Excerpt from “Only Time Would Tell” by James Etheridge.
Available at https://www.amazon.com/dp/1086015924
It was a Wednesday afternoon in the middle of February. Mrs. Peebles was teaching our class how to read the weather charts in the newspaper. She was young, eccentric and taught geography by having us dance to polka music and Swedish drinking songs. “Now, you will all notice that there is a warm front coming up out of the Gulf of Mexico,” she said, pointing at the newspaper she had taped to the chalkboard. She walked over to the big map of the United States. “That means it is going to come toward us on this pattern,” she said, making a sweeping motion with her arm across the Gulf, Mississippi, Alabama and stopping with her hand pointing at Atlanta. “Does anyone know what that means?” The Girl raised her hand and said, “It’s going to be warm this weekend. Probably in the mid to upper seventies.” That’s absolutely right!” exclaimed Mrs. Peebles. “It’s what’s commonly referred to as ‘false spring’. A lot of plants get confused due to the warm weather and start blooming. Then a cold snap hits and kills the blooms. So, hopefully none of your mothers’ daffodils or rose bushes will sprout buds.” I looked across the row of desks at my buddy Mitch. He was grinning from ear to ear. I held a thumbs-up signal against my chest. He nodded and held up all ten fingers. Backyard Army was on. Maneuvers would begin Saturday morning at ten o’clock sharp.
Mitch lived directly behind me, across the creek and up the hill. Their army consisted of him, Beach, Strongarm, Drummer and Marty and Charlie, who were twin brothers. Their fort was at the top of the hill behind Mitch’s house. It was built from pinestraw, baled and piled high between two pine trees. Our fort was in my next-door neighbor Joe’s back yard. It was originally a big planter his father built out of railroad ties for Joe’s mother’s blueberry bushes. The planter was built into the side of the hill and was eight feet square. The ties were stacked level. The front, which was about four feet high, had an extra tie across the top. Joe’s dad then brought in a load of dirt and leveled the ground inside the planter. Joe’s big brother Jerry had a big German Shepherd named King. Jerry had found him as a puppy in the woods behind the National Guard Armory where their dad worked in the motor pool. Their dad could build or fix anything and was always buying, restoring and selling old cars and trucks.
When Joe’s mom planted the blueberry bushes, King became enamored with the rich, fertile soil and promptly dug the plants up. She yelled at him, replanted the bushes and he dug them up again. She then poured a big box of pepper on the dirt around the bushes. King dug them up anyway, sneezed a lot and made a cool, comfortable bed in the rich, black soil. Joe’s mom was beside herself. One Saturday morning after she had re-planted the bushes again, Joe, his brother and his dad put up an electric dog fence wire around the top of the planter. King made his way to the plants that afternoon and let out a loud yell when his cold nose hit the hot wire. He ran back to his bed on the back porch and the blueberry plants were safe, at least for a week.
The bushes were beginning to look bare and scraggly from all of the digging up and re-planting, but after a week of sitting stationary they were beginning to perk up. The following Saturday Joe’s mom put fresh potting soil around the plants and the smell of the rich, fertilized dirt was more than King could take. No sooner had she finished putting down the dirt and gone back in the house than King stormed the planter. He began to dig beneath the electric wire and stuck his nose under it. The wire hit the top of his head. King yelped loudly, snatched back and the wire became caught in his collar. When he jumped back, the corner post came loose and the wire hit the ground. The charge left the wire, the big dog shook it loose, pounced on a blueberry bush and dug it up with three swipes. He began digging at the dirt furiously with a spray of black soil shooting out from between his back legs. Joe’s mom had spotted him from the kitchen window and ran out the back door screaming. By the time she reached him, King had dug himself a nice hole and was curled up in it contentedly. Joe’s mom sat down on the side of the planter and began to cry. The dog looked at her with his big brown eyes and his tail thumping against the ground. She gave up after that. The blueberry bushes died off and King dug the entire floor out of the planter. That fall the planter became our fort. It was not impregnable, but it was close. As far as back yard forts went, it was perfect.
