BRAT and the Kids of Warriors

by Michael Joseph Lyons

  15

  Grafenwöhr

  Three nights later, in the middle of the night, Jack’s father vanished. So did most of the other fathers. Jack didn’t find out about it until breakfast the next morning when he asked, “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s on maneuvers,” his mom said airily. “All the tanks rolled out of here at zero four hundred this morning.”

  “Four o’clock in the morning?” Queenie said, concerned. “They must have been up most of the night. Is something bad happening?”

  “Your father got a phone call about one o’clock this morning. The whole base went on Full Alert. He just grabbed his gear and left.”

  “When will dad get home?” Rabbit asked in the middle of a big yawn. She was still half asleep and not really paying much attention.

  Their mother shrugged. “I don’t know. It could be days or weeks.”

  “Mom, you’re not telling us. Has something bad happened? I mean, Dad’s not going back to war, is he?”

  Queenie—always with the questions, thought Jack, but he wanted to know, too.

  “Now don’t be worrying about all that, children. Your dad will be just fine. He’ll get home when he gets home. Eat up, and get ready for school. The bus will be here soon.”

  Jack knew his mom was done talking, and that she probably didn’t know that much herself. All the same, he studied her face for signs of tension. It was a complete mask. Jack wasn’t really all that worried. He and Queenie had been through this plenty of times. As for Rabbit, she was so young she didn’t know to care.

  Then Jack started thinking, Most of the other times, we were stationed in the States, not overseas. In the States, it was always just training. They’d go off for a few days with all their tanks and equipment to practice war exercises. Even though Dad took those mock battles very seriously, there was no danger. It was no big deal. But would they do mock battles in Germany? Was this the real thing?

  When Jack got to the bus stop, all the talk was about the tanks rolling in the middle of the night. Jack and Charlie sat together, trying to hear what the older kids were saying.

  “Hey, if the entire 4th Armored Division rolled outta here in the middle of the night—that’s some serious Scheiße,” said a good-looking kid with a dark crewcut. “It could be the Nazis are coming back to throw us out. I figure they’re trying to take over the world again. We probably gotta go shut ’em down.”

  “You really think the Nazis might be coming back?” asked a girl sitting across the aisle. She seemed more interested in him than in what was going on.

  “Obviously,” he said, ignoring her and speaking to anyone else willing to listen. “They tried in World War I, and they tried again in World War II. What makes you think they’ll quit now?” He turned to the girl. “Why do you think we’re in Germany? We’re here to stop the Nazis from coming back to power.”

  “Shut up, big mouth,” hissed another a kid sitting in front of him. “Next, you’ll be broadcasting our plans to the entire bus.”

  “I’m not talking about finding the Nazi’s stuff,” the kid hissed back. “I’m talking about finding Nazis.”

  “Shut your face, dink, or you’re out.”

  Charlie and Jack looked at each other, not sure what to make of all that. But they certainly knew better than to let the older boys know they’d overheard. Turning away, they focused on two high-school kids sitting behind them.

  “Yeah, and I’ll tell you something else. My ol’ man’s the S-3. He runs Plans . . . so one of his jobs is to draw up a lot of plans for what 4th Armored should do if war comes. Anyway, I remember one time last summer after they’d been out on maneuvers. I asked if 4th Armored ever went on maneuvers in the winter. He said, ‘Not if we can help it.’ He said that it’s a real pain to move out in the snow. So, I ask you this: Why did they mobilize last night?”

  In the seat across from them were two high-school kids. So far they hadn’t said anything. But one leaned over to his friend and in a low voice said, “And they carried live rounds.”

  “How do you know that?” asked his friend.

  “You know what my dad does.”

  “Head armorer.”

  “Last night I heard him barking orders into the phone to get more staff on the shift. He said they needed to equip every tank with live, armor-piercing rounds as well as simulation rounds.”

  “Why the extra staff?”

