BRAT and the Kids of Warriors

by Michael Joseph Lyons

  Fortunately for Jack, their laughter quickly died away, and everyone started sharing ideas for their battle plan. They figured all the cowboys would stay inside their fort, protected from attack, with clear visibility of what was in front of them. So, instead of mounting a frontal attack, the Indians decided to approach the bunker, unseen, from the rear. The plan was to make their way up and over the bunker, lean over the top, surprise the cowgirls, and shoot them all.

  “Okay, so we’re all clear about the objective, right?” questioned Jack. Jack couldn’t help himself; he’d jumped right back into being General Jack.

  Sam cracked up again. “Man, where do you come up with all this stuff? Intel, security, surprise, and now objective.”

  “Don’t ya get it? We need to fight for the same thing. Our objective for this battle is ‘Overrun the bunker and kill or capture all the cowgirls.’ Are we each clear on that?”

  With enthusiasm, and a broad smirk, Charlie yelled, “Overrun the bunker and kill or capture all the cowgirls—hooah!”

  “God bless you,” said Jayla, as if Charlie had just sneezed.

  “Come on, Jayla, you gotta know Hooah! It’s the best of all tanker cries. Like ‘Geronimo!’”

  “For tankers, yes,” said Jayla. “But I seriously doubt Indians ever yelled ‘Hooah!’ before a battle.”

  Unfortunately, for all their talk of objective, security, and surprise, they hadn’t planned for the unexpected. But they certainly got it. As they climbed onto the pillbox from behind, Queenie came sneaking up the side steps and out on top—Bam, Bam, Bam! She unloaded on them. Whether she had come up by luck or had planned to, they didn’t know. But either way, she spotted the Indian attack and started shooting her pistol at them. The noise alerted the other cowgirls.

  Charlie, reacting quickly, shot an arrow at Queenie. Of course, the suction-cupped arrow barely left the bow.

  Jack, aiming a stick at her, yelled, “Bang! Bang! Bang! I got ya.”

  “No, you didn’t! You’re long dead!” she yelled back, “I got Charlie, and I got you, too!”

  Sam and Jayla left Charlie and Jack to deal with Queenie. They sprinted over the roof of the pillbox and leaned over the front edge to shoot Liz and Camila. The two cowgirls were ready with guns raised.

  Everyone was screaming, “I got you!” and “Did not! I got you first!”

  They were all arguing, all laughing. It had been a great battle because both sides had surprised the crap out of the other.

  They sprawled on top of the bunker and talked about having another battle, but they never quite got around to it. Everyone figured nothing would be as good as that first one. Then just as they were getting ready to head back to The Glass House, Queenie spotted movement in the woods. She quietly asked, “Who are those older kids?”

  Jayla, caught up in the conversation, finally glanced up—and froze. “It’s Kerrigan’s gang!” she whispered. “Maybe they haven’t spotted us yet. Quick everyone, get back into the pillbox. Do it now, before there’s trouble. And don’t make any sudden moves that attract attention.”

  “What d’ya mean by trouble?” demanded Queenie, not being quiet at all. “Aren’t those the same creeps who gave Jack a hard time?”

  “Shhhh!” said Camila. “We’ll explain later. For now, just move out before something bad happens.”

  Queenie trusted her friend and decided not to make a fuss. She followed the others who were quietly slipping back into the pillbox.

  “Scrunch down on the floor below the opening in case they happen to look in,” Charlie hissed.

  “Why are we avoiding those toads?” asked Queenie, getting impatient.

  But Jayla, looking alarmed, put a finger to her lips.

  Sam whispered to Queenie, “Let’s just sit quiet and see if they pass by.”

  Jack wondered wildly if hiding would do much good. Kerrigan had probably spotted them. Jack had seen Kerrigan take a knee and pass back hand signals.

  The brats remained frozen in place for the next ten minutes.

  Dampness from the concrete wall penetrated Jack’s winter coat. Remaining motionless was getting harder and harder. The cold was robbing him of what little patience he had.

