Return from Leave

Sergeant First Class Lee Won-jun is a bit of a strange man. He always seems to be slightly angry. His words are rough, and he swears a lot. Based on my long experience, such behavior should be followed by fists or violence. If someone gets angry, swears, and speaks roughly, isn't a flying fist the default response? But there is none of that with him. He gets angry, yes, but he just grumbles and leaves it at that.

What's more, on my very first day of transfer, he was the one who hid behind the curtain, only to get hit with a liver shot and thrown over my shoulder without even knowing why. I naturally expected retaliation or bullying, but since that day, he has never once brought up what happened. If anything, the Team Leader was the one who constantly teased him about it.

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SFC Lee Won-jun shares the same specialty as me: Intelligence and Operations. Because of that, I inevitably have to spend a lot of time with him. Although our team consists of twelve men, due to the nature of our deployment in Congo, we are split into two sub-teams of six. Two people with the same specialty cannot be on the same sub-team. I am on Sub-team 1, and SFC Lee is on Sub-team 2. As an Intelligence and Operations specialist, I conduct operations separately from SFC Lee, and once they are over, we review the mission together so I can learn from my shortcomings. This was the routine we repeated constantly over the past year.

During our reviews, he would hit me with cold hard facts, sighing in frustration, asking if I didn't even know this much, and demanding to know what I had been doing instead of studying back in school. But his words didn't hurt. Even as he grumbled in an incredibly annoyed voice, he would explain everything I didn't know with immense kindness. Ninety percent of the knowledge I possess now was taught to me by SFC Lee. And it wasn't just about Intelligence and Operations. He taught me about society, culture, life, and human relationships, always prefacing it with, "How do you not even know this?"

I've never had one, so I wouldn't know, but I sometimes wondered if this was what it felt like to have an older brother. Even when I made a mistake and he spoke as if he was going to kill me on the spot, he would clean up the mess all by himself. If I got into trouble with another team or unit, SFC Lee would go and raise hell on my behalf. I didn't know it at the time, but when I got grazed by that ghost hit, SFC Lee was the one who blew out both knees of the bastard holding the anti-materiel sniper rifle.

I liked SFC Lee for that. It wasn't just because he didn't hit me—no one on our team ever laid a finger on me anyway. It was just that being with SFC Lee made me feel like a normal person. It made me feel protected, and I found myself wanting to lean on him.

"Oh~ Our In-bae looks like a model dressed like this! You look incredibly sharp."

"Thank you, sir."

"You look so cool. Should I buy a suit too? Where did you get this?"

"I bought it on a whim while passing through Namdaemun, sir."

"Really? I should grab one before we head back too. Oh, these are my parents."

Sergeant Oh Jae-beom introduced his parents. Were they even fifty yet? Oh Jae-beom's parents looked remarkably young.

"Hello. I am Gong In-bae."

"So you're serving in the military with our Jae-beom?"

"Yes, ma'am. That is correct. Sergeant Oh Jae-beom takes great care of me, so I've been very comfortable."

"There's no way our Jae-beom is capable of that."

"Ah, Mom!"

"Hahaha. Our Jae-beom still has a lot to learn. Please help him out a lot."

"Not at all, ma'am. I am the one receiving much more help from him."

"It's dangerous over there where you're deployed, isn't it? So please, always be careful."

"Yes, ma'am. I will."

"Oh, look at me rambling. Please, eat up. It's not much, but please accept it as a token of our hospitality."

"No, ma'am, it looks absolutely delicious. Thank you for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the meal."

"Try some of the bulgogi and galbi. The marinade turned out really well."

"It is delicious, ma'am."

"Travel safely, and feel free to visit anytime."

"Yes, ma'am. I will certainly visit again."

"Where are you heading now?"

"I am going to Sergeant Moon Chang-wan's house."

"Chang-wan's?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"Chang-wan is a heavy drinker. If you try to match him drink for drink, you'll find yourself dead the next day. So drink in moderation."

"Yes, I understand."

"Have a safe trip, and I'll see you on the day we report back. Call me if anything happens."

"Yes, sir. Unity."

"Cut the 'Unity' stuff... Alright, get going safely."

Did word get out that I don't have a home? I received calls every single day. They demanded I drop by their houses, and if I hesitated even slightly in my reply, they would throw half-serious threats at me, asking if I thought I'd be fine returning to duty without visiting them, or if I wanted them to make the rest of my deployment "spectacular."

In the end, I would reluctantly buy some beef and head over. The threats were endearing, and I was deeply grateful for their invitations. I was just... grateful. They looked out for me and took care of me—someone who was left entirely alone in the world without a family, who had hesitated to even step out of his hotel room because he had nowhere else to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠go.

Except for that agonizingly long first day, time flew by in a blur after that. Whenever I visited a senior's house, I would stay for at least one night, sometimes up to three. On the first day, I had wondered how on earth I would survive the next twenty-eight nights, even wishing I could just go back to Congo. But when only three days of my leave remained, I felt a twinge of regret.

Seeing my comrades' families made me understand why they had refused to extend their deployment and wanted to return home. SFC Lee Won-jun, in particular, had acted as if Congo was his true home, blending in like a local. So when the topic of extending the deployment came up, I had been puzzled by his absolute refusal. But after staying at his house and spending time with his family, I understood his feelings completely. If I had a wife and child like that, waiting only for the day they could see my face after a year apart, and that reunion was pushed back by another year, I would have opposed it just as fiercely. This leave was a time that allowed me to truly understand my teammates.

