Ah, for the good days in the South. Johnny and I were the youngest at 11 years old. The three oldest were 16 and there were a few in the middle. We’d get our bb guns and head for the woods, walking a few miles over plowed soy bean stalks, all dressed in our army uniforms. The uniforms were made of skin tight “rock and roll” blue jeans, a hat and hopefully some cotton gloves, and a winter coat. Nothing had to match the others’ clothing colors or style so they weren’t really uniforms. But we called them uniforms because we were going to play war. And you couldn’t play war unless you wore a uniform.
When a bb hit your thigh underneath those very thin tight blue jeans, you would yelp like a little puppy that had been jumped by a bigger house cat. Then you’d moan a little before you came up shooting and yelling “I’ll get you, you son of a.....” Ping! A bb would buzz by your ear.
Then back down behind a log or step behind a tree. Maybe I should come up with a plan of attack. But I usually didn’t have time because it only took about 3 “wounds” each and the war was over and we didn’t care who won. At least those of us who were wounded didn’t care. And we sure didn’t want to talk about it, either.
It was time to go find a medic. She was usually one of the guys’ mothers. She didn’t have to ask where and how we got our war wounds. She knew what we had been doing. So did all the other mothers and fathers in town. It’s what we did that winter of 1963. We played “war” with real live bb guns. And not one guy got his eye shot out!
copywrite TM 2014
A nice dime size bruise would sort out the guys who didn't yep.
I always wondered how may of the guys who Joined the military used the lessons they learned.