by Mark Bouman
“Here it is,” Dad said, and I could hear his finger tapping on the table. “Our proving ground. Eleven acres just made for this kind of thing.”
“Oh hell yes,” said one voice.
Another asked, “So, how do you figure it?”
Dad’s answer and the subsequent discussion lasted the better part of an hour and included a lot of things I didn’t fully understand. They talked about trenching techniques, reinforcements, firepower, booby traps, and command and control. They grunted agreement, asked questions, slapped backs, and finally—my legs were cramped after my long crouch—stood up, their wooden chairs again scraping the linoleum.
“Saturday, then, oh-eight-hundred,” Dad said by way of dismissal. “Don’t be late.”
Everyone filed back to the door, with me trailing behind, and one by one the men left.
“What are you planning now?” Mom snapped as soon as the door closed.
“We’re moving our war games over here,” Dad said dismissively.
“Don’t you think you should have asked me first? And what will the neighbors think—you should ask them, too!”
“It’ll be at night, and the Dietzes sure won’t care.”
“Then what about all the shooting?” Mom continued, unwilling to give up the issue. “We already had someone call the sheriff on us because of bullets flying over their house.”
“That was from the antitank gun—and we’re not using that gun for the war games.” Dad was getting annoyed, and he let it show. His voice took on the lecturing tone he usually saved for the idiots and numskulls of the world. “Besides, we’ll be shooting blanks.”
Mom shook her head and left the room. Dad flopped down on the couch and began picking his nails with a knife.
Early Saturday morning, Jerry and I woke to the noise of idling engines and slamming car doors, followed by the rough, shouting voices of men. Since none of the shouting seemed directed at us, we pulled our blankets over our heads and went back to sleep.
Several hours later, I walked into the kitchen to find breakfast. Mom stood at the table, and what looked like several loaves of bread were spread across it, along with a jar of mayonnaise, two packages of Velveeta cheese, and a stack of bologna. I blinked in surprise at the assembly line as Mom ignored me and worked. It was more food than we usually had in our house, and it was all spread out at once. Whenever she finished with two of the sandwiches—dip, spread, slap, slap, stack—she’d take them in one hand and set them inside a large paper bag. She touched the ingredients with quick, almost disdainful fingers, like the task was hurting her.
When she’d filled one paper bag and started on a second, there came a knock at the door. Leaving the current sandwich open and without cheese, Mom rolled the top of the paper bag closed and carried it to the door, which she opened. One of the strange men was standing there, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. He stared at the ground and started to say something, but before he could, Mom shoved the bag of sandwiches at his chest. He caught it, cleared his throat, and then left. As Mom turned back to the kitchen, she kicked the door closed with her heel.
“Mom, who was that?”
“One of the men helping your dad.”
“Helping Dad with war games?”
“It’s just something your father is doing.”
“Mom?”
“What, Mark?”
“Can I have breakfast now?”
Mom handed me one of the sandwiches and turned back to the assembly line. Taking a bite, I jogged out the door to look for the man.
I caught up with him near the gun range. He had just tossed the paper bag full of sandwiches down into some sort of hole in the ground—and before I could figure out what that meant, a small geyser of sand briefly spouted up from what I assumed was the same hole. What on earth was happening? A minute later I stood with my hands on my knees, panting—eating a sandwich while running really took the wind out of me—and the picture of what Dad was doing came into focus.
In the sand in front of me was a hole the size of a house. And in the house-sized hole were a dozen men in a flurry of activity. Shovels, sweat stains, wood being braced against the walls, bright sand flying every which way—it was like the earth had erupted. The men looked like they were working under strict orders, and even when the bag of sandwiches arrived, no one took a break. Unable to comprehend what exactly I was seeing, I pulled my eyes away from the project and looked for Dad. I found him, dressed in blue work pants and a filthy T-shirt, standing at one edge of the pit, his arms crossed.
“Dad, Dad,” I called, running to his side, “what in the world is everyone doing?”
Silence. I didn’t exist—not when he had an army to command.
After a few minutes of listening to Dad bark orders to the men, I wandered around to the other side of the pit. One of the men had just scrambled out of it, and I recognized him as Dad’s friend Dale. Dad called him the “ammo man” sometimes, and they liked to go to swap meets together. I asked him what was happening. He glanced at my father, who wasn’t looking, and said, “Underground command center for next week.”
That explained everything, and also nothing.
From down in the hole, a shout that was nearly a scream jolted me. One of the men was rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands pressed to the side of his head. At his feet was a bucket full of dirt that must have fallen back onto him. Bright blood was leaking down his face and across his bare chest. I couldn’t take my eyes off the contrast of red on white, even as other hands lowered the man bodily to the ground and began to fashion a sling out of shirts and rope. Once the man was rolled onto the sling and lifted back to ground level, my father barked orders.
“You, you, and you—help him outta here! The rest of you, take a break. Food’s here.”
Two of the men who had helped with the sling jumped back into the pit, while one stayed to help the wounded man back toward the house. I followed.
