Backyard Adventures: Capitan Steck and Sargent Steel

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.