Mitch’s fort and ours faced one another across the creek. The creek had a sharp bend in between the two yards and there was a large flat spot on either side of the creek. If one of us was able to get to the flat spot on either side, we had a clear shot at their fort. Likewise, if one of them made it to the flat spot on their side, they had a clear shot at the right side of our fort. There were plenty of big trees and small shrubs to hide behind and advance ahead. When the leaves were down in the fall and winter, it was perfect terrain for backyard combat. Our army was made up of Joe, Bubba-Bubba, Brain, Billy, Snail and me.
Sure enough, Saturday morning was bright and clear. There was still a slight chill in the air as we began gathering at the fort. I had on my Army fatigues, combat boots, ammo belt, canteen and helmet, all of which had been purchased with my grass-cutting money from the Army Surplus Store. I had my Mattel pull-action tommy gun strapped over my shoulder, my Daisy BB gun in my hand and my zoom binoculars around my neck. I was in charge of reconnaissance. I never took the Daisy into battle but left it in the fort just in case. The Mighty Mo was Bubba-Bubba’s and it stayed at the fort. It was a cannon that shot plastic shells and could easily reach their fort from the creek. They had a Johnny Reb Civil War cannon that shot round black plastic cannon balls. The rule was the cannons could not be placed before maneuvers began. They had to be pulled into position, loaded and shot during combat. Bubba-Bubba always stayed at the fort with the Mighty Mo and rarely, if ever, attempted to pull it to the creek under fire.
Joe was already in the fort when I got there. He was wearing his fatigues, boots and helmet. On the front of his helmet was a sergeant’s insignia. He also had them sewn on his sleeves. “Morning, Joe,” I said. “Where’d you get the sergeant’s patches?”
“My dad gave them to me. They were on one of his old Guard uniforms.”
Joe was a year older than Billy, Snail and me, two years older than Brain and a year younger than Bubba-Bubba. He was a crack shot and an excellent outdoorsman. He, his father and Jerry went hunting all the time. Joe got his first .22 rifle when he was eight years old and his first 20 gauge shotgun when he was ten. He had taught all of us how to shoot, except for Bubba-Bubba. You couldn’t teach Bubba-Bubba anything, because he already knew it all.
Joe was tall, already close to six feet. He was as lean as a Whippet and only brought one weapon to backyard Army, a slingshot. It was one of the aluminum types with a brace that went around your wrist. The rubber band on it was thick, round and light brown with a leather strap at the back for the ammo. His preferred ammo was sweetgum balls, which there was an endless supply of in his back yard. He was deadly accurate with the slingshot and could knock a squirrel out of a tree from a hundred feet. Joe liked to shoot kneeling next to a pile of sweetgum balls. He could fire a shot, hit his target, reload, turn to another target and fire again, all in one motion and within a matter of seconds.
Jerry was in the U.S. Army. He had been drafted in the fall, gone through basic training and came back home on leave for the holidays before shipping out overseas in January. Like Joe, Jerry was tall and lean and as good a shot as Joe, maybe even better. While he was home he showed us his Marksman’s medal he had earned in basic training. He was his squad’s leader and had been promoted to private first class. Jerry always treated Joe and the rest of us really cool. He never picked on us or pushed us around. He rode a black Honda Super Hawk and would take us for rides around the neighborhood. It was kept parked under the carport and Joe would listen to Creedence Clearwater Revival blasting out of the speakers of a portable stereo while he cleaned or worked on the Super Hawk. King would flip out when Jerry cranked the Super Hawk and started down the driveway on it. He would run along next to it, barking like crazy and trying to bite the front tire. Jerry had figured out that the best thing to do was to keep moving, but on one occasion King bit the tire and burst it. Another time he grabbed the tire and the momentum of the motorcycle flipped him on his back. He wasn’t hurt and didn’t learn his lesson. He continued to chase Jerry down the driveway and would also go crazy when their mom cranked up her Volkswagen. He would start barking and biting the two tailpipes that came out of the back of the little car.
I sat down next to Joe. We both had our backs against the front wall of the fort. “I see you’re ready for battle,” said Joe. “Did you bring any rations?”
“No, I had a bowl of Frosted Flakes before I left the house.”
“Here, have a deer sausage and biscuit. I just fried them up a few minutes ago.”