When they knocked on the door, Mom answered with another paper bag in her arms, presumably full of bologna sandwiches. When she saw the wounded man, however, she set the bag on the sand outside the door and nodded toward her car, then disappeared back inside. The men waited in the backseat. Mom reappeared carrying her purse and climbed into the driver’s seat, firing up the engine without even glancing at me. The car bounced down the driveway, no doubt on the way to Doc Kramer’s.
Alone again, I wandered back toward the wooded hills, hoping to discover more about the war games.
The next Saturday evening, men seemed to materialize out of nowhere, like clouds. Cars parked helter-skelter across the driveway and the surrounding sand, wherever there was an empty piece of ground, and when the men climbed out, they drifted together toward a point behind the shed. The uniforms and black berets were familiar by now, and all were carrying guns, along with pistols strapped to their hips and homemade hand grenades slung from harnesses worn across their chests.
At the center of the storm of activity stood Dad. An air of excitement and anticipation crackled around him. He wore his scuffed work boots and plain camouflage, so faded and stained it looked as if it had come from the Salvation Army. His trusty 8mm Mauser, the standard rifle of the German army in World War II, rested in the crook of his arm, and a .45 pistol was strapped to his side with a simple holster. He stood out among the younger men, all of whom were dressed in expensive and painstakingly customized uniforms, complete with insignia and patches and loops for extra gear. Most of them had cropped their hair in military fashion, while Dad was almost bald on top. But there was no mistaking who was in charge.
Jerry and I watched from the sidelines, awestruck, as the impressive array of hardware and men marched past. We sidled closer and closer to Dad, but no matter how close we stood, he chose not to acknowledge our presence. No one else did either. We were two skinny boys drowning in an ocean of men, guns, and egos. Each new arrival strutted, displaying his weapons, looking for approval from those already gathered.
; The sun set behind the ridge on the other side of the road, and the oaks faded from dark green to gray to black. All at once, a serious mood descended on the group. The men sorted themselves into two teams—red and blue—and passed around armbands. Dad, standing at the front of the blue team, seemed to notice us for the first time.
“You boys stay out of the way.”
With that we were dismissed. It was time for the men to get on with their serious business.
“Come on, Mark,” Jerry said. “Dad doesn’t want us out here. Let’s get back.”
But I had no intention of going inside. Over the previous few days, we had found bunkers, trenches, and traps scattered everywhere, and now they were actually going to be used for battle. I’d discovered one that had been almost completely hidden, carved into the side of a hill.
“Check this out!” I’d hollered to Jerry. “This thing is huge!” The opening was so small, we’d been forced to crawl through it, but the main room of the bunker opened up so we could stand upright.
“And check this out,” Jerry had said, extending his arms as if holding a rifle. “You can shoot through this opening without being seen!”
The inside walls had even been lined with sections cut from felled trees to guard against collapse. There was no going back to green plastic army men and sand castles. This was the big time, and it was all ours. Or at least it would be when Dad and his buddies weren’t using it. The bunker was one of half a dozen the men had carved out. Our minds boggled at the possibilities. And the night of the battle was when I’d first see all of these preparations actually used.
As if sensing my thoughts, Mom called from the house. “Mar-ark! Mar-ark!” Her voice stretched like taffy, calling me back for dinner and bed. She had warned me to stay inside during the war games, but that wasn’t something I was prepared to do. I needed to see what happened that night—to see what all the fuss was about.
“Let’s go watch TV,” Jerry said.
I shook my head. “You go back. I’ve gotta see this, and see it up close.”
The gunfire began at dark. The first shot startled me—even though I knew they were firing specially made blanks—and I immediately cursed myself for being a coward. As the pace of firing picked up—three shots here, five shots there—I crept toward the bunker I’d seen the men working on, hoping it would be part of the main battle. In the black of night, everything looked different to me. I’d spent countless hours outside around the house, of course, but never had I tried to remain unseen and safe in quite the same way. Familiar shapes felt otherworldly, changed somehow, even though my mind still recognized them. Just as I neared my target, the noise of what seemed like a hundred shots exploded up ahead. Pop! Poppoppop! Poppoppop! I could see orange flames leaping from the ends of rifle barrels, seemingly on every side of me.
Suddenly terrified of being caught in a battle—even a battle I knew was a game—I dropped to the ground and rolled onto my back. In panic I looked for something familiar. And there it was: a familiar shape outlined against the sky, black on nearly black. It was one of the few tall oaks that dotted the area, and I’d climbed into its highest branches many times. Trying to stay low to the ground, leaning forward but keeping my head up like Dad had showed us, I raced across the empty sand toward the tree. As soon as I reached it, I stood with my back against its rough bark, safe in the knowledge that I blended perfectly into its dark silhouette. I tried to control my breathing, but my heart was pounding hard enough that I expected a sniper to hear it and pick me off at any second.
As soon as the next round of gunfire opened up, I began to climb. Branch by branch, trying to time my ascent with the bursts of noise, I made my way to a familiar perch, nearly thirty feet from the ground.
