Chapter 9. What is Needed for Unity
Pikachu, Raichu, Charmander, Squirtle, Butterfree, Slowpoke, Pidgeot—even though they all look different, they're all friends.
But these kids, all with two eyes, one nose, one mouth, two arms, two legs, hating each other like this?
Well, it's not mutual—the whites are the ones doing the one-sided hating, so it's a bit different.
Anyway, the important thing right now is that we're pretty much fucked.
"These maggot-ass punks turn from Beast Barracks beasts into humans and already they're killing their own classmates?!"
"I've lived long enough, and this is the first class I've seen with discipline this shit! You little shits, move your asses smartly!"
After that glorious bench-clearing brawl, as expected, dragon breath poured from the instructors' mouths.
And our magnificent cadet regiment commander Bennion shouldered all the blame, thankfully keeping us out of a court-martial.
But did that mean it was over just because no court-martial happened?
Of course not. The military's ultimate skill across all ages—"above you, below me"—kicked in as a matter of course.
"You fourth-years think you're seniors so your discipline's already slipping?! Can't even control the underclassmen properly and you wanna be officers?!"
"You third-year shits! Just became upperclassmen and you're already slacking?! The freshmen are copying what they see from you assholes!"
"Hey!! You second-year cock-sucking bastards!!! It's only been a few months since you stopped chirping like chicks, and you're already like this?! We gotta get fucked because of you? Huh?!"
As a result of this terrifying domino effect, it was no surprise that second-years—covered head to toe in dirt, eyes blazing like hellfire—ruthlessly herded us onto the parade ground.
"Don't slack your shoulders, you shits. You had no problem swinging fists at faces, but now you're pretending to be tired already?"
"No, sir!"
"This is outside—why are you acting like it's inside? You screwing around right now?"
"We'll correct it, sir!!!"
"Is that all the voice you've got?"
Ah, the tragic freshmen.
That's what it means to be at the bottom of the food chain—do as you're told, no questions.
The campus mood was hellish.
Under the guise of "everyone's fault," the cadet store got shut down, turning upperclassmen into Diablo-level monsters.
Normally, this would've been prime time for West Point's Al Capone to rake it in big, but operating now would've landed us in real court-martial territory.
Besides, this hellish hazing was partly scripted with Bennion senior.
"The only ones we can set as enemies right now are the upperclassmen, right?"
"Exactly."
"Under collective responsibility, if we all get punished together, at first there'll be seething hatred toward the instigators."
"But as time drags on, they'll start shaking with rage at the upperclassmen—'how long do we have to take this shit?'"
"Yes, sir. So roll us like dogs."
I must've been crazy.
Yeah, I was crazy.
Mouth ran ahead of brain—probably from chain-smoking that day, head all fucked up.
I didn't expect it'd be this brutal!
But what I was enduring was just the tip of the iceberg.
"Hey, McNarney."
"Sir!!"
"Yeah, you can easily break a lowly nigger like that, right? Give it your all."
"H-heeek!"
Thwack! Thwack! Thwaaack! Thud!
Sabre drill time.
West Point's famed top swordsman, Vicente senior, was mercilessly hacking away at McNarney—the root of this mess—like beating a dog in the dog days of summer.
"Hey."
"Y-yes, sir!"
"Why can't you swing your blade even once at that lowly nigger's body? Huh?"
"No, sir! Sorry!"
"Stop! Switch!"
McNarney, drenched in sweat like a rainstorm, lit up at the switch order.
"Ah, you stay put."
"Sir?"
"I'm next, asshole. 'Cannibal' Vicente says niggers are lowly, so prove how lowly a Jew is."
McNarney's face turned ashen.
Looks like he was finally feeling the cost of his loose tongue.
Unfortunately for him, his ordeal was far from over.
Seniors itching for a legal beatdown on the instigator ranged from Jews, Poles, Irish, to just anyone who wanted a piece.
