On May 7 and 8, 1945, the Allies celebrated their victory over the Third Reich. In London, millions gathered in a near-carnival atmosphere to mark the end of a long nightmare.

While our celebrations were nearly so huge, K and I did exchange a laugh over the end of the Yellow Jacket War this weekend, after the last pockets of resistance were flushed out and destroyed.

I went down Saturday morning about nine, just before mowing, to see if I could root around with a shovel and find the nest. I’d been making daily observations at dusk the whole week and had not seen a single infantryman (infantry-wasp?) in that period. Just to be sure, I’d doused the area liberally with more wasp killer.

In short order, the tip of my shovel turned up the yellow jackets’ lair…

And it was absolutely covered with yellow jackets.

The shovel fell with a thud as I sprinted for my life. Not literally, for I’m not allergic to them, but their stings do indeed burn. I soon realized that none were following. “Perhaps these are specialized workers who aren’t as aggressive as those who hunt and gather — and defend,” I thought. Deciding to take a chance, I crept back down the hill in the early evening and found the nest still covered. I gave them a shot of bad medicine (you had to know that was coming at some point), ready to run. Yet none attacked.

Their mistake.

There’s something perversely satisfying about holding a significant portion of your enemy’s entire base in your hand…

(“That looks burned,” some might think. Indeed. When I brought the nest in, I noticed that there were a couple of larvae still wriggling about. “Immolation is the only sure method,” I muttered — rather, “I guess I’ll have to burn these suckers” — so I took the nest out, put it on several layers of aluminum foil in the driveway, sprinkled a few drops of gas on them…)