Sgt. Bob Amundson, three years older than I, gave his sister and mine, Judy and Crazy Annie, their orders. "Since we're on Iwo Jima, you two get to be Japs."
"No way," objected Judy. "You can't make us Yellow Bellies."
"Why not?"
"We won't play if we're Japs," Crazy Annie argued. "Japs have buck teeth, slant eyes, yellow skin, and they wear coke bottle bottom glasses. We'd rather play with paper dolls, instead. Wouldn't we, Judy?"
"Paper dolls, scraper dolls," said Corporal Gordon Hoffman. (That's me). "You guys have to be the enemy."
Well, how about Krauts?" offered our sergeant, ever the mediator. (That's a word I added to my word list a couple of days ago). "If you're Krauts, then we can't be on Iwo. We hafta be in France or Germany or someplace like that. And, darn it, I can't be John Wayne."
We waited for their decision, but the girls said nothing.
"You know, in Europe," added the sergeant.
"Come on, you guys. We need enemy soldiers," urged PFC Johnny Nelson. "Or else there's nobody to shoot at."
"Since they don't want to be enemies, why don't we all fight the Slant Eyes?" I urged my friends. "The girls can be buck privates. We'll make believe the enemy is over by the garage."
The PFC didn't like my idea. "How do we know when we kill 'em?"
"You're not as dumb as you look," Buck Private Judy told me.
"You best not call the Corporal dumb," ordered the sergeant.
"Well, I just did. I think I'll make a sandwich, instead, drink a glass of cold milk, and eat a couple of chocolate chip cookies Ma baked yesterday."
"Did you say chocolate chips?" I asked.
"You're not only dumb but you're hard of hearing, too."
"No, I'm not, I said. "Let's go with Judy and eat chocolate chip cookies instead of playing war."
"No way," retorted our sergeant. "Ma would ground both my sister and me."
"Let's play war," pleaded Crazy Annie. "I want to be a medic."
"Huh?" questioned our sergeant.
"Pretty please, with sugar on it. I'll make a white arm band with a red cross."
See what I mean? Annie's absolutely bonkers.
"What are you gonna do? Spend an hour or so making that armband? No way." The sergeant then directed us back to war. Minus medic.
"We can make believe," said Crazy Annie.
Everybody but me looked at her as if she was crazy. We're family. So, I stuck up for her. "We're in a make-believe war, aren't we? So, why can't we make believe Annie has a white arm band with a red cross on it?"
"My name's not Annie," objected Annie. "It's Annette."
"Annette's a stupid Frog name."
"Is not."
"Is too. It's French, pure and simple."
"I wouldn't be a medic," interjected PFC Nelson. "Medics carry bandages and stuff. They don't shoot. So, I couldn't defend myself and I'd probably get killed."
"She doesn't have to die if she doesn't want to," I told him, rubbing my hands in some dirt and applying it to forehead and cheeks. As far as I was concerned, three soldiers fighting a battle was dumb when we could have five, instead.
"What are you doing?" asked the PFC.
That's why Johnny is PFC and I'm corporal. "I'm applying camouflage."
"Camouflage? Didja hear him? That's dirt. You're really dumb, Gordy."
"If you don't watch out," I told him, "I'll have you court martialed."
"Dirt's dumb," said Buck Private Judy. "I'm not going to put dirt on my face."
"You got a better idea, like maybe applying your mother's rouge and lipstick?" I asked.
"No way, Judy," said the sergeant, "lipstick and rouge are out. They're for Halloween. This is war."
"I didn't say I was going to use rouge and lipstick. Gordy did."
"Nurses wear lipstick and rouge. So, there," said Crazy Annie, sticking out her tongue.
The sergeant and PFC dug their fingers into dirt and applied camouflage.
Pvt. Judy stood there, arms crooked at an angle. "Didn't you hear me? I'm not going to put dirt on my face."
"Neither am I?" said our medic, wearing her make believe white arm band with a red cross.
"See," said the PFC, "what did I tell you? Boys should play with boys and girls should play with girls."
"You're dumb, Johnny Nelson," observed Judy, "and just why are you shouting? You'll not only wake up the dead, you'll let the enemy know our position."
"We need more than three soldiers to fight a battle," I said.
"I agree with Gordy, uh, I mean Corporal Hoffman," said Sgt. Amundson.
"I'm against it," said our PFC.