No wonder the name screamed MacArthur + thug. They say faces don't lie, and neither do surnames. Next chance, I should seriously suggest he change it.
Meanwhile, across the way, Anastacio was getting pummeled.
"Hey, nigger! Straighten up!"
"Sorry!"
"Fists fly easy, but why not the blade?! Posture! Power! Like that, your jaw flies off!"
Thoroughly battered, we dragged our exhausted bodies back to the barracks.
"Aaaargh! How long is this gonna last?! I'm dying!"
"Shut up... Got any smokes left?"
"Here."
Beat-up Anastacio headed to his room, and Van Fleet—still sore from high school injuries—crashed early too.
Just me, Bradley, and Ike griping endlessly in Ike's room.
"You're full of energy?"
"Haha. All I've got is stamina."
Ike's roommate, John Henry Dike—a fellow Kansan like Ike—joked around. The guy's athleticism was impressive. Good personality too.
"Eugene, you hear anything?"
"About what?"
"You got dragged to the regiment commander back then. Pick up any intel?"
Sorry, guys.
I suggested the rolling.
Guilty conscience aside, this old man's heart—aged decades beyond these kids—was callused thick.
I answered shamelessly.
"Hmm... He was pissed. Like, 'why fight over this bullshit?'"
"Yeah... Fair."
"Vicente senior got it bad too. We're lucky you were there, Eugene—last year's freshmen got straight-up lynched."
Dike grumbled.
"Anyway, only one way out of this hell."
"What?"
"Annapolis."
"Like that's easy?"
A few weeks later.
A friendly baseball game against Annapolis was set.
"Friendly" here means: win and you're heroes; lose and you're traitors, waddling everywhere except bedtime—right on the executioner's block.
"If we lose to those Navy seals, we won't breathe till winter break."
"Why talk loss already? Worst case, we smash their heads with bats on the sly."
Even mild-mannered Bradley's eyes dripped venom—guess we'd been rolled good.
"But it's not just freshmen in that game, right?"
"True."
Almost no freshmen on West Point's baseball team right now.
Bluntly, we're benchwarmers—Bennion couldn't rig the whole team.
But we got a brilliant alternative idea.
"So here's the thing. I've got a plan."
"Ooh, Eugene plotting again."
"West Point's Richelieu. Time to use your Three Musketeers."
Quit sticking nicknames on me, assholes.
Of course I was plotting. These idiots would happily bury me alive in West Point cemetery if they knew the hazing was my scheme too.
"Freshmen fought each other into this mess, so freshmen unite, uphold West Point honor—problem solved?"
"Probably?"
"Only way to restore honor is smashing Annapolis punks."
No. It won't. You morons.
That's pure Imperial Japanese mindset.
Still works in this macho-honor era overflowing with corpses otherwise.
"So here's the deal—"
A few weeks later.
Leaving our thoroughly rolled asses behind, the Annapolis baseball team "friendly visited" West Point.
As expected, those Navy seals' eyes burned with intent to bat-bludgeon every equator-black ass.
"Listen up. Briefing starts."
Our military op—prepped in Ike's room these weeks—spread mouth-to-mouth during breaks, now shared by every freshman.
Even guys who'd normally call bullshit had their sanity snapped from endless hazing, thinking "eh, why not?"
"Annapolis seals dared step on West Point soil. Saw their smug faces? No bowed heads, shoulders squared."
"Kill 'em!!"
"Kill 'em all!!!"
Is this West Point or a Viking rally?
"So tonight, we steal their flag and show whose turf this is!"
"Woooaaah!!"
"Uwaaaah!!"
No. Stop, you idiots.
This is insane. I wanna bail.
"But flag alone lacks impact. Raid the armory, snag a saluting cannon too."
Cannon heist.
West Point tradition-not-tradition.
Dragging those ceremonial parade cannons out at midnight for pranks—among the greatest feats here.
Legend has it, seniors once hauled one to the library roof. Took a week to remove—mythical till West Point falls.
