I was a solider. Well mostly.
Sometimes I was a pirate or a lone cowboy sheriff defending my small
town from a gang of bandits. Typically I
got the girl, though often I died valiantly (This was my favorite because I
could orchestrate my own funeral. Such
lovely words were spoken).
From
Caribbean seas and dusty Wild West cattle towns to the shores of Normandy and
VC packed Asian jungles, my backyard and childhood imagination took me across the
panorama of space and time. With a
simple flexing of will the tri-level landscape of a half-acre transformed into
the three decks of a nineteenth century man-o-war battleship. And, being Commanding General Admiral
Over-All-Fleets-Everywhere, it was hard work.
Capitan Carver
Steck, my sea-dog persona, ran from the bridge deck on the top tier of the yard
- where I shouted orders, manned a radio that hadn’t been invented yet, and
navigated the helm - to the gun decks - where I loaded, aimed, and fired all
one hundred cannon by myself - before rushing to the bottom level of the yard to plug holes in my ship. In times of
clear sailing this bottom deck became the party deck. It housed the galley with its long wooden
tables and free flowing spirits. There,
I, the captain, mingled riotously with the crew getting sloshed on 7-up and
Root Beer while trading exaggerated stories of holding hands with the Bavarian
barmaid our ship held on retainer.
One time
this lower level was the sight of my heroic death; while all my men escaped, I
single-handedly held back the in-flowing tides with nothing more than a mop and
my grit. Again, the services were lovely
and came complete with a 25 gun salute (I figured the additional guns meant I was
extra special), as well as floating wreathes and flowers thrown from the ship
and, of course, multiple heartbroken women. It was a grandiose farewell at sea,
although drowning really freaked me out so after that all of my naval deaths
derived from hand fighting with the enemy or an exploding shell. Why those ends
would scare me less I have no idea.
The same
back yard that one day was a naval warship was the next day a cratered World
War II beachhead. The galley deck became
a perfect seawall as it was lined with a retaining wall that supported the
second tier of the yard. This seawall provided
saving shelter from incoming rifle and machine gun rounds originating from
concrete bunkers that had materialized on the former bridge deck. Usually in
these instances of GI combat I was a lowly but respected squad leader - Sargent Carver Steel. I was really only responsible for my elite
team of about six, but the higher ups knew well enough to follow my lead on any
orders I issued.
On one
occasion my squad and I volunteered to undertake a top secret mission behind
enemy lines. A beautiful mademoiselle of the
French resistance needed protection from an impending assault on her farm
house, and, while I didn’t want to get too far ahead of myself, I was pretty
sure that she would want to marry me. This would mean that I would have to pull
out my patented “sorry doll, some men are meant for loving and some for
fighting, I’m the second” speech, which I loved to give. So, naturally, I was
in no matter what the dangers.
But
parachuting into occupied France for me and my team meant jumping off the
rickety trampoline in the backyard, and that was a concrete death
sentence. I mean that literally; the
trampoline was on a slab of concrete on the middle tier of the backyard and I
thought that by volunteering for this dangerous mission I had actually put my
life in very real danger. With the fear
of death like a barbwire knot in my gut I climbed up and into the C-47
trampoline for the amazingly short flight across the channel.
As I sat building my courage the red light next
to the open door in the fuselage came on, signaling that our drop zone was
near. I could see past the far edge of
the trampoline to the hill that separated the middle tier from the top level of
the yard. The landing zone was a barren patch of dead grass and dirt that
blighted the otherwise green hill with an ominous stain. It sat close enough to
the trampoline to feasibly lite upon with a solid jump, but if I shorted it I
was sure to get maimed in the springs of the trampoline or fall four feet to my
death.
I stood up
with the rest of my team and closed my eyes. “Courage,” I thought, “You’re leading
these men, now lead them.”
My realism immediately
argued back, “Yeah, kind of, only you’re not. ‘These men’ are fake, and the
bones you are about to shatter across the metal frame of the trampoline or on
the concrete slab below you are painfully real.”
Sargent Carver
Steel, decorated war hero, battered veteran, and my GI persona snapped a quick counter,
“Suck it up, Martha! Death comes to us all and it might as well be here and
now.”
Carver
Stellmon, the six year-old fifty pounder playing in his backyard shrugged his
shoulders, “A bit extreme, Steel, but whatever.”
Breathing
deeply a few times I reopened my eyes, Sargent Steel taking over as stiff
resolved poured from my gaze and fixed upon the dirt landing zone. I was ready.
The flashing
red light flicked off and the green light lit up the dark plane. Go time.
I turned to my team and delivered a brief but customary pep talk. “Men,”
I said with forged confidence, “I’ll be darned if you aint the best I’ve ever
served with. Prove me right today.” (Even under the guise of Sargent Steel I
knew full well that my mother would wash my mouth out with soap if she ever
heard me using any foul language, so all of my military talk was kept G rated.
It typically worked out well though; the Gestapo always seemed extra perturbed
when P.O.W. Sargent Steel would tell them to go to H-E-double-hockey-sticks
during interrogation).
Exiting the
aircraft would be the most difficult part. In order to make the landing zone I would need
to perform the very dangerous double-jump procedure. I initiated the maneuver
with one high bounce from the far end of the trampoline then jumped forward
towards the opposite side. Landing with
only inches to spare before the springs, I transitioned the energy from the
first jump into another leap forward and shot off the trampoline spread eagle.
G-forces bullishly controlled me and caused my arms, legs, and head to be
stretched out flapping behind the rest of my body as I went flying chest-first
through the sky.
Air rushed
past me and caused my eyes to dissolve into a watery mess. It grabbed hold of
my cheeks; flipping and flogging them till strands of drool were whipping at my
ears. My trajectory was much flatter than I had anticipated and my
trampoline-enhanced departure sent me hurling towards the side hill with
frightening speed. I tried to pull my arms from behind my back to brace against
the impending impact, but it was too late. My face, chest, knees and feet all
smashed into the side hill with such forceful unison that my complete
body-plant into the earth could have looked like a planned and practiced move.
Like butter on toast I laid spread across the small knoll in a thin, inanimate
mass. Then, as if my mind finally caught up with my body on acknowledging the
terror of the situation, a quick, dull shriek sounded from my mouth
and sent puffs of dirt swirling from beneath my buried face.
Troopers
floated down in silence around me and started to ready themselves for battle. But every inch of my body was in pain. Sargent Steel, I then decided, had been captured
immediately upon landing; his subsequent heroic leadership of a camp revolt and mass escape to be played out later. So Carver Stellmon gladly took over. “Mission
canceled,” I groaned from my prone position, “Mission canceled, everybody. Go home. Return to base, or whatever. We’re
done.” And with that I slowly peeled myself from the hill and gingerly moped inside.
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