Playing Soldiers

 

Jimmy wanted to be a soldier when he grew up.  The war was over, but his daddy told him not to worry because as sure as the sun will set, there will be another war between men.  Until then, Jimmy set out on his own training until he was old enough to join the academy. His mother told him that little boys should focus on school and the farm, and to leave such things like war to the men.  She told him he should enjoy his youth because as sure as the sun will set, he’ll grow old. Still, Jimmy took up his toy rifles made from sticks and his daddy’s old army badges and played pretend in the forests and fields. 

 

Jimmy’s best friend was the little boy from down the lane named Paul.  Paul shared the same interests and pursuits as Jimmy, though Paul was much more of the quiet kind and took great care to think about things.  He would furrow his brow and scratch his head in contemplation. Jimmy trusted Paul’s instincts and took them into consideration as they executed their moves against the various unsuspecting livestock around the farm.

 

“Paul!” Jimmy said one afternoon once they dumped their satchels off at home and changed into their camouflage.  “That fox got into the chicken coop again last night!” He said. “He got a hen.”

 

Paul furrowed his brow and scratched his head.  “I think we should track him. My daddy won’t let me borrow his real pistol, but maybe we could trap him.”

 

Jimmy nodded in agreement.  “My uncle taught me how to build traps.  I think he lives down in the forest, past where they were digging that tunnel.”

 

Jimmy was referring to the abandoned construction site where a tunnel was being dug to divert the irrigation canal.  Unbeknownst to the boys, the project had failed, and the tunnel sat only half dug. Paul and Jimmy’s parents had warned them about the tunnel; that it could collapse, or that animals could be using it as a den. Both Paul and Jimmy had not paid much attention to their warnings – there was always something parents worried about, and obviously, their animal of interest lived somewhere in the forest, not some dingy tunnel.  

 

The small platoon of two set out, walking in single file.  Paul stood taller than Jimmy, who had a rather stocky build, though Jimmy carried himself much more assuredly than Paul, who tended to slouch.  It was Jimmy who lead them past the tunnel and into the forest. The bushy treetops obscured the sunlight and gave their surroundings a foreboding atmosphere.  The boys tightened their grips on their stick rifles and continually checked their surroundings. Suddenly, Jimmy stopped in his tracks. Paul crashed into him.

 

“What it is?” Paul asked.  Jimmy pointed to the dead hen in front of them.  Its body was a mess of ruffled, bloody feathers. Having been born on farms, they were accustomed to animal slaughter, though the sight of this dead hen was particularly gruesome.  They were used to the thoughtful grace of their mothers who butchered chickens with one swift, clean cut. They stared at it with solemn faces contoured by the shadows of the forest.  They regarded the fallen hen with a sort of respect, their hands clasped in front of them. 

 

Paul’s brow was furrowed.  “My daddy tells me it’s not always about victory and glory.”  He whispered.

 

“What do you mean?” Asked Jimmy.

 

“He said a soldier has to learn to accept things like this.”

 

Jimmy looked back and forth between the hen and Paul with a mildly troubled expression.  Then he hiked up the rope that held his rifle stick with a shrug of his shoulders. “The fox den must be around here somewhere,” he said.  “Come on, let’s go!”

 

Paul followed Jimmy, his gaze lingering on the hen before his steps lead him away.  They were ultimately unable to find the den, much to their disappointment.

 

“Maybe…” Paul said, “if we set the trap by your chicken coop, so that when he goes to get another hen…”

 

“We’ll get him instead!” Jimmy finished triumphantly.  “Neat! But how will we know where to set the trap?”

 

Paul scratched his head.  “We’ll have to set up post and watch to see how he gets in.”  He looked around, scanning their surroundings for vantage points.  “I think one of us can hide in the hayloft since we’d be able to see all of the forest from there.  But we also need a place closer to the coop so we could scare him off.”

 

“Hmmm,” Jimmy said.  “What about the tunnel?” 