It was only then, as my breathing slowed, that I began to take in the scene below me. Lit by a fingernail moon and a thousand bright stars, all reflecting off the white sand, the battlefield lay before me like a school diorama. Dark shapes darted back and forth across it, the flashes of muzzle fire showing the outlines of heads and shoulders for fractions of a second. The shots came from one direction, then shifted the opposite way, back and forth and then back and forth again. The gunfire was punctuated by shouts, by the occasional scream, and twice by what sounded like real explosions. It was a marvel of terror, spread below my dangling legs.
Eventually—minutes? hours?—the fighting moved past my perch. Rapid staccato slowed to an occasional pop, and after a time I realized the battle was finished. Dazed and exhilarated, I climbed down the oak and walked toward the house. Halfway home, I heard laughter from the direction of Dad’s gun shed, and I followed my ears. Light leaked through the cracks and out onto the sand, along with the sound of men being men. Without thinking, I walked straight to the door and pulled it open.
In the sudden shine I saw my father, standing among his troops, except that he was not my father. His face was striped, green and brown, and from the jungle backdrop of his skin, his eyes and teeth gleamed like white fire.
“Come in, Mark!” he said, motioning.
It seemed the whole room stopped to look at me. Needing to break the silence before it overwhelmed me, I blurted out, “Is it over? Who won?”
“Your dad got his ass shot off!” one of them yelled, and the whole room erupted in laughter.
“Well, I got a few of them first,” he countered. “And I—”
Suddenly the sound of gunfire filled the room. I screamed in pain and leaped into the air. Beneath me loomed the dark shape of a gun barrel, firing, firing, sending gouts of orange flame into my shoes and pants as I landed. The shooting stopped as I fell to the floor—just as one of the men yanked open the shed door to reveal the shooter, who had shoved his weapon beneath the door and unloaded a full clip of blanks.
I clutched my legs. The blasts had burned holes in my pants below my knees and burned my skin besides. I was the only one in the room without a weapon, and I’d just been shot, even if only by blanks.
Raucous laughter drowned out my cries of pain. The shooter stood to backslaps and congratulations for his bravery. I tried to laugh along but gave up when it became clear I’d been forgotten. I was, once again, a nonperson—a boy whimpering unheard at the feet of men.
In a triumphal crown to the war games, Dad raised his pistol over his head, and any thoughts I might have had were blown away by the tumult of shouts and cheers that poured from the throats of his men.
7
MOM REFUSED TO SURRENDER. She was saddled with a husband who spent most of his time shooting guns and reading up on the Third Reich. She owned a house that was barely a house and each day seemed one step closer to being reclaimed by the shifting sands that surrounded it. Her children were a wild, ragtag bunch. But she hadn’t survived as long as she had by giving up when things got tough. Middle-class respectability—okay, lower middle-class—remained within her reach. That was one of the reasons she married Dad in the first place, at an age when she should have been in high school, rather than trying to raise us on her own.
Mom was waging guerrilla warfare against our family becoming white trash, and one of her preferred tactics was to make sure her kids went to church. One Sunday each month—two, if she was lucky—Mom would marshal us kids out of bed and spiff us up, checking our hair, teeth, faces, and fingernails.
“We’re going to church,” she’d bark like a drill sergeant. “Get up!”
Jerry and I slept in every chance we got. “Mom, do we have to? I hate going to church.”
“Get up and into your Sunday clothes, now!”
“But Mom, my pants don’t even fit!” Jerry tried.
“Wear them anyway,” Mom retorted, bustling down the hall to check on Sheri. We moaned and dragged ourselves out of bed.
“I hate church,” I groused to Jerry. “We don’t know anybody, and we have to wear weird clothes.”
“At least your weird clothes fit—my pants are up to my ankles.”
“At least I don’t have big dorky glasses,
” I shot back. Jerry shrugged. He knew I was mad at my dress clothes, not him.
Sheri met us in the kitchen, and we started eating our cereal. She always wore a black dress and black shoes to church, and not only did her outfit seem far more comfortable than our too-tight wool pants, stiff leather shoes, and button-up shirts, but she actually enjoyed dressing up. It was incomprehensible.
Mom came into the kitchen to check up on us while we ate.
“Change your shirt—that one’s dirty,” she snapped at me.
“Dirty?” I asked innocently, looking down at my shirt.
“You haven’t washed it since the last time you wore it, Mark. Look at how dirty the collar is!”
That wasn’t a news flash. Everything I owned was dirty. Heck, everything I owned looked dirty even directly after being washed—that’s what happened when you bought the cheapest possible clothes and washed them in the worst possible water. And when you lived in the middle of acres of dirt.
I didn’t say any of that to Mom, of course, but left my cereal to sog and slithered off to change my shirt. When I returned, Mom had turned her attention to Dad, who had wandered past on his way to the living room.
“Aren’t you ready yet?”
“I’m not going,” he stated proudly.
“What? Why not?”
“All those people want is your money.”
“We need to go as a family!” Her voice had taken on a pleading tone. “It’s important.”
“They’re just a bunch of hypocrites,” Dad said. “They dress up and act holier-than-thou, then live like hell the rest of the week. Crooks and criminals, that’s what they are.”
Mom crossed her arms. “Don’t you think it’s important for our kids that we go as a family?”
