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Pikachu, Raichu, Charmander, Squirtle, Butterfree, Slowbro, Pidgeot, and Koffing all look different, but they are still friends.
Yet these bastards, with two eyes, one nose, one mouth, two arms, and two legs just like everyone else, hate each other like this.
No, that is not quite right.
It is the white bastards who hate us first, so it is a bit different.
Anyway, the important thing right now is that we are seriously screwed.
“You maggots!
You just barely became human from animals and you are already punching your classmates?!”
“I have never seen a class with discipline as rotten as yours!
Move faster, you worthless bastards!”
After that magnificent bench-clearing fight, the instructors naturally breathed fire like dragons.
And our great Cadet Brigade Commander Howard Bennion blocked all of it for us, so thankfully we were not dragged into a court-martial.
But just because there was no court-martial did not mean it was over.
The greatest skill in any military, past or present, is passing the punishment down the chain.
“So you think you can slack off just because you are seniors now?
You cannot even control the lower classes and you want to be officers?”
“You third-years!
You think becoming upperclassmen means you can relax already?
The lower classes learned this from you!”
“You second-years!
You think just because a few months passed you can act like this?
We are getting punished because of you!”
As a result of this terrifying domino effect, the second-years, covered in dust and burning with rage, threw us onto the drill field without mercy.
“Do not relax your shoulders, you bastards.
You had plenty of strength when you were punching someone’s face, so why are you acting weak already?”
“No, sir!”
“This is outside.
What do you mean no?”
“We will correct it!”
“That is the best you can shout?”
Ah, the miserable first-years.
At the very bottom of the food chain, we were nothing more than creatures who obeyed without question.
The atmosphere in the academy was perfect.
Under the noble excuse of “everyone is at fault,” the campus store was shut down, and the upperclassmen evolved into monsters straight out of hell.
Normally, this would have been the perfect time for the “Al Capone of West Point” to make a fortune, but if I tried to run business in this situation, I would actually be dragged into a court-martial.
In the first place, this entire hellish punishment was something arranged in advance with Cadet Brigade Commander Howard Bennion.
“The best enemy we can set right now is the upperclassmen.”
“That is correct.”
“If everyone is punished together under collective responsibility, at first they will hate those who caused it.”
“But as time passes, they will start resenting the upperclassmen for how long it continues.”
“Exactly.
So grind them down.”
I must have been insane.
Completely insane.
I never thought it would go this far.
But what I was experiencing was only a fraction of it.
“Hey, McNarney.”
“Yes, sir!”
“You should be able to defeat an inferior black easily, right?
Give it your all.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
Thud.
Thud.
During fencing class, the main culprit, Joseph Taggart McNarney, was being mercilessly beaten by senior Vicente Lim, one of the best fencers at West Point.
“Why can you not even strike once against someone you called inferior?”
“I am sorry!”
“Switch!”
McNarney looked relieved.
“You stay.”
“Yes?”
“I will go next.
If Vicente is inferior because he is black, let us see how inferior a Jew is.”
McNarney turned pale.
Only now did he begin to realize the consequences of his words.
Unfortunately, his suffering did not end there.
Many seniors wanted an excuse to beat him.
Irish, Polish, Jewish, and others all took turns.
Meanwhile, Anastacio was also being beaten on the other side.
“Move properly!”
“Yes, sir!”
“You threw punches so easily, so why can you not swing a blade?”
By the time we returned to the dormitory, we were completely exhausted.
“When does this end?”
“Got any cigarettes left?”
“Here.”
Anastacio went to his room.
James Van Fleet went to sleep.
Only Omar Bradley and I remained in Ike’s room.
“You seem fine.”
“I only have stamina.”
John Henry Dike joked.
“Eugene, did you hear anything?”
“What?”
“You got called by the brigade commander.”
Sorry.
I was the one who suggested this.
But I answered shamelessly.
“He was very angry.
He asked why we fought over something like that.”
“That makes sense.”
“Anyway, there is only one way out of this.”
“What?”
“Annapolis.”
“That is not up to us.”
In a few weeks, there would be a match against the Naval Academy.
Win, and we become heroes.
Lose, and we suffer endlessly.
“If we lose, we are dead.”
“Then we just have to win.”
“But first-years are not the main players.”
“That is true.”
But I had another idea.
“I have a plan.”
“Here we go again.”
“West Point’s Richelieu.”
Idiots.
“If first-years caused this mess, then first-years must restore honor.”
“By crushing Annapolis.”
That alone would not fix anything.
But in this era, it was enough.
“So…”
A few weeks later, the Annapolis baseball team arrived.
“Listen carefully.
Briefing starts now.”
My plan had spread to all first-years.
“Tonight, we steal their flag.”
“And?”
“We steal the ceremonial cannon.”
Cheers erupted.
“This operation was planned by Eugene Kim.”
Applause exploded.
That night, we moved.
Quietly.
Carefully.
The guards were intentionally lax.
The plan proceeded smoothly.
“Pull!”
The cannon creaked loudly.
“Damn it, it is too loud!”
“Just move it!”
We dragged it up the hill.
The flag team returned.
Success.
We embraced.
Even McNarney and Anastacio.
“I am sorry.”
“It is fine.”
They shook hands.
That was enough.
The next day, the match began.
Crack.
I hit the ball cleanly.
“Run!”
Cheers erupted.
Victory.
West Point won.
Cadet Brigade Commander Howard Bennion approached.
“Well done.”
“Thank you.”
“They seem united now.”
“Maybe.”
He smiled.
“You have potential.
Rise high.”
Then I asked.
“The cadet who placed a cannon on the library roof.
Who was he?”
He smiled.
“Douglas MacArthur.”