  “The short notice, I guess. The shells are about a hundred pounds each so it’s not a one-man job. It took some hustling, but they rolled out on time, armed to the teeth.”

  “Know where they were headed?” asked a kid behind him.

  “Dunno, but they normally go to Grafenwöhr.”

  “Yeah, up in tank land,” said another kid. “During World War II, Graf’s the place where Rommel trained his Panzerkorps before going up against General Patton in North Africa.”

  “Rommel was Hitler’s best tank commander,” a kid piped up. “Graf’s up there on the East German border right near Czechoslovakia. Land of the Commies.”

  “Oh, yeah! One-on-one with the Commies!” shouted someone in the back of the bus.

  Charlie raised an eyebrow in Jack’s direction.

  Jack leaned over to Charlie. “You know who the Commies are?”

  “Not really,” he whispered back. “All I hear is they’re the bad guys.”

  When they got off the bus, Charlie said, “I don’t get half that stuff about the Nazis coming back or about the Commies. You?”

  “Me, neither,” said Jack. “But it seems like something serious might be going down.”

  They were both lost in their own thoughts as they wandered into class.

  Mrs. Campbell began the day by writing a math problem on the blackboard. She called on child after child to try solving it. Kerrigan was the third one to get twisted up and fail. He didn’t seem the least concerned.

  Then she called on Jack.

  Jack tried to ignore Kerrigan’s dagger eyes on him. He knew Kerrigan wanted him to fail. But, unlike reading, math came naturally to Jack. He’d seen the solution while the second kid tried to do it, so he calmly solved the problem and sat back down. On the way back to his seat, Mrs. Campbell gave him a knowing nod. She knows I can do math.

  Unfortunately, the next thing she announced was reading discussion groups. Jack hated reading, but he hated reading discussion groups even more. He’d asked Jayla for the lowdown on how they worked in their class. He’d heard there were about six kids in each group, and Mrs. Campbell worked with one group at a time. She’d go from group to group, checking their comprehension by having each kid read part of the passage out loud. No group was called the best or the worst; they were named for colors. But everyone had ears so they knew the red group was best and the purple group was worse. Jack got started off in that group.

  The red group sat by the window. Both Sam and Jayla were in that one. Jack’s heart sank when he saw Kerrigan strutting over. Kerrigan shot him a look that said, “Oh yeah, baby. You may be a math whiz, but watch this.” When he finally got called on, Kerrigan sounded like a great actor reading his lines. He never messed up.

  Mrs. Campbell came to the purple group next, and to Jack’s horror, she asked him to read first. At that moment, he’d have chosen to fight Ryan Kerrigan over reading where he could hear.

  My brain’s gonna scramble. All the words will jump around on the page and nothing I do will keep them still. How am I supposed to read with the letters dancing?

  Jack had tried to explain to his friends back in Texas about his reading problem. He’d even brought it up with a teacher once. But none of them got it. In fact, they had looked at him like he’d lost his marbles. “Printed words are stamped on the page. They don’t move around, Jack.” That was all anyone ever told him. So he quit talking about it. However, the more pressure he was under (includi
ng finding out he was in the worst reading discussion group), the more the words danced. For Jack, reading in front of other kids was like shouting, “Look everyone! Look how stupid I am!”

  His brain was in turmoil. My new friends think I’m halfway smart. This will kill that idea faster than a ray gun.

  The door cracked open. Everyone watched a student aide cross the room to hand Mrs. Campbell a folded note. She carefully read it, and then nodded to Jack. “Mr. Reynolds wants to see you.”

  Jack was stunned, completely forgetting he’d tried to see Mr. Reynolds that morning and the secretary had said she’d let the principal know.

  Jack followed the aide gratefully. Wow, Mr. Reynolds just saved me from reading discussion group!

  “Glad you decided to come and see me, Jack,” Reynolds said, lifting his head out of his paperwork. “Can I assume this is about your shutting down?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said, suddenly very unsure of himself.

