In an earlier post, well alright, in my ONLY earlier post, I alluded to the fact that I enjoyed the typical pursuits synonymous with boyhood abandon. Among my favourite childhood games was the one we labelled simply and accurately "Armies".
"Armies" was exactly what it said on the tin. A bunch of kids would meet on the big green and split into two armies. This divison in iteslf was often determined along hierarchical lines. The oldest, most popular boy would impose his authority and declare that he was the commander of the English troops, quickly adding that his best friend was to be his Sergeant Major. This was a given and was never challenged (until the oldest boy eventually grew tired of warfare and deserted for some girl named Sarah Jenkins. The resulting mutinous squabble for power was an unpleasant affair as the Sergeant Major was mobbed and demobbed).
The popular or lucky, depending on how many had turned out for the game that day, would be called forward and seconded as the oldest boy's foot soldiers. The remainder, consisting of the young, weak, lame, dim, snotty-nosed and, urgh...girls, were to be the "filthy hun" - the German army - often captained by my year older sister.
The English would set up camp in the General's den. This was usually a sheltered spot amid the thick bushes and trees on the edge of the woods, fitted out with wooden walls collected from the "workies". The "workies", the site labourers and maintenance men, of course were not privy to the General having taken their wood for his HQ. Annexing building supplies was always a tricky business. The "workies" never seemed to embrace the spirit of the war effort. We were sure that they were secret German spies and treated them with the utmost caution.
The Germans made camp as best they could. Usually in the garden of one of the girls, but sometimes in the "backies", the narrow strip of semi-domesticated woodland between the back gardens of our homes and the farmland beyond, which linked up with the woodland proper. The German camp was generally a tidier, more fragrant abode than that of the English camp. The source of the fragrance was, in fact, a hindrance to the entire game and scuppered many a daring assault. You see, it's very off-putting launching an attack, only to find that the enemy is in fact engaged in picking rose petals, stuffing them in buckets of water and stirring the resultant concoction with a stick. Yes, the rose petal perfume industry did not mix well with warfare!
I recall one particular daring raid. The Germans had, for once, camped deep within the dense heart of the old plantation. The General had sent me on a reconnaisance mission. I was to spy out the camp and report back. The entire success of the operation depended upon secrecy. The Germans were to be located without suspecting that we knew their whereabouts.
I set out, Kalashnikov in hand. The said weapon of choice was of course my favourite old stick. It was gnarled and nobbly at one end - the thick end - and tapered down to a two-pronged fork. The three-foot weapon was the perfect machine gun, sword, lance, fighting staff or bow, depending upon the chosen adventure. It was the best stick in the Close.
Crawling through the long grass betwen the trees, clad in camouflage fatigues, face blacked out commando style, I spied the enemy encampment. I knew it was the enemy den because my sister was wandering about the entrance with a bucket full of the famed rose water perfume, her rifle recklessly propped against a tree stump. I noticed several of her company similarly preoccupied - about a dozen in total. Some had covered their camouflage with red, blue and even yellow water-proof kagouls. Rather sensible given the drizzly rain falling upon the greenery, but foolhardy in such a heated war zone, teeming as it was with expert spies and superb sniper marksmen such as myself. I had to chuckle. It was going to be a massacre.
I inched closer, my clothes drenched from lying in the lush, rain-soaked vegetation. On my hands and knees, I moved with the menacing guile of a leopard stalking a young doe. I was close now, they had no idea I was there, scoping out their feeble defences before reporting back to base and rounding up the troops for the slaughter. I laughed inside, struggling to stifle a broad, smug grin. The game was ours, the glory mine.
I was lost in thoughts of triumph when my right hand, edging forward, came down upon something soft, squidgy, slimy. For an instant I was confused. What was it? I stopped and came rapidly to a horrible awareness. Looking down, I realised what my hand had encountered. My flesh squirmed and crawled. A shiver ran through my entire frame. Then I saw them. All around me, fat, black, foul slugs. They seemed to be everywhere, on each blade of grass. I leapt to my feet with an URAAARRRGH!
Pandemonium!
Shouts rang out. Rose buckets hit the ground. Rifles cocked. Shots fired. Captured!
I don't play Armies anymore. I'd love to - so long as the only weapons are sticks with no triggers and the grass is devoid of slugs. I don't fancy being a real soldier. I don't want to die or see comrades die. I don't want my name on a memorial in a town square for teenage girls, 50 years hence, to pass by with their pushchairs, never thinking to stop and read. Not knowing which war is commemorated, never looking beyond the half-eaten kebabs dumped at the base. I don't want to be a statistic - a pawn in the politicians' games. I admire those who serve their countries for no gain and much loss. I hope I never have to be one of them. War has too many triggers and too many slimy gastropods lurking in the safety of the long grass...
