The War

“So… you want me to start a war with the Russians?”

The day had taken a bizarre and sudden turn for Charlie Taylor. On most days about this time he’d be walking back to his dorm room, thinking about things he wished he’d said in class or trying to maintain a confident yet relaxed and normal looking stride when he passed cute girls along the way. The note he’d been given had said nothing about a Cabinet Secretary wanting him to start World War III, and he was beginning to suspect the medical paper work it had said he needed to sign for football didn’t actually exist.

“No, no, no, of course not! I’m here to ask, on behalf of your country and your President, if you’ll help us make history.”

“And... how exactly am I supposed to do that?”

Secretary Steward smiled warmly, a man comfortable with having a captive audience asking him to speak. “In a few months there’s going to be the greatest, most important sporting event in the history of our species. The Soviets will be sending their best, the United States will be doing the same, and the stakes have never been higher. No longer are we competing for medals or for print, but to the winner will go the accolades of the ages, and to the loser will be heaped the scorn of generations.”

Charlie nodded slowly, still not sure of what he was being asked to do. “So, what kind of sport is it?”

“Tug of war.”

“Tug of war?”

Steward smiled broadly again, “We felt that for such an important event that no lack of symbolism be left on attended, and that a tug of war would be the most fitting war to determine a winner. Rather fitting, don’t you think? The two teams will meet in Berlin, each on their own side of the border, and at the sound of a whistle we’ll finally decide the most important question of our generation.”

Charlie’s gazed wandered for a moment as he tried to think of what that might be, and he couldn’t help but think that the Secretary was enjoying his lack of understanding. “And… what question would that be?”

“Why, which side starts the war, of course.”

“Huh?”

“It’s simple really, for decades we’ve lived under the ever present specter of war between our nations, each biting their fingernails for fear that at any moment the other would launch the first strike. Well, no more. We finally found a way to put that all behind us once and for all, and your country needs you to help ensure that we come out on top.”

“By winning a tug of war?”

“Yes.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I am.”

“We’re going to have a war over who wins?”

“Well, more preciously, we’re going to have a war over who loses.”

“…why?”

“Because it’s the civilized thing to do.”

“How is that civilized!?!”

Steward sighed slightly, “Because your parents grew up hiding under their desks for fear of Russian bombs. You grew up having your cartoons interrupted by emergency broadcast testing in case a war ever happened. For decades now we’ve lived lives in fear of a looming few moments of terror. Who will strike first, will I make it to a shelter, will I be with my loved ones? That’s no life for man, no life at all.

So, our two nations decided that there must be a better way. The answer was simple, rather than a life of terror followed by rabid chaos before death, that our people would be better off if a date and time were set so that everyone who wished to be with their loved ones, to be in a shelter, to do what they’d like with their lives would know when and where and what needed to be done.

The only question left was that when that time came which side was going to start it.”

Charlie blinked slowly, “Is this a joke?”

“Son, this is policy. Do you have any idea how many meetings it took to determine whether we’d use metric to determine how long the rope would be?”

“Well no…”

“Three, we get to use feet but they get to pick the national anthem order.”

“Ah, well, that’s…great. So, we pull the rope, go home, and then the war starts?”

The Secretary shifted uncomfortably, “Well, not exactly…”

“Then what?”

“You see, we’re expecting significant casualty rates for both teams…”

“What do you mean “significant casualty rates?”

“Well, both sides will be ready for the war, you see, and which ever side gets pulled over the border will be considered to be the aggressors. They’ll most likely be killed in the initial volley of fire, being invaders and such. At that point it’ll be a shooting war, and while the winners won’t be armed rockets and bombs being what they are things might get a bit… confused.”

“So, what’s the point of even trying to win if both teams are going to get killed?”

“Because the losers will be the ones that history remembers as having started it.”

Charlie eyed the door slowly, thinking he could probably make it in a sprint. “I really don’t think I want to have any part in this.”

Steward sighed one last time, “We were afraid you might say that. Congratulations son, you’ve just been drafted. Thank you for volunteering for your first assignment!”

The air was heavy as the two sides stared at each other across the border. A Berlin flag, another one of the many “symbolic gestures”, hung limply from the rope across the center line, and the murmur of spectators finding their seats mixed nosily with the blare of military bands and the rumble of engines. Charlie’s hands were sweating as he gripped the rope, he tried to focus but his eyes kept flickering towards the column of Soviet tanks forming a few hundred yards ahead of him, and towards the rocket and sniper teams dotting the surrounding roof tops.

The music quieted as a speaker began to drone, he seemed to be building towards something but a passing flight of helicopters drowned out whatever it was that got the crowd applauding. The referee approached and the rope grew taught, eyes burned into the backs of skulls as heals searched one last time for ideal traction. The arm went up as the whistle came to his lips…

“Wait!”

All eyes swung towards Secretary Steward as he ran towards the competition, his arms swinging wildly above his head. The Soviet representative flew out of his own stands, meeting the Secretary at the referee where a heated exchange had begun. The two sides suddenly stormed apart, obviously fuming.

“Drop the rope, their anchor man has spiked heels, which are clearly against the Naples Agreement!” Steward fumed, the Russian representative screaming at him as he stomped away.

And just like that, the world was saved.

http://punditinc.wordpress.com/2010/06/01/the-war/