  They sat at a small table.

  “As I told you, I used to have a problem with shutting down, too.” Reynolds’s tone was confidential. “It was during the Korean War. No one really wanted to hear about it or help me. That is, until one day when I happened to meet a Buddhist monk. You see, Jack, that old monk somehow realized what was happening to me. You know, the shutting down thing.”

  How did Mr. Reynolds do that? Just a few, short words, just mentioning an old Buddhist monk, and all Jack’s defenses dropped. Now he wanted to be in this room.

  “That old monk called it ‘mindfulness’ or ‘remaining in the present.’ He told me people shut down for many different reasons. Certainly, it can happen when you’re confronted with violence or danger . . . such as when Ryan Kerrigan attacked you. The monk believed he could help me redirect my brain away from its normal reaction to stressful situations—away from thoughts like, Why me? What did I do to deserve this? I just want to go to sleep. He said I could even learn to appreciate the moment. This may sound confusing, Jack, but he showed me how to stay awake and remain in the moment, instead of shutting down. That way I could deal with what was happening around me. You get what I’m saying?’

  “Yeah, I guess I get it. But how do you do it?”

  “Do you know in advance when you’re about to shut down?”

  “I try to fight it, but it doesn’t help.”

  “The monk had me focus on my senses. Things like touch, sound, scent, and sight. Let’s run through them.”

  Jack nodded.

  “Great. We’ll start with touch. You concentrate on the things that you can feel physically at the moment you start to shut down. What does the ground feel like beneath your feet? Can you feel a breeze against your face? Are your clothes rough or smooth? Be aware of what everything feels like. It works even better if you do it with your eyes closed. Of course, that’s not practical if you’re standing before Ryan, but if you’re shutting down someplace where you’re not directly confronted, try it with your eyes closed.”

  Like in church, Jack thought.

  “Now take scent. Can you smell anything right as you’re shutting down? Does the gym smell sweaty? Does Ryan have bad breath when he’s up in your face?”

  That made Jack laugh.

  “Then there’s hearing. When you’re about to shut down, try to listen, really listen, to the things around you. Can you hear a ball being bounced? birds singing? a car going by? Maybe Ryan’s new Converse All Stars are squeaking as he bounces on his feet getting ready to punch you. This one also works better if your eyes are closed, and sometimes that’s possible.”

  Jack nodded, but there was hesitation in the nod.

  Mr. Reynolds didn’t let it stop him. “Now think of sight. Let your eyes rest on an item near you and really look at it. Does the ball being bounced have dirt on it? Is there something written on the ball?”

  “You sure?” Jack challenged, unable to control himself. “I mean, won’t this slow my reaction time even more? It just sounds a little crazy.”

  “I know it does, Jack. But it’s designed to help you focus, to stay in the present, to remain fully conscious of what is going on around you. If you practice, you just might find it helps. It did for me.”

  “Okay, but . . . isn’t there anything else I can do when Kerrigan comes at me?”

  Mr. Reynolds smiled. “This one will sound even crazier. You could try having an imaginary friend with you.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Actually, I’m not. Think about it more like having an imaginary protector. Say, Superman, or Batman, or your guardian angel. However, if you choose the angel, I’d suggest choosing one of those warrior angels with a big sword and shield. The idea is to have someone tough with you.”

  Jack tried not to roll his eyes. “And this imaginary protector is gonna punch Ryan Kerrigan’s lights out for me?”

  “No, of course not. They don’t fight your battles for you, but somehow just having them there can make you be tougher.”

  Jack liked this idea a little better.

  “Another thing you might want to do: Put a rubber band around your wrist. Then when you’re in trouble or shutting down, give your wrist a good snap with the rubber band.”

  “But why?”

  “When you give yourself a twang with the rubber band, it’ll signal you to start exercising your senses and for your imaginary protector to show up. Jack, nobody’s going to wonder why you wear a rubber band on your wrist, and they won’t have any clue that you’re signaling yourself to fight the shutdown. And it just might help.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Jack said reluctantly. He’d been hoping for something else.