Freshmen pull it off? Instant legend for decades.
"Cheers to Eugene Kim, mastermind of this perfect op!"
Applause and handshake frenzy everywhere.
Shameful.
These morons—my future battle buddies—mortified me.
But I couldn't stop my lips curling up.
That night.
"Move, stealthy."
"Proper low crawl. Caught, we're dead."
A Team infiltrates Annapolis quarters, snags their flag to flaunt our valor.
B Team drags the cannon, aims at Annapolis turf.
Dodging sentries, high-risk op—caught means instant court-martial.
...Total bullshit.
Bennion senior's orders made tonight's watch looser than a Tang dynasty army—all night-blind anyway.
Clueless freshmen executed their "suicide spec ops" with pounding hearts.
"Good. Ready."
"Rope it. Pull!"
Screeeeech—SCREEEEECH—
"Fuck, why so loud?"
"Deaf hear it!"
"Oil it. Just needs minutes smooth."
Deaf, my ass. Sorry.
But they oiled the wheels carefully, yanked with all might.
"McNarney, Anastacio, Dike, Ike—push rear. We pull front."
"Huh?"
"Got it. Move your asses."
"Uh. Yeah!"
As we crested the hill with the cannon, A Team strutted back, waving the Annapolis flag triumphantly.
...Hope that doesn't get caught?
Thud!
Van Fleet smugly stabbed the flag by the cannon, snorted.
"Op success."
"Perfect!"
We hugged wildly.
Yeah. This was the point of the bullshit.
Having etched eternal glory in West Point history, chests swelled, we embraced our comrades hotly.
Even McNarney and Anastacio.
"Ahem, uh, sorry. I'll watch my mouth."
"No sweat. Swelling's down?"
"Asshole. Your punch hurts like hell."
To stage this heartwarming scene, director Eugene Kim, writer Eugene Kim, scripter Eugene Kim—with Bennion co-author—crafted this epic.
Watching those two hug and bro-talk, felt like it wasn't wasted effort.
I'd done all I could.
Left: tomorrow's game.
Crack!
"Whoooaaa!!"
I flung the bat full force, sprinting to first.
This pro-level bunt. Clutch class.
"Eugene Kim!"
"Run! Second! To second!!!"
"Omar! Home! HOMEEER!!!"
Timely hit. Ball rolls outer field.
Perfect. Just run like hell!
Tweeeeeet!!!
"Game over!"
That morning.
Annapolis guys woke to missing flag, freaked.
Saw cannon aimed at their quarters, flag beside—total meltdown.
Who plays 100% after that?
Plus West Point had a true giant from a century ahead.
Roooar from stands—cadets swarmed the mound.
Bennion senior sauntered over, arm on my shoulder.
"Good job, junior."
"Thank you, sir."
"So, they seem united now?"
"Dunno. One dumb prank make them besties?"
"Cynical bastard."
My doing, but I don't buy it.
McNarney learned nigger-hate at dinner table.
Nice if it helps, but no big hopes.
"Knew cannon heists happen every class like meals?"
"Not doing it makes you a pussy, right?"
"Yeah. But usually hotheaded idiots showing off."
Like drunk college kids flipping a Kia onto the sidewalk.
"But records show past regiment commanders staged cannon heists for class unity—like you."
"Great minds think alike."
"You know the library roof one. That class had bad infighting—fixed in one go, bonded tight."
Wait, you knew and nodded like first time?
Bennion's late confession floored me. Felt like a trained monkey.
"You've got talent. Won't deny your skin color makes the road rough. But for Army—no, America—you must rise high. This might be our last year together here, but I want you surviving long."
At his earnest words, I scratched my itch.
"That regiment commander you mentioned. Library cannon guy."
"Huh? Yeah."
"Did he become a great officer?"
"Of course. West Point legend. You'll be too."
"His name?"
Bennion grinned.
"Douglas MacArthur."