Chapter 8. We Are All Friends
West Point's diamond was, as always, filled with shouts and curses.
"You idiots! Swing at the damn ball! Blind swings are for the bedroom!"
"Ah... the field's a total mess right now, like a herd of Indian buffalo stampeded through it. No wonder the ball's bouncing every which way. We seriously need a domed stadium here at West Point..."
"Hey! Eugene! Get your head in the game! Come up with some brilliant idea!"
Baseball a hundred years ago was, of course, quite different from today.
This was the era before Babe Ruth even joined the New York Yankees. It'd be weirder if it was the same.
But what was common sense in my time could be revolutionary in the dawn of baseball back then.
Small beginnings, grand endings, or so they say.
Sure, I had to leave a lot of "marks of sincerity" just to stake my claim on the team at first, but before I knew it, I was treated like a promising baseball guru—not quite a god, but indispensable to the squad.
And Americans are crazy about sports.
West Point cadets? They're not just crazy—they're rabid dogs.
Whenever bat-swinging time rolled around, they'd turn into Zhuge Liang cosplayers. My image-making among the cadets had been a solid success.
"Nice play!"
"Great job, great job."
The game wrapped up on a warm, fuzzy note—or so I thought. But life's headaches are always stirred up by the clueless ones.
"Kim! You were awesome again. Not Asian at all."
"What?"
What the fuck did this asshole just say?
He didn't even register my icy response. Our classmate, Joseph Taggart McNarney, just kept going like it was nothing.
"Think about it—you're not dark like Anastacio. Definitely Japanese stock, so you're honorary white material. Born in America, not low-class like the niggers. Let's keep getting along."
He grinned and stuck out his hand.
Fuck, what now.
I didn't take it, and suddenly the vibe turned into a bench-clearing brawl waiting to happen.
Way out in the outfield, Ike came sprinting like a maniac—pure West Point quarterback speed.
Omar, right next to me, grabbed my waist tight. "Hold it. Hold it. Holdholdholdhold—" he muttered like a prayer. Van Fleet lunged forward, but other classmates grabbed him.
"Jin. Jinjinjin."
"What."
"You gotta hold it. Fuck. You know this. It's bullshit to you, but them calling you honorary white? That's their way of trying to be nice."
"I know."
"People here get you now, but after graduation? What then? You gonna knock out every asshole who says that shit? Hold it. Please. Your demerits are in the fucking danger zone..."
Bradley's whisper was turning into a desperate plea.
But damn, it stung a little.
I could've just swallowed it.
Hearing "honorary white" from these thick-headed pricks was progress in itself.
These nutjobs who believed whites were superior and destined to rule others—they'd met me, Eugene Kim, West Point's Howman and Al Capone. How rattled must they be?
Their precious white world crumbled, so they built a new logic. I'd shared smokes and booze as a "classmate," played golf when I could, did everything short of fighting in the ring. What could they do?
That smug "honorary white" line was their version of playing nice.
Seniors started gathering—"What's going on?"—and Ike, gasping from his sprint, tried to stick by me.
I flashed the capitalist smile I'd learned from our Prince Lee and grabbed McNarney's hand.
"Sure thing. Let's get along."
"Phewww..."
Couldn't fight in front of a crowd like that.
No matter what, grown-ass men in their thirties trading punches like kids? Nah.
I was just smoothing things over when—
"This motherfucker—what? Nigger? Low-class?"
WHAM!
Anastacio unloaded a haymaker on McNarney with everything he had.
Fuck. We're screwed.
Back when I was a kid, Sajik Baseball Stadium was the coolest place.
Of course, no buses got torched. Giants fans were all classy, dignified, and kid-friendly supporters.
Even with my rose-tinted glasses, Masan Stadium scared me just a tiny, tiny bit.
And this brawl? Felt like Masan times two.
"Kill him! Take out that nigger quick!"
"Break 'em up! Somebody separate them!"
"You fucking bastard!"
"Goddamn nigger!"
Right then, we weren't cadets upholding honor and duty—we were rabid hooligans. Battered, bloody messes everywhere. Artistic, really.
"All of you—drop and give me push-ups!"
Instructors broke it up, then turned beet-red and happily made us all pay with punishment drills.
But that just ended the chaos. Nothing was solved.
"Aigoo, you got turned into flatbread."
I smacked the bandage-wrapped forehead of Anastacio.
"Ow!"
"Why'd you go zero-to-hundred like that?"
"That fucker! Assholes like him need a beating to learn!"
"Whoa, calm down."
Me, Ike, Omar, and James huddled in Anastacio's dorm, chain-smoking up a storm.
His roommate, George E. Stratemeyer, bummed one from me and helped turn the place into a fox den.
"Still, you gotta read the room. Throwing punches in plain sight? That's on you."
"...I can't stay cool and shake hands like you."
"Me? Cool? No way."
In this mess, lecturing or dropping life wisdom wouldn't help.
It'd just piss Anastacio off more. Maybe even make him think, 'Look at this guy flipping sides now that he's honorary white.'