  Finally, Jayla lifted her head a few inches above the opening of the pillbox. Then, turning to the others, she mouthed the words, “I think they’re gone.” She motioned for everyone to stay put as she checked behind the bunker.

  It seemed to take forever before she returned. But in a low voice she said, “I think they went right by us. Anyway, they’re gone.”

  “Okay,” said Queenie, exasperated, “you want to tell us what that was all about?”

  “That,” said Jayla, “wasn’t just Kerrigan and his gang. They were with some of the Sevens.”

  “Who are the Sevens?” asked Jack. “Why are you afraid of them?”

  “If you think Ryan is bad, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Charlie said. “They’re a badass bunch of older kids. They call themselves the Sevens because there were seven of them when the gang formed. Some originals were transferred, but no matter. Today there are more than seven, and they think they own these woods. They’ve beat up lots of kids they’ve found out here.”

  “That sounds like a load of crap,” Queenie said.

  “But it’s not,” said Charlie. “A couple months ago they beat a kid so bad they put him in the hospital. And the younger kids they recruit—they’re the worst. They’ll pound you into the ground over nothing—just to prove themselves to the older kids. We don’t let them stop us from playing in these woods, but we definitely try not to cross paths with them.

  Jack said, “But why would they let Kerrigan hang out with them? He’s our age.”

  “Close as I can figure,” said Jayla, “they’d only include him in things that are risky or bad.”

  Sam nodded. “He thinks he’s cool, because he gets to hang with the Sevens. He doesn’t want to see they’re just using him.”

  “If Kerrigan and his gang do their dirty work,” said Jayla, “it’s Kerrigan who takes the rap, not the Sevens.”

  Jack sighed. “Nothing’s ever simple, is it?”

  “Probably not. But, hey, no big deal. Shake it off. We ducked ’em . . . at least for today,” said Charlie.

  On the way back to The Glass House, the mood lightened. Laughter broke out as they told and re-told The Battle of Fort Pillbox.

  Jayla said, “I guess surprise works both ways. We planned to surprise the cowboys, and we did. But they definitely surprised us, too. Next time, we better work a little harder on the security part of our battle plan, so we don’t get caught with our guard down.”

  Jack grinned at her. “Wow, you get it.”

  She rewarded his smile with a smirk. “I’m not an idiot, Jack. I do catch on.”

  She does, Jack thought to himself, liking her. And she’s right. We need to work on our security. Not just for war games—to avoid serious problems with Kerrigan and the Sevens.

  The Indians all went to Charlie’s place to wash off their war paint. And they certainly made a valiant attempt. But no amount of soap and water faded the lipstick. At first, it was funny—at least until it dawned on them they might be wearing red lipstick for the next week. Then mild panic set in.

  Charlie, in desperation, got his mom. Easygoing as always, she just chuckled. But she wasn’t much help.

  The vinegar she brought smelled awful and did nothing.

  Sam said, “What are we gonna do about this? My dad’ll lose it if I don’t get this stuff off.”

  “So will mine,” said Jack. “In fact, I don’t even want to think about what he might do.”

  Charlie stayed calm. “Whose mom knows more about makeup than mine?”

  There was silence for a bit, until Jayla finally coughed up that her mom was really good at makeup. She hated to ask her mom for
help, and they didn’t blame her. Mrs. Jones thought her lipstick was tucked in her makeup bag—not on them.

  “Jayla, there’s just no choice. We need her help. If we stay like this, we’re all in big trouble.” Sam pleaded.

  Reluctantly, Jayla trudged up Charlie’s stairwell to her quarters on the third floor, with the rest of the Indians in tow.

  Jack had never even met Mrs. Jones—definitely an awkward situation. This time, his special talent for meeting parents deserted him. The first thing that slowed him down was what a fox Mrs. Jones was. No one—kid or adult—ever failed to notice that Mrs. Jones was beautiful. She was a statuesque Negro woman. Jack was sure she was, or at least had been, a fashion model.

  The second thing that messed him up was her “Who do you think you are, young man?” look. Which was immediately followed up with a glare that seemed to say, “Just what kind of trouble have you gotten into?”

