========================
Winter of 1912.
Just as the snow began to fall, we were finally granted Christmas leave.
Anastacio, who had come from the warm subtropical Philippines to New York, pitifully ended up like a Charmander with its tail flame nearly extinguished, wrapping himself in blankets and retreating to the infirmary.
Compared to last year, when he could barely leave his bed, at least he was not completely dying this time.
And so, West Point’s so-called suicide squad, or rather our “Avengers” team of four, myself, Dwight David Eisenhower, Omar Bradley, and James Van Fleet, proudly set off for Kansas.
“Kansas!
My hometown!
Let me tell you how great it is…”
“A rural dump.”
“Hey, listen first-”
“Tornadoes, right?”
“Careful.
You might wake up in Oz if the house gets blown away.”
Despite all the teasing, Eisenhower spent hours praising Kansas on the train.
Bradley, being from nearby Missouri, kept poking at him, saying everything Kansas had, Missouri also had.
Van Fleet and I joined in, mocking them both as country boys.
Since Eisenhower’s home was even deeper in the countryside, we first headed to Dike’s house, which was closer to the station.
“…What?”
“That house is huge.”
“Are you sure this is the right address?”
It was a classic American mansion.
A wide yard, tall fences, and an unmistakable sense of wealth.
Four sons of modest backgrounds stood in front of it, stunned.
“Maybe he gave us the wrong address because he didn’t want to see us.”
“If that’s true, we should execute him Kansas-style.”
Just then, the door burst open.
“Ike!
Guys!”
Dike ran out, looking… rounder than before.
His once sharp physique had softened into something closer to a well-fed body.
West Point had truly changed a man’s life.
“Come in!
My father has been waiting.”
“Your father?”
“He insisted I invite you.
This Christmas party is going to be big.”
“…Wait.
You never mentioned that.”
Our idea of a “party” was drinking, smoking, and complaining about life without women.
This was clearly something else entirely.
We were dragged inside like lambs to slaughter.
A large, imposing man greeted us.
“Welcome, future pillars of the U.S.
Army.”
We saluted and greeted him politely.
He thanked us for staying friends with his son, mentioning how devastated Dike had been after leaving West Point.
We spent some time chatting in the lounge over light refreshments.
Dike’s father was a doctor and a respected figure in the community.
Apparently, he had already boasted to everyone that “future leaders of America” would attend his party.
Because of that, we had no way to escape. New chapters come out on g.com first.
“…Wow.”
“…Damn.”
“Careful.
You might get court-martialed for lack of decorum.”
“What do we even do here?”
“Hide in a corner and eat bread.”
Even that plan failed.
Four tall cadets in full uniform were impossible to ignore.
“Damn it.
We failed to blend in.”
“We need to review small-unit tactics.”
We ended up being introduced to countless guests.
As the party progressed, my friends gradually drifted toward the ladies in dresses and began asking them to dance.
Traitors.
Leaving behind a poor Asian alone.
I scanned the room.
The racial barrier was obvious.
If I approached someone, it might make them uncomfortable.
If they accepted, they would be judged.
If they refused, they would be labeled racist.
The best option was to stay put and take the blame for being unsociable.
So I sipped wine and watched.
Then Dike’s father approached me.
“Why are you standing here alone?”
“You understand why.
Asking someone to dance might put them in an awkward position.”
He paused thoughtfully.
“I have heard a lot about you.
You are considerate.”
“I would call it survival instinct.”
He nodded.
“This gathering is not as hostile as you think.”
“…Really?”
“I mentioned you beforehand.
Some people are interested in meeting you.”
“Me?”
“Do not misunderstand.
Not as a curiosity.
They simply want to talk.”
I hesitated, then nodded.
“Of course.
Thank you for the consideration.”
“Follow me.
They are waiting in the annex.”
The annex?
That made things even stranger.
Suppressing my imagination, I followed him.
At the door, he stopped.
“I will leave you here.
I entered.
“Hello.
I am Eugene Kim.”
Inside, a family was waiting.
An older man, a young man around my age, and two young women.
The older man stepped forward.
“I have wanted to meet you.
I am Charles Curtis.”
A senator.
And not entirely white.
“My mother was of Native American and French descent.”
“I see.”
“I wanted to meet you.
You are walking a difficult path.”
He introduced his children.
Then he asked,
“What will you do after graduation?”
“Serve the country.”
“And after that?”
“…I may not even graduate.”
His expression hardened.
“Because of discrimination?”
“No.
I made a bet.”
Their interest sharpened instantly.
I explained everything.
My prediction of war.
My wager.
My diploma on the line.
When I finished, they were stunned.
“If war does not come, you lose everything?”
“Yes.”
“That is absurd.
If something happens, contact me.”
“I am confident war will come.”
He studied me carefully.
“Even if you are wrong, you should still commission first.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
“That instructor is irresponsible.
If you lose your diploma, he will lose his position as well.”
He understood.
More than the bet, he understood why I needed to make it.
“That is enough for now.
Let us return to the party.”
I bowed and left.
As I walked back, my thoughts deepened.
He was a politician.
A Republican.
And soon, Woodrow Wilson would dominate American politics for years.
Was this connection beneficial… or dangerous?
That was something I would have to decide.