So I slipped a hand into my uniform top and gave my poor Filipino buddy the medicine he needed most.
"Here."
"Huh? Where'd you—?"
"Shut up and drink."
I passed him juice spiked with booze. His smashed face lit up anyway.
Simple guy by nature, or does West Point turn everyone into amoebas?
"What about mine?"
"Eugene, just him?"
"I'll give a shot to anyone who lands a punch too?"
"You dumbasses...!"
BANG BANG BANG!!
"Cadet Eugene Kim here?!"
"Fuck. Fuck!"
"Window! Ventilate! Ventilate!"
"Booze! Bottles!!"
"Cadet Eugene Kim!!"
Why the hell are they looking for Eugene Kim here?
We scrambled like rats on a sinking ship, but that massive aura outside forced us to quietly open the door.
"...Hmph."
Thick smoke.
Weird liquid leaking from under the bed.
Six cadets with beet-red faces.
Our year-ahead senior, Dellow, scanned the CBRN disaster with eagle eyes, then spoke in a voice from hell.
"Cadet Eugene Kim."
"Yes, sir."
"Come with me."
"Uh... you mean me, not Cadet Anastacio?"
"Yes, you."
Why me?
I'm the innocent victim.
I got dragged out clueless, trailing him like a lamb to slaughter.
Late evening.
The room I entered had someone I never expected.
"Cadet Eugene Kim. Sit comfortably."
"Yes, sir."
Howard S. Bennion.
Cadet regiment commander—student body president, basically.
He flipped through some mystery papers, then fixed his gaze on me.
"I've already spoken with Cadet McNarney. You know the gist."
"Yes, sir."
"Relax. I know you're not the main player here. Just have some questions."
"Yes, sir."
You know, so why call me? Scaring the shit outta me.
Dragging in an unrelated guy for interrogation. Classic for a guy whose face screams stern, dignified, serious.
Probably gonna pull some obscure rule: 'You watched, so it's your fault. Sin of the unhelpful Samaritan.' And swing that damn quill at me.
How many demerits this time?
He stood, rummaged a drawer, and pulled out a small square box.
"Smoke?"
"Pardon?"
"Oh, you don't?"
"Thank you, sir!"
Regiment commander class—vast generosity. The man to rule West Point's hundreds. Why no fame in history books?
Bennion casually pulled his pipe, lit up, and shared the flame.
We puffed amiably for minutes.
Nicotine hit my brain, and he spoke.
"I've heard a lot about you lately, underclassman."
"Me, sir?"
"Yeah. Average academics, average athletics... but Beast Barracks? Shooting, drill, weapons—top marks. Scout or militia before?"
My military experience? Newbies laugh at it.
"No, sir. Lived in San Francisco city, no such experience."
"Impressive. Natural soldier?"
He tilted his head, back to papers.
"Your thoughts on today's mess?"
"I should've shut it down quick, but I was slow. Blew up too big. Next time, as a West Point cadet, I'll handle it with dignity—"
"No, no. Skip the instructor-pleasing crap. I shared a smoke—you get the hint."
He leaned back, blew smoke rings. Pro smoker.
"If you're West Point's smuggling king, you know I don't want canned answers."
"Cough! Hack hack!!"
Choking!
Smoke went down wrong—dying here!
Flustered senior got me water; I chugged and calmed.
"Whew... whew."
"Better?"
"Yes, sir. Thanks."
"Good. Smugglers pop up yearly—no biggie. Just no dangerous or problematic stuff."
Too casual—scarier.
"Still, not knowing your routes is intriguing. Anyway... I like your creative thinking."
Got it.
Why this meeting.
"Then, this was all from McNarney's slip-up."
"Saying niggers are inferior—is that wrong?"
"Yes. Wrong."
He nodded—keep going.
Now, tightrope time.
"Admission to West Point means Congress certified you worthy of taxpayer education. McNarney, as a soldier, questioned government judgment and sowed division with personal views."
"Racial discrimination doesn't matter. Defying control does. Right?"
"Yes."
He sighed deep.
"Got it. By that logic, McNarney's got nothing. Uncle's high up in the Army—annoying."
Connections rule the dirty world.
"Next."
"Yes."
"Problems need solutions, right?"
"Solution... sir?"
Why ask me?
My eyes twitched.
"Midterms soon. Then Christmas break—upperclassmen leave, plebes stay. Another incident? Can't handle cadet-side. Escalates."
He'd worked to block the disciplinary board.
Such consideration? Time to repay.
Unsolved, I'd suffer too. Suffocating.
"I have an idea."
"Oh?"
"With seniors' help... I'd like your thoughts."
"Go ahead."
I racked my brain, tossed it out carefully.
"Core issue: Can't accept dark-skinned guys as friends."
"Right."
"Old or new, quickest bond? Give 'em a common enemy."
Smile on Bennion's lips.
"Details?"
"Then, briefing starts now."
Fuck it. All or nothing.
Hours later, my first half-sane military op was planned.
Please get along, you bastards.