Skip to comments.Army Guys
Posted on 10/04/2011 9:47:11 PM PDT by pickrell
The sun had long since finished breakfast and turned serious. Then the best of the cartoons were over. It was time to find stuff to do.
Buzzie would invariably recommend, "Let's do army guys."
"Yeah, army guys." "I'm the sergeant-", "No, I'm the sergeant, you were last ti-","No, I'm the s-","No","Huh-uh" And so, eventually, by committee approval, we finally sorted out our respective roles as Vic Morrow, Rick Jason, and two unnamed krauts.
We knew that krauts were the scoff name for germans, and since all of us were of between half and full german heritage, we further defined krauts as those germans who weren't Americans. They were foreigners- living over there. Somewhere. After protracted and difficult discussions, we concluded... somewhere in Germany. In forn' parts. Far away somewhere, fortunately. Nothing worse than having forn' parts up close.
We, of course, were Americans. So we were Okay. Maybe that's why everybody wanted to be Vic Morrow, with second best being "the Lieutenant." After racous negotiation, and a few half threatened fists, two of us- (notice the invariable "us" bit), were informed that a committee of our neighbors and peers had selected us for service... as the bad guys. A resigned sigh was all that was left.
Jeffy had the only remaining "gun", a plastic imitation of a Winchester Model 94 BB gun. Hey- it was a poor neighborhood. The actual BB guns went to the kids uptown. Times wuz tough. Buzzie had long since broken and abandoned his tommy gun, [with real plastic extending red flame simulator.] Anyway, the rat-a-tat sound had eventually became a mouse-a-mouse fizzle, and then like a truant ground mole, fell completely silent. Polystyrene engineering was what you bought, polystyrene engineering was what you got.
The convention was that once you discovered the enemy, you plainly annunciated the muzzle report of your choice, there being a selection of: "bang bang" which was absolutely lame, "pow pow" which was marginally better, and for the erudite among us "blam blam" often announced the demise of another minion.
Us germans, of course had no weapons, and were left to look hopelessly at each other while the good guys strolled down the street to give us some room to be flushed out, in coming minutes.
It was in the end of summer that I eventually, being a slow-witted nazi, remembered the project I had been working on, and with my fellow kraut Sidney, hot footed it back to my basement. I showed Sidney the two, er, "matched" dueling pistols I'd finished. Well, they were made of the same wood, anyway.
Now it was true that an adult would have seen simply a couple of 15 inch long, 3/8 inch wooden dowels affixed by countersunk miniature brass screws, to hand-carved pistol stocks, with no faux trigger assemblies or any other ornamentation. They had, however, been sanded smooth. They boded...
The set was completed by cardboard holsters (reversed and scissor-cut Cheerios boxes), taped together and strung on old, fat Christmas ribbons terminated in pilfered curtain hooks. We fastened them on, and I suddenly felt the odd need for a stubby, dark cigar, a distinctive accompanying tune, and a poncho I could throw back over my right shoulder. Well, maybe not- but I should have, if the redistribution of dreams were properly organized.
I showed Sid how the thick rubber bands I had been saving, (used on each Sunday paper delivered), could be fitted to the notch cut into the muzzle, and stretched back until it slid over the other end. Once loaded, it seemed to hum with malevolence. With virtually no practice required, a quick draw of the gun, followed by the merest flick of the thumb on the gun-hand, rubbed over the rubber band, would dislodge the taut band and send it snapping nastily quite a few yards downrange. The greatest part was that you could actually hear it hiss through the air. No batteries required; no "pow-pow" required. Sid and I flashed evil smiles at each other for a second.
Reloading literally took mere seconds, once you got the hang of it.
A clear conscience required that I gravely advise Sid that these should never, ever, be pointed at anyone's face or, uh, delicate parts.
"Heheheh-" Sid had a developing nasty streak in him. I'd have to do my duty to encourage it.
Minutes later we were set upon by the armed and ferocious-
"Ow! What was that?" "That hurt!" "Ow- Stop that, Owww!"
Sadly, on that little-known Saturday in Zanesville, Ohio, the American army experienced the battle of the bulge, and were thrown back for several houses, before finally holding out in Mrs. Zulant's petunias.
When the ranking American officer was sent an invitation to surrender by the German co-commanders, his reply reportedly was, "Ow, that was my nuts-" or something like that. It never made the history books.
Patton, disappointingly, failed to arrive, but all was saved anyway, because "Bonanza" was coming on at eight, and we were supposed to be back in time for supper.
"Ow- Sid! Stop that! Ow- Ron dammit. I mean it!"
Combat was a quality series for sure.
Cute! Great memories. I remember that let’s pretend world of childhood. Except more of Western guys. LOL. We were steve mcqueen, john wayne and the Riflemen(chuck connors).
We developed the technology to “rifles” -
Hockey sticks, with long rubber bands, shooting uncooked macaroni. A macaroni rifle.
Somehow ths reminded me of the ads in the back of comics for hundreds of toy soldiers for a low low low price!
Ahhh...I loved those broomstick bayonet charges and water balloon hand grenades days.
The Whamo bazooka was my weapon of choice, remember the commercial of the kids blowing over the house of cards from across the room, pump it up about ten times and touch that puppy off and you had a loud noise and a big blast of air. The best part was when you stuffed one of those hollow plastic baseballs down the tube then sneak up behind your cousin and shoot him in the fatty part of the back, he’d scream like a little girl and go running to the house. Cluster munitions were another favorite for up and personal combat, scan the neigboring yards for grassburrs and get you a couple of handfulls and go find said cousin and repeat step #1. He screamed like a little girl every time!
Does your cousin still hate you?
He dang sure don’t trust me!
If seated on the ground with the bat on your knees, it was a 50- or 30-caliber machine gun ...
If on top of your shoulder, it was a bazooka ...
If at your shoulder, it was a rifle, or a BAR if you were a fan of Kirby ...
If held in both hands at your waist, it was SGT Saunders' tommy gun ...
With a dirt clod hand-grenade and handful of either acorns or thorn-apples to simulate machinegun fire, you were all set for action ..
“With a dirt clod hand-grenade and handful of either acorns or thorn-apples to simulate machinegun fire, you were all set for action ..”
We used hedge-apples as cannon balls. And the bat served as a .50 caliber waist gunner position on our B17...just like on the TV show 12 O’clock High.
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