Chapter 7. The Way to Win Over Comrades' Hearts
Fencing, boxing, wrestling, calisthenics, gymnastics, horsemanship, swimming, football, baseball, basketball, polo, hockey.
English, literature, poetry, political science, history, engineering, mathematics, second foreign language.
Even excluding military training, the endless barrage of these courses was overwhelming.
I finally understood why, in my past life, academy grads called us "ammo-heads." It was like firing off thirty rounds from a magazine—you learn it, get tested, and if you don't forget it right away, your brain feels like it's gonna overload and explode!
The quality of the classes was shit anyway, and once I decided there was no point in learning any of it, they became pure torture.
Class. Training. Class. Peeling potatoes. PE. Exercise. Class.
West Point was beating the humanity out of us harder than I'd expected.
Every month, at least one guy left due to injury or illness.
A few instructors who clearly hated my skin color singled me out, itching to devour me alive. To avoid giving them any openings, I had to be twice—no, three times—as careful.
Seniors hazing juniors was just how it worked. No matter how bullshit the excuse, you had to take it. Same with the instructors—plenty of thick-headed assholes wanted to target the "yellow monkey."
My basic response was simple.
'Hah, these kids. If you add up my past life, how old am I really...' I'd just laugh it off and move on.
But I couldn't just let it slide forever.
These people could end up as my superiors or subordinates one day.
No matter the era, the military was the biggest organization around, and in a place like that, relationships mattered more than anything.
In that sense, over these four years, I wanted everyone at the academy with me to think positively of me, as much as possible.
In a word, it was time for some image management.
Anyway, while I stood there rigid as a statue, lost in all these random thoughts, a far more urgent crisis than anything else was blocking our path.
"Hey! Ike!"
"Get up now! We're late!"
Bradley and Van Fleet flipped the still-sprawled king of the dorms right out of bed. A perfect Greco-Roman takedown.
"Wha—uhh, five more minutes, just five—"
"Not five minutes—we could let you sleep fifty years."
"You two! What the hell, leaving your comrade behind?"
"No, it's 'cause his roommate didn't wake him—"
Despite Bradley's pitiful excuse, the rustling of the demerit book announced our punishment.
"Due to sloppy formation prep, you're skipping breakfast. And you lot—thirty minutes sweeping the parade ground this afternoon. Execute!"
"Aw, no."
"How many times is it now 'cause of this bastard?!"
"Comrades, thanks for waiting!"
As we wailed, Ike—dressed leisurely—flashed a cheeky grin.
"Eugene. Grab him."
"Yes, sir, General Bradley."
"Wait, wait, wait! Being your fan won't get us breakfast back, right?"
"Not being fans won't either."
Watching Eisenhower fail to wake up properly every damn morning was starting to make me wonder if this guy was really the future president or just some dim-witted namesake.
"Stomach... hurts..."
"You're hungry. Wonder why."
"Sorry. I'll wake up earlier from now on."
We didn't even blink at Ike's pathetic apology.
This was the third time. Hell, they banned us from meals at the place that calls eating "training."
Anyway, I decided to play the true savior for these starving lambs.
"Here, eat this."
"Bread? Where'd the bread come from?"
"You snag yesterday's leftovers? Nah, that can't be—where'd you get it?"
I tossed bread to these growing boys, but instead of scarfing it down, they grilled me on the source. Their stomachs weren't empty enough yet.
"Shut up and hand it over if you're not eating."
"No, I'm eating, just—"
"Sir yes sir. Grateful for General Kim's rations...!"
As Bradley grumbled, Ike saluted loyally, and Van Fleet shoved the bread in his mouth without a word. Impressive reflexes.
"Yeah, now that's a sight—eating like it's Thanksgiving."
"We'll eat it, but seriously, where'd the bread come from?"
"The mess hall."
I said it casually, but their eyes went wide as saucers.
"You stole it?"
Ike whispered it while savoring a bite.
"You'll get fucked if you're caught."
"Demerits won't even cover it."
"I didn't steal it, you idiots."
"Then how the hell'd you get bread from the mess hall?"
With these three giants surrounding me, I could barely breathe.
"Professional term: local collaborators."
"The lunch ladies? They'll get fired if caught giving you bread."
"How'd you even get it from them in the first place?"
"Only one way if you won't spill straight: grab him."
Time to wrap this up. These guys looked ready to shake it out of me.
"The black ladies doing scut work in the kitchen."
"What?"
"Fellow people of color's plight? Anyway, I've built some constructive relations with them these past few months."
It was a hell of a lot of work getting friendly.
To pull off my grand plans, I needed happy relations with those ladies at minimum.
"I asked if they had any extras when I had time, and they hooked me up. What you ate was surplus inventory—no worries."
"Huh... Well, good it wasn't stolen."
"Yeah, at least our stomachs have something now."
A moment of silence.
We wandered blankly off the path toward the dorms.
"Eugene."
"Yeah."
"Just hypothetically asking."
Van Fleet whispered it, holding up three fingers like a Harlem alley junkie murmuring, "Got any?"
"Yeah?"
"Those black ladies. They commute, right?"
"Yeah."
"So, maybe, like, stuff from outside—"
"Fatima. One pack. Fifty cents."
I grinned.
We clasped hands without a word.
"Looking forward to it, teach."
"Nah, customer. Patronize Kim Trading Co. from now on."
This was before Al Capone built his bootleg empire on the boardwalk.
For now, I aimed to be West Point's smuggling king.
As you'd expect, smoking was banned inside West Point.
Of course, nothing drives people crazier than "banned." These macho cadets, steeped in testosterone, saw hiding in every corner of the vast grounds for a smoke as the mark of a true man.
So where'd they get it?
A few lucky bastards with outside connections smuggled it in quietly. Felt more like prison than cadet school.
The current smuggling king was a senior named Harris.
His mom was a skirt-chasing whirlwind, camped out at the Craney Hotel across from West Point till graduation.
Harris visited her religiously during cool-down breaks, smuggling back whatever each time.
But now, with my overwhelming supply and stable network, it was time to steal his side hustle.
"This week's order: two bricks of Fatimas—"
Money was secondary.
In this tight-knit world where everyone knew everyone, hogging it all would bite me in the ass.
"Whoa, senior."
"Who said I'm your senior? I don't deal with monkey plebes."
"Haha, come on. Vicente was singing your praises—said your dodging alone smokes the instructors. Mind if I ask about something?"
"You little shit, talking nonsense—"
I slid out the textbook.
Moments later, the tasty Fatima under it vanished into his pocket, now bulging.
"Hmph. Can't call a cadet honorable for turning away a eager learner. What's stumping you?"
"Yes, sir. This part here—"
The ancients said nothing beats a gift set to show gratitude.
Koreans even had the fine custom of sharing rice cakes with neighbors on moving day.
So wasn't it natural for me, raised in Confucian Korea, to show extra "sincerity" after transferring to West Point?
One thing was sure.
Even the worst asshole wouldn't spit "monkey" to my face after scarfing my gift.
If Ike won hearts with passion and Bradley with warmth...
I just bought mine—with smokes.
Hey, as long as I got 'em, right?