Sergeant First Class Iwonjun is a bit of an odd person.
He always seems a little angry.
His words are rough.
He curses a lot, too.
Judging from my long experience,
after that, fists or violence should follow.
If someone gets angry, starts cursing, and their words turn rough,
isn’t it the default for fists to start flying?
But there’s none of that.
He does get angry,
but just grumbles a bit with words and that’s it.
Even more so.
On my first day after transfer.
Hiding behind the curtain,
he was the one who took a liver shot without knowing why
and got suplexed. It was Sergeant First Class Iwonjun.
I thought there would surely be revenge or hazing,
but he never brought up that day ever again after that.
Instead, the team leader would bring it up at every chance and tease Sergeant First Class Iwonjun about it.
Sergeant First Class Iwonjun has the same intelligence and operations specialty as me.
So, inevitably, I had no choice but to spend a lot of time with Sergeant First Class Iwonjun.
Our team has twelve members, but
due to the nature of the Congo, we’re divided into two teams of six, Team 1 and Team 2.
Two people with the same specialty can’t be placed on one team.
I’m on Team 1, Sergeant First Class Iwonjun is on Team 2.
As an intelligence and operations specialist, I carry out operations separately from Sergeant First Class Iwonjun,
and when the operation ends, we review it based on what we performed,
and learn what was lacking.
This is what I repeated for the past year.
During reviews,
looking at me, he’d say I was frustrating,
ask if I didn’t know something like this,
ask what I was doing instead of studying in school,
hitting me with facts, but it didn’t hurt.
Even so, in a very annoyed voice, he very kindly taught me what I didn’t know.
Ninety percent of what I know now was taught to me by Sergeant First Class Iwonjun.
Not just intelligence and operations specialty.
Society, culture, life, human relationships, everything.
He’d ask if I didn’t know that either and teach me.
I don’t know because I’ve never had one,
but there were times I wondered: if I had an older brother, would it feel like this?
Even if I made some mistake, while he’d talk like he’d kill me right away,
he’d handle all the aftermath alone.
If I got into trouble with another team or unit, Sergeant First Class Iwonjun would go and raise hell for me instead.
I didn’t know,
but last time, when I took that ghost hit,
it was Sergeant First Class Iwonjun who blew out both knees of the bastard with the anti-materiel rifle.
I liked that kind of Sergeant First Class Iwonjun.
It wasn’t because he didn’t hit me.
Because no one on our team hit me.
It was just,
when I was with Sergeant First Class Iwonjun,
I felt like I became a normal person, and I liked that.
I felt protected, so I kept wanting to lean on him.
.
.
.
“Where are you?”
“At Sergeant First Class Iwonjun’s house, sir.”
“Why did you go there?”
“He called me over, sir.”
“Then why didn’t you come to my house?”
“Sir?”
“‘Sir?’ You little punk, slacking off. Come to my house today.”
.
.
.
“Inbae? What are you up to?”
“I’m at the team leader’s house, sir.”
“Why did you go there?”
“He called me…”
“You have no tact, he’s newlywed and only has a month of leave, how could you go there?”
“I’m sorry. I was thoughtless.”
“So come to my house today.”
“.......”
“You’re not answering?”
“Understood, sir.”
.
.
.
“Oh~ Inbae, dressed like this you look like a model? You look incredibly cool.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Too cool, though? Should I buy a suit too? Where did you get this?”
“I bought it passing through Namdaemun, sir.”
“Really? I should buy one before I report back. These are my parents.”
Staff Sergeant Ojaebeom introduced his parents.
Had they turned fifty?
Staff Sergeant Ojaebeom’s parents were very young.
“Hello, sir/ma’am. I’m Gonginbae.”
“You serve with our Jaebeom?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Staff Sergeant Ojaebeom takes good care of me, so I’m doing fine.”
“There’s no way our Jaebeom would do that.”
“Ah~ Mom.”
“Hahaha. Our Jaebeom has many shortcomings. Please help him a lot.”
“Not at all. I receive far more help.”
“The deployment zone is dangerous, so always be careful.”
“Yes, I will.”
“I’ve talked too much. Please eat some of this. It’s nothing much, but think of it as a gesture.”
“Not at all. It looks delicious. Thank you, I’ll eat well.”
“Try the bulgogi and galbi. The seasoning turned out well.”
“It’s delicious.”
.
.
.
“Take care, and come by anytime.”
“Yes, I’ll definitely visit again.”
“Where are you going now?”
“I’m going to Staff Sergeant Munchangwan’s house, sir.”
“Changwan?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Changwan is a total drunk. If you drink the same amount, you’ll be dead the next day. So drink in moderation.”
“Yes, understood.”
“Have a good time, see you on our return date. Contact me if anything happens.”
“Yes, understood. Unity.”
“Unity… yeah, take care.”
.
.
.
Did word get out that I don’t have a home?
Calls come every single day.
Telling me to stop by their house,
and if I hesitate even a little in answering,
asking if I think it’s okay to report back without stopping by their house,
threatening to make the rest of my deployment spectacular.
Threats that aren’t quite threats.
Then I end up bringing beef and visiting, unable to refuse.
The threats are cute,
and I’m grateful for the invitations inviting me in.
I was just grateful.
To them for looking after me,
left alone without family,
hesitating at the hotel because I had nowhere to go, unable to even go out.
I was grateful to them for watching out for me.
.
.
.
Except for the first day, which was dreadfully long,
after that, time flew by in a flash.
When visiting seniors’ houses, staying one night was the minimum.
I stayed as long as three days.
Really, on that first day I wondered how I’d spend the remaining twenty-eight nights,
which is why I tried to go back to the Congo,
but when about three days of leave remained, I felt a bit regretful too.
