
Slightly stiff but fluent English.
“No, sir. Honored to meet Admiral Togo.”
“Truth is, you caught my eye from the start. Haven't seen many Asians in America, but one at West Point? And Japanese-American, they say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmm... Mind stepping out? Want a frank talk with this lad.”
Instructor hesitated, then left quietly.
“Speak freely?”
Relaxed the second eyes were off him.
“Please.”
I replied in Japanese. He blinked, lit a smoke.
“Huh. Speaks Japanese too.”
“Gotta, as a Japanese-American.”
“Fair. My mistake. Thought Chinese if not Japanese—would've been big news back home. Your name revealed you're Chosun-jing.”
He chuckled. I couldn't.
“I'm American.”
“Right. An American.”
“...”
“So, anything to ask the invader's lapdog?”
“The US and Japanese Empire share mutual interests in friendship. 'Lapdog' seems off-base.”
“...Should be a politician, not soldier?”
“My skin says no jobs in DC.”
“Kuhahaha!!”
He roared, clapping.
“Ha. You're fun. Talented, ambitious youth like you? Army's perfect.”
“Thank you.”
“Ever think of Japan? Serious offer.”
History-bender's eyes flashed.
“Whites never yield to coloreds. From my UK studies: yellow monkeys can't escape that. We beat Russia, still prejudiced.
Your talent? Skin color chains you. Asians must unite now. Can't be exploited forever!”
He gripped fists, preaching.
Asia's prosperity.
World for Asians.
Pre-Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity, but it flowed naturally.
Others might waver from Tsushima hero.
But I knew the future.
The hell ahead.
“Grateful for the offer, but I'm a US soldier.”
“Pity. Youth learn from failure.”
He pitied me.
I pitied him more.
Mushroom clouds over his life's work.
He offered handshake. I took it.
Vice-like grip. Seafarer's strength.
Valuable meeting.
“Eugene's back!”
“What'd Togo say?”
“Spill it, quick!”
Dorm erupted like chicks awaiting momma bird. Even half-familiar faces, seniors peeking, all curious.
“Said come to Japan.”
“Traitor! Traitor alert!!”
“Piss off. Why Japan? I grew up in San Francisco.”
“...True.”
“Yeah, moron. Quit treating me foreign.”
Leaving spaced Van Fleet, Omar patted my shoulder.
“Good to have you. Smoke?”
“Let's.”
Ike, Van Fleet, idiots gathered, circling me silently down the path.
This wordless care felt solidest yet.
This was my place.
Author's Note
Togo Heihachiro's visit to America and tour of West Point actually happened.