He handed me the sausage and biscuit wrapped in aluminum foil. I unwrapped it and the biscuit, light and fluffy, was steaming hot. I let it cool for a minute and bit into it. The biscuit was soft, sweet and chewy. It complimented the sharp and peppery taste of the sausage perfectly. “Oh, man,” I said with my mouth full, “thith ith good, Joe. Damn, ith good!” “Thanks, man,” he said, “Mom just made the biscuits this morning, too.” Joe’s mom made biscuits from scratch that you would swear might float right off of the plate. Every time my mother tried to make them from scratch they looked and tasted like white hockey pucks. They had about the same density too, only maybe a little harder. I finished the sausage and biscuit, put the aluminum foil in my pants pocket and took a swig of water out of my canteen. “You think Bubba-Bubba’ll try to boss us around today?” I asked Joe. “Of course he will,” said Joe, “we’re playing Army, aren’t we?” Bubba-Bubba was convinced he was the platoon leader. He hadn’t seen Joe’s sergeant insignia yet. “It gets old after a while,” I said. “I know,” replied Joe, “but it’s easier and better just to ignore him and let him think he’s in charge, even if he’s not.” I looked at my Timex watch. It was nine-thirty. “The guys ought to be getting here pretty soon,” I said.
We heard the rustling of leaves across the creek and up the hill. I put my binoculars to my eyes and slowly raised the lenses to the top of the front wall. They were all six heading down to their fort. Mitch and Beach were carrying something that appeared to be mechanical and heavy. “Yep, they’re getting into position,” I reported. “I hope the guys show up soon. They’ll start coming at us at ten o’clock sharp.” “Don’t worry about it,” said Joe. “The two of us can hold ‘em off if we have to. You know Billy’s not going to show up until Jonny Quest is at least half over.” He was right. Billy loved Jonny Quest. “They’re up to something over there,” I said with my binoculars trained on the front of their fort. “They brought something big and bulky down from Mitch’s house.”
“Can you see it?” asked Joe. I pressed the zoom bar down and looked at the front of the fort. Mitch, Beach and Strongarm were all laughing. “No, all I see is something metal toward the back of the fort.”
“I wonder if they have a new cannon?”
“I don’t know. It would have to be some kind of cannon to reach here from there.” I panned over to the right-hand side of the fort.
“The Johnny Reb is still in position by the fort. Something’s going on.”
“Morning, boys,” said a voice behind us. It was Brain and Bubba-Bubba. I looked at my Timex again. It was a quarter ‘til ten. I was beginning to get antsy and looked through the binoculars back over the top of the fort wall. Mitch was coming down the hill from his house toward the fort. He was carrying a big cardboard box. “Mitch’s carrying a big box,” I said. “They’re up to something. They are definitely up to something.” Brain and Bubba-Bubba were both in their Army gear, fatigues, helmets and combat boots. Brain was carrying his Rifleman Winchester and a Styrofoam cooler. “I see you brought your rations,” smiled Joe, looking at the cooler. “Just a couple of snacks,” said Brain. For Brain, a couple of snacks would consist of two or three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a bag of potato chips, an apple, orange or both, a pack of cookies and a couple of canned Cokes. The big kid could eat. “Y’all want a venison biscuit?” asked Joe. “What’s venison?” said Bubba-Bubba. “Deer meat. Sausage, to be exact.” Bubba-Bubba’s face twisted into a grimace. “Ugh,” he sneered. “Hell, no.” “I’ll try one,” said Brain. Joe handed him a biscuit wrapped in tin foil. It was then that Bubba-Bubba noticed Joe’s sergeant stripes. He looked at Joe’s helmet, then his arm. “Where’d you get the stripes?” he asked indignantly.
“From my Dad.”
“Are they real?”
“They sure ought to be. He ordered them out of a G.I. Joe catalog.” Joe grinned at me and winked. Brain and I both started laughing and Brain got choked on his venison biscuit. When he could talk again, he said, with his mouth still full, “Thith bithcuit ith good! Dang, ith good!” I turned to the front wall and checked their fort with my binoculars again. The twins were coming down the hill, along with Drummer. “They’re all here,” I said. I looked at my watch and it was five ‘til ten. “They’ll be blowing the whistle in about five minutes.”