A Certain Gamble
"Yujin Kim! Cadet Yujin Kim!"
A booming voice rang out.
The classroom door banged open, and the history instructor half ran inside.
"Yes, sir."
"What on earth is this!"
He waved a stack of papers furiously and thrust it in front of me.
Hmm. Written in an extremely refined hand, full of elegant flourishes—clearly the work of a truly outstanding and erudite individual. In other words… this was undoubtedly a quiz paper written by a great man destined to become something like the future Supreme Commander of the U.S. Army.
"It's the report I submitted."
"Are you trying to pick a fight with me? You think I'm going to grade this properly?"
"I believe you are a distinguished man of character, sir—someone capable of receiving a cadet's answer with an open mind, even if he has only just set foot in the world of scholarship… So even if my conclusions are incorrect, I trust that as long as the logic is internally consistent, you won't give me a zero."
Did I butter him up too much? If he thinks I'm mocking him and explodes, that would be troublesome.
Explosions are something Ike, who's been brimming with frustration lately, can handle well enough on his own.
Come to think of it, Ike had turned into quite the delinquent.
Losing 6–0 at home to a rival was brutal. It was shocking enough to turn a relatively diligent student into West Point's very own gangster.
But when you add in bold smoking inside the dormitory, drinking, fists flying before words, and thick, colorful profanity… it almost makes you wonder whether he's planning to graduate and start bootlegging in Chicago.
This is all those Annapolis bastards' fault. If they'd taken it a little easier on us, Ike wouldn't have gone off the rails like this.
It just had to be that he made a mistake and suffered a critical injury, and that a key member of the team suddenly dropped out—leaving us no time to regroup before we were thoroughly crushed by those Navy pups.
6–0. A hair's breadth. Seven consecutive losses. If Ike had been in proper shape, we would have won easily. It's not like there weren't people saying exactly that.
If the great Marshal Eisenhower were expelled, set off down the wrong path into something like Boardwalk Empire, and as a result Hitler won World War II—what an absurd twist of history that would be. If someone serialized that kind of alternate history, it wouldn't even get 300 views per episode. Or the author would get shot.
"Y-You…!"
While I was busy nurturing these pointless thoughts, the poor instructor stood there turning red, unable to say, in front of dozens of cadets staring at him, "Fine. I won't grade it properly. You get a zero."
I'm sorry, sir. I truly mean no harm.
But you see.
It's about time I started standing out a little.
"Therefore, the prevailing opinion among learned scholars at present is that the likelihood of a large-scale war breaking out in Europe is slim."
The history instructor listed several theories, and we wrote them down and memorized them.
A model example of an old-fashioned, by-the-book education.
"Of course, there are regions where war could erupt. The Balkans, for instance. That region has been contaminated for far too long by heathen Muslims, and the temperament of its inhabitants has accordingly grown violent. It is also a place where the interests of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the Russian Empire collide. However, the nations of the world are more closely connected than ever before, and since they all believe in the teachings of Jesus Christ and have already overcome several crises of war through dialogue and compromise—"
How naïve the intellectuals of this era were.
At least, that's how the instructor's lecture sounded in my ears.
There were not even two full years left until the Sarajevo Incident.
You think the assassination would be too sudden? Hardly. Since the 19th century, assassinating government officials or royalty had been basic training for any revolutionary with an itch to start trouble.
Dialogue and compromise?
Idiots. Wasn't World War I basically a bunch of punks lighting cigarettes at a gas station going, "It didn't explode this time, so it won't explode next time either!"—only for it to go boom anyway?
Each time they narrowly defused things right before ignition, they called it dialogue and compromise. The people of this era were even more loose-screwed than I'd imagined.
But that very "common sense" was my opportunity.
Like I said, less than two years remained.
If I played Doctor Doom now, I could enjoy the fruits of the harvest before graduation.
"I object."
The moment I raised my hand and spoke in a low voice, it felt as if the temperature of the classroom dropped by about three degrees Fahrenheit… no, Celsius. Damn Americans, hammering Fahrenheit into my head!
"What do you mean by that, Cadet Yujin Kim?"
The instructor looked slightly flustered.
And no wonder—at this sacred lectern of West Point, the word "objection" was something reserved for grade disputes, not lectures.
"You said the possibility of a large-scale war is almost nonexistent, sir. Then why has the number of incoming cadets at West Point increased?"
"That's an entirely separate matter. What I'm referring to is a full-scale war involving the great powers of Europe.
You cadets have a duty to uphold the honor of the United States against savages and cannibals in every corner of the world where the Stars and Stripes flies—the jungles of the Philippines, the shores of Panama, even that barbaric China."
…Unbelievable. He looks straight at me while saying "barbaric China."
No, this won't do. Change of plans.
After getting slapped across the face like that, if I just endure it, my pride—no, my dignity—takes a hit.
I'll devote this body to personally demonstrating the very cause of World War I.
"I understand your point, sir. So a continental war in Europe is impossible."
"That's right. Now let's continue."
"But didn't all those instances of dialogue and compromise you mentioned bring things right to the brink of war? If compromise fails—or if certain conditions prevent a peaceful resolution—wouldn't war eventually break out?"
"That's enough. Your role is not to imagine IFs. That's the job of pulp fiction scribblers and hack novelists. I'll be assigning a report today. The topic is: 'Why a large-scale war involving three or more great powers cannot break out.' The length will be—"
All around the classroom, I can see my classmates clutching their heads.
Oof. The stares are sharp. The ones who just got blindsided with an unexpected report glare at me with a mixture of curses and resentment.
Sorry, guys.
But I hope you remember today when you receive your commissions.
So that you'll spread my prediction far and wide—throughout the entire Army.
And the result?