 

Paul furrowed his brow.  “But, my mom said -”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Jimmy interrupted.  “It’d be perfect! He wouldn’t be able to see or smell us.  Plus, from in there, we’d be able to see all of the fields between the forest and the coop.  We could run out and scare him off before he got to them!”

 

Paul scratched his head.  “I guess that does sound pretty good.” He admitted.  “But I don’t want to be the one to go in the tunnel.”

 

“Why not?” Jimmy asked.

 

Paul shrugged.  

 

“Are you scared?” Jimmy asked him, half mockingly.  

 

“No, of course not!” Paul said.  

 

Jimmy laughed. “It’s okay, Paul, I don’t care.” He said.  “I want to be the one to scare the fox away anyway!” 

        

The next morning the boys got up before the first rooster crowed and dressed in their camouflage, armed with their rifle sticks.  Both were giddy with excitement at having the enemy so near, but on the outside, they tried their best to compose themselves, as real soldiers would.

 

“Okay,” Paul said.  “I’ll go up to the hayloft and watch for him.  When I see him come out of the forest, I’ll fire a rock at the silo with my slingshot to alert you.  Then you watch him until he’s near the coop, and then run out screaming and shouting to scare him away.”

 

Jimmy nodded vigorously.  “I’ll make sure to make the biggest ruckus I can!”  He laughed gleefully and with a salute he took off running towards the tunnel.  Paul watched him get down on his hands and knees and crawl through the soft, reddish dirt until he was hidden.

 

Paul went to the barn and took care to step around the sheep as he made his way to the ladder that went up to the loft.   It was dusty inside the barn and the animals stirred in protest, but from the little window he had an excellent view of the farm.  A rooster crowed – the sun was beginning to rise. The dew on the grass shimmered from the morning light, except in the shadows from the forest trees.  Paul focused on the shadows, waiting for the fox to emerge.  

 

Eventually, the fox stepped tentatively from forest to field.  Paul watched as he broke into a swift cantor, his bushy red tail bouncing up and down.  Sure enough, he was headed towards the coop. Paul grabbed his slingshot and bag of rocks, loaded it, aimed, and fired at the silo.  The silo was empty this time of year, and the rock made a distinctive clinking sound against it. The fox paused, looked around, then continued on his mission.  

 

From the hayloft, the entrance of the tunnel was obscured from Paul’s view from the mound of dirt that had been extracted from it but never removed.  He waited for Jimmy to come rushing out from behind it. But Jimmy didn’t emerge. The fox was sneaking up on the coop now.  

 

“Hey!” Paul cried.  The fox only quickened its pace.  Paul cursed to himself and scrambled down the ladder.  Why hadn’t Jimmy scared the fox away? How could he have not seen him?  The fox walked right past him! Had he not heard the rock against the silo?  

 

Paul rushed out of the barn, his brow furrowed into a glare.  “Bastard!” He shouted at the fox as he emerged from the coop – which was now engaged in an uproar – with a fat hen in his mouth.  The fox merely glanced at him before making a run for the forest. Paul spat and ran towards the tunnel.

 

“Jimmy!” He called.  “Jimmy!”  

 

 Jimmy didn’t answer.  Paul glared and clenched his fists, but his frustration quickly gave way to the sickening feeling in his stomach when he saw that the tunnel’s entrance was gone. The earth had cracked and fallen.  Soft, moist dirt slumped lazily to the ground. Paul’s face paled and his legs went weak. He called out Jimmy’s name with a quiet, strained voice, though in vain. He knew he would not get an answer. He took a small step back, keenly aware he was standing at his best friend’s grave.

        

The sunrise brightened into a pure blue sky.  Paul stood in the same spot all day, watching as the neighbors gathered to dig Jimmy out.  He didn’t speak, he didn’t even blink. He stood there with a furrowed brow and scratched his head.  As the sun sank low on the horizon, Paul threw his rifle stick into the hole where they’d dug Jimmy out.  He didn’t want to be a soldier anymore.