"Armies" was exactly what it said on the tin. A bunch of kids would meet on the big green and split into two armies. This divison in iteslf was often determined along hierarchical lines. The oldest, most popular boy would impose his authority and declare that he was the commander of the English troops, quickly adding that his best friend was to be his Sergeant Major. This was a given and was never challenged (until the oldest boy eventually grew tired of warfare and deserted for some girl named Sarah Jenkins. The resulting mutinous squabble for power was an unpleasant affair as the Sergeant Major was mobbed and demobbed).
The popular or lucky, depending on how many had turned out for the game that day, would be called forward and seconded as the oldest boy's foot soldiers. The remainder, consisting of the young, weak, lame, dim, snotty-nosed and, urgh...girls, were to be the "filthy hun" - the German army - often captained by my year older sister.
The English would set up camp in the General's den. This was usually a sheltered spot amid the thick bushes and trees on the edge of the woods, fitted out with wooden walls collected from the "workies". The "workies", the site labourers and maintenance men, of course were not privy to the General having taken their wood for his HQ. Annexing building supplies was always a tricky business. The "workies" never seemed to embrace the spirit of the war effort. We were sure that they were secret German spies and treated them with the utmost caution.
The Germans made camp as best they could. Usually in the garden of one of the girls, but sometimes in the "backies", the narrow strip of semi-domesticated woodland between the back gardens of our homes and the farmland beyond, which linked up with the woodland proper. The German camp was generally a tidier, more fragrant abode than that of the English camp. The source of the fragrance was, in fact, a hindrance to the entire game and scuppered many a daring assault. You see, it's very off-putting launching an attack, only to find that the enemy is in fact engaged in picking rose petals, stuffing them in buckets of water and stirring the resultant concoction with a stick. Yes, the rose petal perfume industry did not mix well with warfare!
I recall one particular daring raid. The Germans had, for once, camped deep within the dense heart of the old plantation. The General had sent me on a reconnaisance mission. I was to spy out the camp and report back. The entire success of the operation depended upon secrecy. The Germans were to be located without suspecting that we knew their whereabouts.
I set out, Kalashnikov in hand. The said weapon of choice was of course my favourite old stick. It was gnarled and nobbly at one end - the thick end - and tapered down to a two-pronged fork. The three-foot weapon was the perfect machine gun, sword, lance, fighting staff or bow, depending upon the chosen adventure. It was the best stick in the Close.
Crawling through the long grass betwen the trees, clad in camouflage fatigues, face blacked out commando style, I spied the enemy encampment. I knew it was the enemy den because my sister was wandering about the entrance with a bucket full of the famed rose water perfume, her rifle recklessly propped against a tree stump. I noticed several of her company similarly preoccupied - about a dozen in total. Some had covered their camouflage with red, blue and even yellow water-proof kagouls. Rather sensible given the drizzly rain falling upon the greenery, but foolhardy in such a heated war zone, teeming as it was with expert spies and superb sniper marksmen such as myself. I had to chuckle. It was going to be a massacre.
I inched closer, my clothes drenched from lying in the lush, rain-soaked vegetation. On my hands and knees, I moved with the menacing guile of a leopard stalking a young doe. I was close now, they had no idea I was there, scoping out their feeble defences before reporting back to base and rounding up the troops for the slaughter. I laughed inside, struggling to stifle a broad, smug grin. The game was ours, the glory mine.
I was lost in thoughts of triumph when my right hand, edging forward, came down upon something soft, squidgy, slimy. For an instant I was confused. What was it? I stopped and came rapidly to a horrible awareness. Looking down, I realised what my hand had encountered. My flesh squirmed and crawled. A shiver ran through my entire frame. Then I saw them. All around me, fat, black, foul slugs. They seemed to be everywhere, on each blade of grass. I leapt to my feet with an URAAARRRGH!
Pandemonium!
Shouts rang out. Rose buckets hit the ground. Rifles cocked. Shots fired. Captured!
I don't play Armies anymore. I'd love to - so long as the only weapons are sticks with no triggers and the grass is devoid of slugs. I don't fancy being a real soldier. I don't want to die or see comrades die. I don't want my name on a memorial in a town square for teenage girls, 50 years hence, to pass by with their pushchairs, never thinking to stop and read. Not knowing which war is commemorated, never looking beyond the half-eaten kebabs dumped at the base. I don't want to be a statistic - a pawn in the politicians' games. I admire those who serve their countries for no gain and much loss. I hope I never have to be one of them. War has too many triggers and too many slimy gastropods lurking in the safety of the long grass...