Melchior Ndadaye International Airport. After driving for a bit, the familiar scenery came into view. The poorly maintained, bumpy roads, Lake Tanganyika, the tropical rainforest. The sweltering heat and humid air. It hit me clearly that I had returned to Congo.

"Did you get some good rest?"

"Yes, sir."

"Since we're back in the field, get your head back in the game. Take tomorrow off to rest, and be ready to conduct operations starting the day after."

"Yes, sir."

After reporting our return from leave to the unit commander, we entered the shipping container quarters we used to live in. Returning to the container after a month—twenty-nine nights and thirty days—felt both familiar and uncomfortable. When I was first assigned to these quarters a year ago, I hadn't thought they were that bad. But after sleeping in a million-won-a-night hotel and rotating through my teammates' homes, this place felt slightly inconvenient. I even wondered, Did I really live fine in a place like this?

But it didn't matter. Our team was bound together more tightly than ever. Living up to our nickname, the Okapi Sting, our team displayed peak teamwork the moment we returned. We were, without a doubt, the finest team among the UN Peacekeeping forces.

"Hey, take it easy. If they ask us to stay for another year because we're doing too well, we're going to be in real trouble."

"Hahaha. Understood, sir."

"Poapy, you have to use your hips. I told you, you can't just throw your fist out."

"Like this, Hyung?"

"Good. That's it. Transfer the rotational energy of your upper body into your fist."

"Yes."

"Keep your punches as short as possible, taking the shortest path to your target."

I was teaching Poapy how to box. Poapy was the younger brother of the young man who had been captured and tortured by the rebels before being brought to our mobile clinic. Ever since that day, whenever Poapy saw me, he begged me to teach him a martial art that could kill anyone. Instead of martial arts, I had given him chocolate bars.

"No matter how hard you hit someone with a balloon, it won't hurt because there's no weight behind it. That's how you are right now—you have no strength. That's why learning Special Forces Martial Arts or Krav Maga won't do you any good."

"I still want to learn."

"Right now, you need to grow. Growing up comes first."

I lied to Poapy. When it came to killing people, things like height or ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠strength were completely useless. All you needed was a gun. If you didn't have a gun, a knife would do. If you didn't have a knife, you could kill them with whatever was lying around. Every tool designed to make our lives comfortable could be turned into a lethal weapon. Even a pencil. Physical confrontation was a last resort, something you only did when you absolutely had no other choice.

The reason I didn't teach Poapy martial arts was because of the look in his eyes. They were eyes consumed by rage over the loss of his brother. If I taught him even a basic one-two punch, he looked ready to charge straight into the rebel base with just that. He needed time for his anger to cool. That was why I told him he needed to grow taller, that his body needed to mature, and his muscles needed to develop. What Poapy needed wasn't martial arts; it was time.

Instead, I gave him a chocolate bar every time he asked. Whenever he helped us out during our mobile clinic operations, I gave him an extra one. It was my way of saying thank you. If I gave him money, it would be stolen, but that didn't happen with chocolate bars. He ate them right then and there, right in front of me.

Perhaps because he felt comfortable around me, Poapy shared all kinds of stories. While we talked, if there was something I was curious about, he would go find out for me. The information gathered by Poapy, a local, was remarkably accurate and useful. Based on his intel, we were even able to intercept rebels crossing the border. I maintained a good relationship with Poapy. One day, his face looked much more at peace. So, from that day on, I started teaching him how to box. After all, boxing is the best for street fights.

"Candy Boy! Give me candy!"

"You have to say 'please' first."

"Please!"

"With both hands."

"Please."

"Here you go."

I handed out lollipops one by one to the children shouting "please" with both hands held out. When I returned from Korea, I had packed an enormous amount of candy and snacks into my Inventory. Since regular grocery stores didn't have the quantities I wanted, I had even gone to a wholesaler.

Serving on this deployment, I inevitably crossed paths with countless people. While the adults had their own circumstances, my heart always ached for the children. I had grown up in miserable conditions myself, but the plight of these Congolese children made my childhood look like that of a prince. Those kids should have been eating well and getting an education to become the future of Congo, but the reality was that they had to be grateful just to survive another day.

There was nothing I could do for them. That was the duty of the state, of society. That was why governments existed. The only thing I could do was hand out a piece of candy to the children I encountered during patrol missions or mobile clinic operations. It was just a brief moment of sweetness in their lives.

Whenever I saw the kids, I handed out candy. Every mission, I gave them sweets. As this repeated, they began calling me Candy Boy whenever they saw me, begging for treats. Some days I just handed them over, but other days, I felt like teasing them, making them hold out both hands and say "please." Sometimes I'd give them one after a high-five, and other times, I'd teach them a bit of Korean first.

"Say 'An-nyeong-ha-se-yo' and 'Kam-sa-ham-ni-da.'"

"An-nyeong-ha-se-yo."

"Oh, not bad. Now say 'Kam-sa-ham-ni-da.'"

"Kam-sa-ham-ni-dya."

"Oh... you're really good at this. You get two."

"Me too, please!"

"Then you try it too. Say 'An-nyeong-ha-se-yo.'"

"An-nya-se-yo."

"Good job. You get two as well. Here's a special peppermint flavor just for you."

"I don't like peppermint!"

"Then you don't want it?"

"No! I want it!"

"Alright. Since you were honest, I'll give you one peppermint and one lemon candy."

"Thank you!"

"Good boy."

This was all I could do. Giving the children candy and praising them. That was the absolute limit of my power.