I filled page after page, carefully writing out "Why a Great War in Europe Is Inevitable," and submitted it.
Germany's diplomatic isolation.
The resulting alignment between Germany and Austria-Hungary.
The cooperation between Britain and France.
The rivalry between Austria-Hungary and Russia.
The closed decision-making processes characteristic of autocratic states, since democracy couldn't simply be imposed.
The lack of communication between military leaders, bureaucrats, and politicians.
The very reasons future scholars would later pick apart, asking, "Why on earth did the war break out?"—
I simply identified them in advance as the driving forces that would make it happen.
If nothing else, future historians would probably treat that damned paper I submitted like a sacred relic.
Of course, the result of turning in such a report was that the instructor was now extremely, extremely furious. He was like a grenade with the pin already pulled.
"I'm sorry, but for the sake of fairness, I can't allow that."
"I'm willing to bet everything that a war will break out soon."
"What?"
The classroom suddenly grew noisy.
Cadets began whispering—what's gotten into him?—and even the instructor could no longer hide his flustered expression.
"I am certain that within five years, a great war will come that engulfs all of Europe. This is not a hope that war will break out, but the result of logical deduction."
"And?"
"But if it's five years from now, I'll already have graduated, so there's nothing meaningful to stake. So three years—no."
Everyone stared at my mouth.
I let the silence stretch for a few seconds before finally breaking it.
"Before I receive my diploma, I dare to predict that a 'war to end all wars' will arrive. If no war breaks out by then, I will refuse to accept my diploma."
"Are you cra—"
Van Fleet hesitated, as if debating whether to clamp a hand over my mouth, then chose instead to cover his own. A wise decision.
"And conversely, if I stake my diploma, what will you wager, sir?"
"Haah… Cadet Yujin Kim. I have seen many students. And intelligent students—those who made it to West Point through their own ability and strength—tend especially to overestimate their intellectual capacity."
That's right.
Because they're not on their second life.
Instructor Pyeong once said: if you're not certain, don't place the bet. Which means that if you are certain, you should.
And if some butterfly effect occurred and World War I didn't break out by then?
Well, then I'd lose. What else could I do?
The idea that because I failed, Franz Ferdinand somehow wouldn't get shot two years later—just explaining that butterfly effect would be enough material for an entire alternate-history series.
Besides, by that point, most of the future knowledge I possessed would have turned into worthless scraps of paper. My reputation would be delisted along with it. In that case, forfeiting my diploma would actually be a very favorable condition for me.
One way or another, it was a gamble in which I had absolutely nothing to lose.
"I'll give you one last chance. Take this report back and rewrite it tonight. Submit a new version by tomorrow. If you do, I'm willing to regard this as nothing more than the bold conviction of a cadet with firm beliefs."
He fluttered the report he was still holding.
"But if you refuse, I will accept your wager, Cadet Kim."
"Sir! You mustn't indulge the nonsense of a single student!"
"A man is staking his future here. Who are you to interrupt?"
Wow. Truly an age of machismo.
Bradley's urgent protest was instantly buried beneath the instructor's louder voice.
The atmosphere in the classroom had already turned into midwinter Cheorwon. Everyone looked like they were freezing to death.
"Then what will you stake, sir?"
"If cannon fire erupts in Europe before you receive your diploma, I will proclaim at the top of my lungs—whether to the War Department, the State Department, or the press—that a great visionary appeared at West Point. If you wish, I'll even arrange you a position at the State Department."
"As if. I'll be taking my commission."
"Very well. I'll at least grant you this—you have confidence."
At last, he lowered his outstretched arm and gathered up my report.
"I'll have this framed and hang it by my bedside."
"Thank you, sir."
I won.
So this is the thrill of gambling.
Ignoring the looks everyone gave me—as if I were completely insane—the instructor resumed the lecture, and I listened at my leisure.
"You lunatic!"
"Grab him. We told him to lie low for a while, and now he's picking a fight with the instructor."
"You know what I think? On graduation day, we stuff Yujin into one of the ceremonial cannons, then all kneel together and beg, 'Please, just give this bastard his diploma. We'll fire the cannon ourselves.'"
"Don't be ridiculous. That won't happen. If anything, the instructor will show up with a pack of reporters, and they'll all be begging me for handshakes."
Whether they took my confidence for bluster or some sort of madness, those so-called friends of mine decided to seize me and administer psychiatric treatment.
Of course, in this era, psychiatric treatment meant something decidedly physical.
"Beat that bastard harder!"
"Begone, evil spirit!"
"Argh! Aaagh!! It hurts! It hurts!!"
After being thoroughly trampled for a while, Ike pulled an envelope from his coat.
"That's enough. He's the one who blocked his own future—what can we do? Instead, let's think about how we're going to beg the instructors when the time comes."
"What's the letter?"
"From Dyke. He says we should all come visit this Christmas. Wants to know in advance if we're attending the party."
A party.
Of course, social events were lively even within West Point. They even taught dancing as part of the curriculum.
But this poor yellow monkey didn't have a lady to escort.
"A party? Of course we're going."
"Bet there'll be plenty of pretty girls, right?"
"Think they'll let us drink?"
"You idiots. Is that seriously all you can think about?"
I muttered in exasperation, and the scoundrels promptly grabbed me again.
"The guy who just picked a fight head-on with an instructor is laughing at us?"
"Out of all of us, you're the craziest."
A party.
It was true that not having a lady to bring along was a bit painful by the standards of this era. It was a merciless time—utterly devoid of compassion for the single man.
"Well, whether we attend the party or not, I should at least see Dyke's face."
"And since it's Kansas—my hometown—you all might get a chance to stop by my house too."
I nodded at Ike's words, but even as I did, I was already busy assembling my next plans for the future.