  “I know it sounds a bit crazy, but give it a go, Jack. It helped me.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” He got to his feet to leave.

  “One last thing, Jack. This one’s not so much about shutting down, but it might help with Ryan. Try and look as if you’re not easy to bully. Give him a look that says, ‘Don’t you dare mess with me.’ Stand tall and look tough, even if you don’t feel tough. Got it, Jack? Now, show me your tough look.”

  Jack stood a little straighter and locked eyes with Mr. Reynolds. He tried to put on his dad’s “kill look.”

  Reynolds chuckled. “Okay, Jack, maybe you’d better practice your tough-guy look in the mirror a few times before you try it out on Ryan.”

  That made Jack smile, even if it embarrassed him. Somehow it broke the tension that had built up in the room.

  Mr. Reynolds pointed an index finger at Jack and cocked his thumb back, as if he were pointing a gun at him. Then he loaded a wide, blue rubber band into the imaginary gun and shot it at Jack. “Try this one on for size. Maybe it’ll do the trick.”

  The rubber band hit Jack in the chest and bounced off. Jack picked it up and put it on his wrist. As he turned to go, he gave it a snap. “Thank you, Mr. Reynolds.”

  The principal said, “I shared all this because I thought you could understand, and I think you do. But remember, Jack, it only works if you practice before you need it.”

  “What’d Reynolds want?” Charlie asked, as they headed for recess.

  “Not much. He was just goin’ over the Kerrigan fight again. He said Ryan probably won’t back off, and I better learn how to look tough.”

  “Look tough? I think you’re gonna need a little more than that.”

  “So do I,” Jack said ruefully.

  “Did he say anything about the base going on full alert last night?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Shoot. I thought he might have said something.”

  The dodgeball game wasn’t getting many takers. The older kids were off, talking among themselves, mostly about the tanks rolling. Jack and Charlie wandered toward them.

  “I’m not really surprised they took live rounds,” Charlie mused. “I mean, think about it. Simu
lation rounds are for practice battles. Nothing actually blows up. “

  “So why would they carry live rounds unless it’s a real battle?”

  “For range practice—shooting practice for the tanks. You need range practice to improve accuracy. Mock battles help with maneuvering. For the battles, they divide into two teams. My dad calls it force on force, or BLUEFOR and OPFOR.”

  “What?”

  “BLUEFOR means Blue Forces, or the friendly forces. OPFOR means Opposition Forces, or the enemy forces. Good guys and bad guys. Get it?”

  “Okay,” Jack said. He had stopped trying to hear the older kids. Charlie had his full attention. Jack’s dad talked to him about global history, but nothing about this stuff.

  “Anyway, that’s when they use the simulation rounds. It’s like fighting a real battle, but nothing really gets blown up. The second thing they go for are range scores. That’s shooting practice. They use live ammunition and actually blow stuff up. Of course, they aren’t shooting at each other. That’d be crazy.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said, grinning.

  “Instead, they shoot at old, broken-down tanks or trucks. Stuff the Army doesn’t care about anymore. It’s really sweet ’cause if they get a direct hit, it blows an actual hole in it. On some tank ranges, they even build reinforced concrete bunkers to shoot at, like the Nazi pillbox in our woods.”

  Charlie was in his element. His eyes sparkled as he got his friend up to speed on how their dads prepared for war. “When the tankers are out there during shooting practice, there are guys with binoculars watching every shot. They mark down if you get a hit or a miss. That’s why they call it range scores. Each tank crew gets a score on how well they shoot. I mean, think about it. You can’t really tell if a tank crew is good at hitting something unless they use live ammunition.”

  “So you’re saying they might have headed out last night with live ammo not to stop something bad, but for target practice?”

  “Bingo. You just broke the code.”

  “So this could be fun and games, not a major battle.”