Remember When We Played Army?
by Rich Kimball
Do you remember when we played Army? You know, when we were 8 or 9 years old, immortal and full of Napoleonic plans of conquest.
We would go from house to house, gathering up our friends to meet at the playground or the woods. (calling out the Militia) Then, the alpha males of the group would sort out who would be on what side, based on their knowledge of everyone's abilities and personalities.
After much pissing and moaning, the two "armies" (more like platoons) would split-up and retreat to opposing areas, plotting attack strategies, building fighting positions, and stocking up on dirt clods for when the CO called for artillery.
There were no debates about should we be here, or why we were here. It was really simple. We were the Army, tasked with defending our country against all enemies, whether they be yellow-horde ChiComm's, Godless Russian commies, or Billy Johnson and his friends. We would kick their ass back across the DMZ, the river, or the other side of the construction site by dinnertime, no matter what the cost in men, material, or Chips Ahoy!
Sometimes, there would be the loner in the platoon that would sneak off to find cover from which to pick off the unwary enemy combatant. In our neighborhood, it was always Carlos. Carlos Hath something or other.
Then there was the kid who always floated an idea to trick the other side into thinking we were whipped. "Hey!" "Let's put up a t-shirt as a white flag and then nail 'em when they come close!" It was probably some stupid idea he got out of a book. he was always reading something. His favorite was some ART book, for Pete's sake!
At the end of the day, we would gather back together for a debriefing of the day's excercises and critique tactics and who brought the best snack. Then it was off to our homes, where Mom would be there with dinner ready, scolding us for getting so dirty, tending our shrapnel contused knee, and commending us for doing our duty and showing that rotten Billy Johnson what's what.
What does it mean for us today? Hell, I don't know. I'm just a grunt. You tell me.
by Rich Kimball
Do you remember when we played Army? You know, when we were 8 or 9 years old, immortal and full of Napoleonic plans of conquest.
We would go from house to house, gathering up our friends to meet at the playground or the woods. (calling out the Militia) Then, the alpha males of the group would sort out who would be on what side, based on their knowledge of everyone's abilities and personalities.
After much pissing and moaning, the two "armies" (more like platoons) would split-up and retreat to opposing areas, plotting attack strategies, building fighting positions, and stocking up on dirt clods for when the CO called for artillery.
There were no debates about should we be here, or why we were here. It was really simple. We were the Army, tasked with defending our country against all enemies, whether they be yellow-horde ChiComm's, Godless Russian commies, or Billy Johnson and his friends. We would kick their ass back across the DMZ, the river, or the other side of the construction site by dinnertime, no matter what the cost in men, material, or Chips Ahoy!
Sometimes, there would be the loner in the platoon that would sneak off to find cover from which to pick off the unwary enemy combatant. In our neighborhood, it was always Carlos. Carlos Hath something or other.
Then there was the kid who always floated an idea to trick the other side into thinking we were whipped. "Hey!" "Let's put up a t-shirt as a white flag and then nail 'em when they come close!" It was probably some stupid idea he got out of a book. he was always reading something. His favorite was some ART book, for Pete's sake!
At the end of the day, we would gather back together for a debriefing of the day's excercises and critique tactics and who brought the best snack. Then it was off to our homes, where Mom would be there with dinner ready, scolding us for getting so dirty, tending our shrapnel contused knee, and commending us for doing our duty and showing that rotten Billy Johnson what's what.
What does it mean for us today? Hell, I don't know. I'm just a grunt. You tell me.
