Pete Conrad: Survival of the Sparrows

“Get your ass down off a there, you damned old fool, before you get hurt,” May shout from below.

Winston smiled. “Yes, dear.”

By the time Winston climbed down the ladder, the army rangers had rounded up the only four PLA survivors that remained — the three generals and Major Chaek, who were all hiding inside the Sparrows’ house. He handed the master controller to a U.S. Air Force officer who brought the drone down safely, landing it in the driveway where the other eleven drones lay shattered from the firefight.

A convoy of American military vehicles, many of which were ambulances containing corpsmen and medics, made their way onto the Sparrow property. Winston put an unconscious May into one, and she was off to the military hospital at the Atlanta international airport. After his non-life-threatening wounds were tended to, he saw Sergeant Duffy interrogating Major Chaek in the very same chair used for his own interrogation, and limped over.

“Sergeant Duffy? Can I have a word?”

“Specialist Sparrow,” Sergeant Duffy said, a broad smile making his middle-aged face seem younger, “it’s actually Colonel Duffy. I apologize for the deception.”

“That was quite the deception. Jes’ how many were you really?”

Colonel Duffy’s face reddened a little, but confided, “just over a hundred thirty thousand?”

“Scuse me? Did you say a hundred thirty thousand?”

“Yes, Sir” he turned to Major Chaek and said, “PLA was countin’ their chickens before they were hatched, and they may not have hatched if it wasn’t for you.”

“I can’t take full credit… you owe my wife May one helluva thank you, though she jes’ may take full credit.

“How did she do it?” the Colonel asked.

“Never underestimate the power of an elementary school math teacher with a Ruger twenny two.”

They laughed.

“Your wife will certainly be rewarded for her actions. You, too.”

“Give mine ta May. I already got my reward,” Winston felt the scar under the t-shirt, “What you gon’ do with this piece a shit?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified.”

“I see. Well, somethin’ jes’ dawned on me now seeing as you wanna reward me and May an’ all. Scuse me a moment.”

“Certainly.”

Winston hobbled over to his flattened truck, and shook his head in disgust. He turned back and said, “was the Mayor’s truck,” and tugged on the passenger door, but it wouldn’t budge. He walked to the driver’s side door, which was unlocked, opened the door, climbed over the seat, and unlocked the passenger door. He walked back to the passenger side, opened the door, and Med’s .357 fell to the ground. He looked at Colonel Duffy, who watched him intensely, as did Major Chaek. Winston scooped the gun from the ground and walked back to Colonel Duffy and Major Chaek.

“Seems to me, Colonel Duffy, that you recently told me that no prisoners would be taken.”

“Well, Specialist Sparrow, that was then. Objectives have changed.”

“Look over there. Ya see that young woman?” Winston waved to her, and she waved back, “her name is Lieutenant Nancy Drew. Yep, jes’ like the detective ‘cept she a medic. Fixed this mess goin’ on over here,” he waved a hand around his own body, “seems ta me that it wouldn’t be nothin’ but an educational experience for her ta fix a kneecap, specially when this here gun belonged to that poor ol’ head you see displayed on my good wrought-iron fence. Fine young man went by the name a Melvin, Med, Willis.”

Colonel Duffy paused, waved to the Lieutenant, and motioned for her to join them.

Lieutenant Nancy Drew trotted over. “Yes, Sir?”

“This man has a knee injury,” Colonel Duffy said.

Lieutenant Nancy Drew was perplexed.

“Now, wait a minute. You can’t let him do that to me,” Major Chaek cried.

Winston bent over to get Major Chaek’s attention, “hey, hey, look here. I ain’t got nothin’ ta say ta you,” and he shot Major Chaek’s left kneecap, giving him a matching pair of destroyed knees.

“Thank you, Colonel Duffy and Lieutenant Drew.”

Suddenly, an uproar erupted from the waterline. Colonel Duffy and Winston bolted toward the commotion, Winston slowed by his injuries. While scouring the encampment for enemy survivors and gathering the dead, a half-dozen rangers had discovered a PLA soldier and moved him to the stump, where they prepared to beat him. When Winston arrived, he recognized the prisoner as Woo-jin.

“Stop it! No!” Winston shouted, “this man is no enemy!”

“He’s PLA!” a voice yelled back.

“He’s an ally!”

“Back away from the prisoner!” ordered Colonel Duffy, who asked Winston, “is this the soldier you met with under the bridge?”

“Yes! We traded food… and stories… hope… and friendship. He helped me bury…” Winston choked up, but continued, “his name is Yong Woo-jin. Go ahead. Check.”

A ranger found a military-issued wallet that contained a North Korean identification card. He showed it to Colonel Duffy, who confirmed Woo-jin’s identity.

“He is still a prisoner of war, Mr. Sparrow.”

“I understand.”

Winston held his hand out to Woo-jin. He took it, and Winston pulled him up and said, in a truly horrible Clark Gable voice, “you should be kissed by someone who knows how.”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” Woo-jin replied, his impersonation not much better. And Winston pulled the young man into his arms and embraced him as if he were a long lost son.

“I thought I lost you. How’d you do it?”

“Buddhist breathing technique.”

“Incredible. You’ll have to show me one day.”

“I would like that very much.”

Colonel Duffy rested a hand on Winston’s shoulder, “I’ll request clemency.”

“Thank you. This man got a girl back home who misses him ver’ much.”

With that, Woo-jin was escorted away. And as Winston watched, he pondered again what it was that made nations constantly war with one another. He certainly couldn’t answer that question, but he had a feeling that if he, an aging black American Vietnam War veteran who placed all faith in his Christian God above could grow to care so deeply for a young North Korean PLA soldier who placed so much faith in his God could do it…

He shook his head and shrugged it off, it being far too complicated to understand. There was much to do at the Sparrow compound. As he made his way to the barn to clean the apartment up, Muffin trotted down the driveway past all of the soldiers, and to Winston. She barked once and sat in front of him. Winston bent down and picked her up and she lapped his face enthusiastically.

“Muffin…”

He kissed the dog’s head, grateful that she had given Ben comfort before he was called home.

“You mus’ be hungry, girl. Let’s go get you somethin’ ta eat.”

By the end of the day, the American military had completely disassembled the PLA’s encampment on the Sparrows’ property: the razor-wire fencing, all of the tents, toilets, drones, and equipment inside the house was removed to a secure location. The army was kind enough to leave one generator and the lights for Winston and May, as well as several drums of gasoline to last for several months.

Winston and Muffin were left standing alone in a yard that appeared as if it had been hit by a tornado, but with little evidence of a war remaining. There was just one more thing he needed to do before the day ended. Earlier, he had placed what was left of Med’s head in the black first aid backpack before the army could arbitrarily take it away to burn with the rest of the PLA bodies. He had also negotiated for the army to leave his friends’ bodies in the trash pile so he could properly bury them. Now, Winston and Muffin walked through the woods to the graves that contained Julie and Med and the two PLA soldiers, unimpeded by a razor fence or bullets. He pushed the shovel’s sharp blade into the earth and dug a small hole. He sat at the edge of the grave, pulled Med’s head out of the backpack, and set it into the hole.