Seeing their families, I understood why the seniors refused deployment extension
and wanted to return.
Especially in Sergeant First Class Iwonjun’s case.
He really acted like the Congo was his home,
like a local,
so when talk of extension came up, I was puzzled when he said absolutely not.
But after staying with his family at his home, I understood his feelings completely.
If you had a wife and child like that,
already separated for a year,
waiting only for the day to see their faces,
if that were delayed another year, I think you could fully oppose it too.
It was a regular leave that let me understand my teammates.
.
.
.
Ndjili International Airport.
Getting off, things look a little different, yet a familiar road appears.
Poorly maintained, bumpy roads,
Lake Tanganyika, tropical rainforest.
Hot heat and humid air.
I can clearly feel that I have returned to the Congo.
“Did you rest well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is the field now, so tighten up again. Rest tomorrow, and be ready to conduct operations from the day after.”
“Yes, sir.”
After reporting my return from leave to the unit commander,
I entered the container quarters we used.
A month.
The container I met after twenty-nine nights and thirty days was familiar yet uncomfortable.
I hadn’t thought it was terrible when I first received these quarters a year ago.
After sleeping in hotels that cost a hundred bucks a night,
going around staying at teammates’ houses,
this place feels a bit uncomfortable.
To the point where I wonder if I lived well in a place like this.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because our team has become more tightly knit.
Our team truly lived up to its nickname.
As soon as we returned, we showed the best teamwork.
Undoubtedly the best team among the UN Peacekeeping Forces.
“Hey, take it easy. If we ask to stay another year like this, we’ll really be in trouble then.”
“Hahaha. Understood.”
******
“Poapi, you have to use your waist. You can’t just extend your fist.”
“Like this?”
“Good. That’s it. Transfer the energy of your upper body rotation into your fist.”
“Yes.”
“Fist as short as possible. Make it go the shortest distance to your target.”
I was teaching Poapi boxing.
Poapi was the younger brother of that youth who had been captured and tortured by rebels and came to the mobile hospital.
After that day,
every time Poapi saw me, he asked me to teach him martial arts that could kill anyone.
Instead of martial arts, I gave him a chocolate bar each time.
“No matter how hard you hit a balloon, it doesn’t hurt. Because it lacks power. That’s what you are right now. You have no strength. So special combat martial arts, Krav Maga, even if you learn them, it’s useless.”
“I still want to learn.”
“You have to grow now. Growing comes first.”
I lied to Poapi.
For killing a person, things like height or strength are completely useless.
You just need a gun.
If no gun, a knife.
If no knife, use whatever is around to kill.
Every tool that makes our lives convenient can become a murder weapon.
Even a pencil.
Physical confrontation is for last,
when there is truly no other way.
The reason I didn’t teach Poapi martial arts
was because of Poapi’s eyes.
Eyes seized by rage,
having lost his older brother.
If I taught him even a boxing one-two,
he looked ready to rush into the rebel base with just that.
He needed time to quell the rage.
So I said he needed to grow taller,
his body to mature,
his muscles to develop.
What Poapi needed
wasn’t martial arts, but time.
Instead, each time I gave him a chocolate bar.
Whenever he helped us in the circuit area, I gave him one more chocolate bar.
It meant thank you.
If you give money it gets stolen, but chocolate bars don’t.
Chocolate bars are eaten here.
Right in front of me.
Poapi seemed comfortable with me like that, telling me all sorts of stories.
While talking, if there was something I was curious about, he found out for me.
Information that local Poapi knew was quite accurate and useful.
Based on Poapi’s information, we could catch rebels crossing the border.
I continued to maintain a good relationship with Poapi.
One day Poapi’s face looked very much at ease.
So from that day I started teaching him boxing.
Because boxing is the best when weaklings fight.
.
.
.
“Candyboy~ give me candy.”
“Say please.”
“Please~”
“With both hands.”
“Please.”
“Here you go.”
I gave a lollipop to each kid who said please with both hands.
When I came back from Korea,
I packed an enormous amount of candy and snacks in my inventory.
The mart didn’t have the quantity I wanted to buy,
to the point that I went to a wholesaler.
Living on deployment here, you inevitably meet many people.
Adults may have their own circumstances,
but when I see children, I truly pity them.
I grew up pitifully too,
but the situation of Congolese children was enough to make me look like a prince.
Those children should eat better,
learn better and become the future of the Congo,
but reality is that they have to be grateful just to survive today.
There’s nothing I can do for such Congolese children.
That is something the state, society must do.
That is why the state exists.
What I can do
is during guard operations,
during mobile hospital operations,
handing a candy to each child I encounter.
Giving children a taste of sweetness, even for a moment.
When I saw children, I gave them candy.
Every operation, when I saw children, I gave them candy.
As that repeated,
they called me Candyboy when they saw me,
and asked for candy.
Some days I just gave it,
but some days I wanted to play around for no reason,
so I made them say please with both hands or something.
Sometimes I’d give it if they high-fived once,
sometimes I’d teach them Korean and give it.
“Say hello, thank you. Try it.”
“Annyeonghaseyo.”
“Oh, well done.”
“Gamsahamnida.”
“Oh… really good. You eat two.”
“Me too, please.”
“Then you try it too, hello.”
“Annyaseyo.”
“Well done. You eat two too. You’re specially getting mint flavor.”
“I hate it~”
“Then you won’t eat it?”
“No. I’ll eat it.”
“Good. Since you were honest, I’ll give you one mint candy and one lemon candy.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah. Good kid.”
All I could do was this.
Giving candy to children, praising them.
That was everything.