  Jack knew he’d better come up with something fast. After a quick breath, he put on one of his charming smiles and extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Jones. My name is Jack McMasters. My father is Lt. Col. McMasters. We just moved into one of the third-floor apartments on the other side of this building.”

  She seemed to soften just a hair, giving him her hand to shake. He took his next shot. “I’m sorry to be introducing myself when I’m all painted up like this. But you see, we all got very excited by the Saturday movie. It was a cowboy and Indian movie. Afterwards, we decided to have a cowboy and Indian war.” He paused to get a read on how he was doing.

  “And let me guess,” she said, with just the hint of a smile. “The four of you weren’t on the side of the cowboys?”

  “Exactly right, ma’am,” he said. “But before I head home, I thought it might be a good idea to . . . to give up being an Indian and turn back into Jack McMasters. Unfortunately, we are having a rather hard time getting our war paint off. We tried soap and water at Charlie’s quarters, but that didn’t work too well.”

  “And, pray tell, what form of Indian paint are you sporting, young Jack?”

  “Well, a rare, and precious variety, called . . . lipstick.”

  “What!” she exclaimed. And then, she did crack up.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  For the longest time, she got all serious, studying poor Jack. None of them could tell if she was just torturing him or truly stumped. “Are you sure you really want it off? It’s a great color.”

  Doing his best to keep a straight face, Jack said, “Yes, ma’am, I definitely want it off.”

  “I guess I see the dilemma. You girls by no means look great, but you boys will definitely look funny at school with lipstick all over your faces. You might have a tough time explaining it.” Another pause.

  “Now, let me see . . . getting lipstick off a child’s face. Surely there must be a way. That is, without a doctor performing surgery. I doubt we’ll have to burn it off. Do you—”

  “Mom! Stop torturing us. This is serious! Just tell us the answer,” Jayla pleaded.

  Mrs. Jones flashed them a radiant smile. “My beautiful band of Indians, the magic answer is nothing other than . . . baby oil.”

  “Baby oil?” they all shouted in disbelief.

  “Yes, indeed. Come right this way, you wild warriors.” She gestured toward the bathroom.

  “You first, my fine little brave. It’s time to turn you back into Jack McMasters.” After spreading baby oil on Jack’s face, she rummaged through her washcloths for a red one. By then the oil was doing its magic. With just a bit of elbow grease on her part, Mrs. Jones wiped the lipstick off his face.

  Glancing in the mirror, he smiled at her reflection.

  “Welcome back, Jack McMasters,” she said.

  “Really, Mrs. Jones. You’re a life saver.”

  “Okay, Jayla, you now know how it’s done. Do the others.” With that, Jayla’s mom left them to solve the war paint problem on their own.

  When she was gone, Jack said, “Your mom’s a genius.”

  “Told you. She’s great at all things makeup,” Jayla said, smiling.

  “Was she a fashion model?” Jack asked.

  Jayla stopped smiling. “Are you messing with me? Of course not,” she said coldly.

  “What?” he asked, confused. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Her expression softened. “You really don’t know?”

  He shook his head.

  “Me, neither,” said Charlie.

  “There are no Negro fashion models,” Jayla said.

  “What do you mean?” Jack asked.

  “Think about it. Have you ever seen a colored fashion model in Vogue magazine or for that matter any big magazine? No, you haven’t. That’s because no magazine will show colored people and white people together in the same magazine.”

  “Hey, you’re right,” said Sam. “Why didn’t I ever notice that?”

  “So there are no colored fashion models?” asked Jack.

  “I’ve only seen them in Ebony, but that’s a magazine for colored people,” said Jayla. “Look, things are different for brats. Our whole lives, we’ve gone to school with white kids, colored kids, Korean kids, Japanese kids, and who-knows-what-kinda kids.”

  “Sure,” said Jack.

  “The rest of America goes to school with white kids or Negro kids, but not both. When you went to church off base back in America, were there any Negro people in your church?”

