This week your W Team has been busy affirming something we pretty much thought was true: that war is hell--especially when it tramples the begonias.
 
Things have not gone especially well in the past several days, and after agonized review we have concluded that this week's debacle had its origins in two rather large errors.
 
The first of these arose from one of those plans which in retrospect was clearly founded on spectacularly incompetent judgement, but which at the time seemed to be one hell of a good idea.
 
At the beginning of the week, the W staff was engaged in a discussion concerning the war that we're going to have with Iraq or know the reason why. And one of us (no purpose would be served by naming the individual) suggested that putting on a mock war might help familiarize us with some of the strategic and tactical issues of the campaign, and at the same time demonstrate our support of the President's agenda-whatever they might be.
 
One of the more impressionable staff members advanced the notion that if Iraq cooperated with the inspection and no weapons were found, then the administration would be duty-bound to accept the result and stand down from war.
 
An hour or so later, when most of the laughter had subsided, we got down to the serious business of beating our plowshares into swords, which significantly delayed our plans, since it appears that the city has far fewer plowshare outlets than we had supposed.
 
You can't even find them in the Yellow Pages.
 
That out of the way, we began by dividing ourselves into two groups. The division was rather stark-all but one of us on one side and the balance (one) on the other. The first and largest we called "America"(™), and the rather slender remainder we designated "Saddam," thus reflecting the balance of power we felt might obtain in the real-world situation-if "real world" is the phrase we want.
 
And here, as further confirmation that none of us had erred in not pursuing careers in the military, is where our second error took wing.
 
We reasoned, assuming that to be the appropriate word, that the part of "Saddam" involved little more than sitting patiently, waiting to be blown up. Thus we chose Mrs. Feeny for the role, because one thing the old crone does really well is sit patiently.
 
The next two days were filled with mounting excitement as America's (™) belligerent plans came to fruition. Maps were drawn, strategies exposited, tactics calculated; a full panoply of electronic gadgetry and martial gewgaws were purchased, assembled and deployed. Spirits were high and patriotic songs brightened the hour. And through it all Mrs. Feeny sat quietly watching us and being appropriately patient. We did not notice the furniture around her gradually disappearing.
 
Finally came the dawn of the attack. Orders were given, battle lines formed, watches synchronized, former plowshares drawn. And when the word was given America (™) surged forward to decimate the enemy-in this case Mrs. Feeny. Unfortunately, as we came thundering down the hall the enemy promptly disappeared into the kitchen, locked the doors, slid all of the previously un-missed living-room furniture against them, and upended the lunch tables against the windows. Within minutes the kitchen had been transformed into an hermetically sealed-and virtually unassailable--redoubt. The old lady was unreachable, and so, we gradually came to realize, were our vital coffee and snack resources.
 
These developments had an immediate and seriously negative impact on America's (™) morale. The ten-cup-a-day coffee addicts were the first to crack- producing barely audible, but clearly mutinous mutterings. Soon after followed the Snickers-deprived, who took to whimpering and otherwise unseemly disport.
 
Finally, desperation at its zenith, we launched a frenzied last-ditch attack on the kitchen, coming at it from all sides with hatchets and baseball bats, smashing in windows and knocking down doors.
 
It seems now that adrenaline overwhelmed perspective. Once inside the fortress, we hooted victory and raged in haggard battle in the obscuring dust and smoke.
 
It may have been ten or more minutes before we realized that we were fighting only each other.
 
The aftermath was staggering. The consuming melee had produced many casualties. The walls were mutilated. The snack machines were twisted metal and shards of glass. And what little coffee remained had an odd odor and disturbing appearance. Realizing that we were after all dealing with Mrs. Feeny, even the caffeine-addicts wisely seconded the motion to pour it out.
 
Of Mrs. Feeny there was not a trace. It was thought that she might have escaped into the city and was presently at large in its streets-presumably trampling the citizenry and destroying buildings with her lashing tail.
 
But yesterday the riddle of her disappearance was solved. In a letter from the Geography department at the University of Victoria, British Columbia, we learned that the senescent lammister had appeared at their door the day following our disastrous contretemps. They found her charming (everyone does, at first) and took her in. But now it seemed the old bat was raiding their refrigerator and eating everyone's lunch, and they wondered if we might not be anxious for her return.
 
Fortunately we were able to prevail upon the assistance of a friend at Alaska Airlines for whom we had once rendered a trifling kindness (saved his life in a blizzard, rescued his pregnant wife from a bear, and delivered his quadruplet babies, settling upon each a lifetime educational endowment.) And we felt the task of returning the old lady, while not exactly evening the score, might at least not leave us too greatly in his debt.
 
Meanwhile Chez W is a scene of wanton destruction. The kitchen is a nightmare and completely unusable. The repair estimates have brought back our accountant's nervous tic, and, without coffee and cheese doodles, team morale is at its lowest ebb. Although Mrs. Feeny can be blamed for some of this, the ironic fact is that we brought nearly all of it upon ourselves.
 
Each of us has a different theory about what went wrong. But there is significant agreement on at least one point: Mrs. Feeny's incontrovertible victory was due largely to what might charitably be called her altered state of mind, characterized by a complete disregard for conventionality, and lacking even the merest concern for the consequences of failure. These attributes enabled her to achieve her goal in the most devastatingly direct fashion.
 
And there is another point about which we may agree:
 
If you must have a war with someone, try not to pick someone who has nothing to lose.
 
Cheers,
Hank