  Jack’s brow wrinkled. “I guess not.”

  “If we weren’t part of the US Army, I’d be in some all-colored school right now.”

  They were silent till Charlie blurted out, “Hey, what time is it?”

  Jack looked at his dad’s old Elgin watch. “Fifteen minutes till six. I gotta split.”

  On his way out, he said thanks again to Mrs. Jones.

  “Say hi to your mom for me, Jack, and tell her it was nice to meet her.”

  “You know my mom?”

  “Absolutely. She and your dad were over here for our cocktail party last night. In fact, I have a feeling your mom and I are going to be good friends.”

  That gave Jack a rather nice feeling. He was starting to like Cooke Barracks.

  14

  Sunday Ritual

  When Jack went to bed that night, he never imagined he’d spend the next day in an ancient civilization. But that’s exactly what happened. The Sunday ritual started the same as usual: Lt. Col. McMasters prepared to take the children to church while Mrs. McMasters stayed home to create the great banquet she called Sunday breakfast.

  They loaded into their dad’s big, blue ’55 Buick Roadmaster, which the colonel had had the Army ship overseas the moment he got orders for Germany. But instead of going to church on base, the colonel had decided they’d go to the cathedral in the center of Göppingen. As they walked across the square of the ancient city, Jack saw no other Americans. No English was being spoken. And as they entered the four-hundred-year-old cathedral, it felt like they were walking into the Middle Ages.

  The church felt like a tomb, cold and dark, with its only light from candles flickering on the stone walls. Once inside, Jack’s eyes lifted from the well-worn stone slabs of the floor, traveling way, way up to the vaulted ceiling. It must have been four or five stories high. Halfway up the side walls, he could make out recessed walkways visible through stone archways.

  Wonder where those archways lead, he said to himself. Wish I could get up there to explore.

  As they moved farther inside, music erupted from out of nowhere, really amazing and really loud. Turning, Jack spotted a huge organ up high in the rear of the church. Rapid notes shot out of its giant pipes, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Maybe Bach or Beethoven. Doesn’t sound much like heaven, thought Jack. In fact, it sounds more like God is really ticked off this morning.

  As
they walked up the center aisle to find seats, the organist suddenly stopped; the only sounds were their Sunday shoes striking the stone floor.

  Jack winced. Now everyone in this whole place can hear us coming in late.

  Fortunately, most people ignored them, remaining eyes-front as a priest in long, green-and-silver robes walked toward the altar.

  Finally, halfway up the aisle, the McMasterses managed to find a place. Before entering the pew, each kid knelt on one knee, making the sign of the cross. They hadn’t been seated long when the priest began shouting something. Everyone got on their knees, so they did, too.

  Is that German or Latin? Jack wondered. Catching a few familiar words, he knew it must be Latin. Then for the Gospel reading and the sermon, the priest switched to German. He sounds as irritated as I am about being here this early. That’s not preaching, it’s yelling and screaming, Jack thought. No wonder no one’s looking at us. They’re too afraid if they look away he’ll storm off the platform to smack the snot out of them.

  Even with eyes-front, Jack took it all in. It was mysterious, reverent, ancient. He liked it. Especially when the priest, surrounded by his altar boys, started swinging an ornate, golden ball that had white smoke pouring out. It smelled amazing. There was something about the cold air, the smell of incense, the sound of the organ music, and the Latin chants that made this dark, candlelit tomb seem magical. It put Jack into a kind of trance.

  While he knelt, he imagined the stone cutters working year after year to build the place. He envisioned a man in medieval robes kneeling in this same spot hundreds of years before. The man would have been listening to a priest chant the same Latin phrases.

  Jack’s eyelids grew heavy and his legs tired of kneeling. Without a conscious effort he could no longer maintain the straight-up kneeling position he was supposed to. His butt leaned back against the bench. His body slouched. Jack nodded off.

  Queenie jabbed an elbow into his ribs.

  His eyes sprang open. When he turned to scowl at her, she nodded toward their father.

  The colonel was giving Jack the “kill look.”