"You're outnumbered," I told him. "It's two to one. You lose." At once, I dropped to my belly. "There's one behind that Jap tank," I yelled, aiming the black plastic rifle with red-tipped barrel I bought at the Five and Dime for fifty-nine cents. I aimed at the entrance door of Amundson's garage that was just opened by Mr. Amundson, himself.
"What tank?" yelled our medic, twitchy as a wild bunny rabbit. Naturally, it would be my sister who would ask such a stupid question.
"That one," I pointed at the garage with its long term resident, a 1936 Ford tudor, which hadn't been on the road for years. Their dad was a bit slow in everything he did, walk, talk, everything, because his legs were crushed between two paper rollers at the Consolidated paper mill. No matter, I aimed at him and shot. "Ka-pow."
"Ya didn't get me," said Mister Amundson, wearing a gosh darned smile.
"You're not supposed to be smiling," I warned him. "You're dead."
"You missed me completely."
"He's still alive," shrieked our sergeant who promptly threw a hand grenade at his father. "Ka-boom," went the sergeant.
"You forgot to pull the pin," said Mr. Amundson.
"Dad," complained our sergeant. "I did pull the pin. I got you. You're dead. Let's advance, men."
We rose and made our way forward a few feet and then flopped on our bellies. "I wanna be a corporal like Gordy," said the PFC.
"Gordy's corporal," answered the sergeant. "Next time we play, you can be sergeant and I'll be corporal."
I objected. "You're never a PFC. Why can't I be corporal and you be PFC?" At that very moment, I felt something on my back. "What's that?"
"It's a cat. A tiger cat," yelled our medic, most excitedly, I might add.
I turned on my side in order to see it. "Get it off, will you?" The cat held on. "Ouch."
Everyone was laughing except for me. "What's so funny? It dug its claws into me."
"It likes you," said Judy.
"How do you know?"
"It didn't hop on us. It hopped on you. And it doesn't want to leave you. You're its friend."
"The heck I am. I don't like cats."
"You're truly dumb, Gordy."
I reached back and tried to push the darned thing off. It meowed and jumped off me, made its way to my face, and nuzzled. "Aw, gee, would you quit bothering me?"
"Its motor is running. That means it really likes you," said Annie, our neighborhood cat authority.
"I hear it," said the sergeant.
"Yeah, I hear it too," said Johnny.
No doubt about it, its motor was definitely running. Because I heard it, too.
"It loves you," said Crazy Annie. "It's chosen you as its master for life."
"Master Sha-master," I complained as I stood. "I like dogs. They're loyal. Like Lassie."
That darned cat arched its back and rubbed against my leg. I kind of kicked it away. Not hard, mind you. When It looked up at me, I swear it actually looked sad.
So, I walked a few feet away.
"Meow." It followed me. Straight in the air, its tail looked like a fly rod.
"Here, kitty. Here kitty, kitty," urged Crazy Annie.
The cat didn't even look her way.
"I agree with Annette," said Bob. "It thinks you're its master."
I bent over and tickled its furry head.
"Meow."
Next, I walked a couple of yards away.
At once, the cat followed.
"You guys might be right." I bent over and stroked its head again. "How ya doing, Mike?"
"Mike? Where'd that name come from?" scoffed Johnny.
"That's not a name for a cat," objected Crazy Annie.
"Mike's a dog's name," agreed Judy. "What'd I tell you? Gordy's so dumb."
"I am not. Mike's a good name." Then I said to the cat, "Isn't that so?"
And guess its answer?
"Meow."
"It's Mike," I said eyeballing everyone, "and that's final."
"Okay by us," said the sergeant, ever the mediator.
"No way," objected Judy. "You can't make us Yellow Bellies."
"Why not?"
"We won't play if we're Japs," Crazy Annie argued. "Japs have buck teeth, slant eyes, yellow skin, and they wear coke bottle bottom glasses. We'd rather play with paper dolls, instead. Wouldn't we, Judy?"
"Paper dolls, scraper dolls," said Corporal Gordon Hoffman. (That's me). "You guys have to be the enemy."
Well, how about Krauts?" offered our sergeant, ever the mediator. (That's a word I added to my word list a couple of days ago). "If you're Krauts, then we can't be on Iwo. We hafta be in France or Germany or someplace like that. And, darn it, I can't be John Wayne."
We waited for their decision, but the girls said nothing.
"You know, in Europe," added the sergeant.
"Come on, you guys. We need enemy soldiers," urged PFC Johnny Nelson. "Or else there's nobody to shoot at."
"Since they don't want to be enemies, why don't we all fight the Slant Eyes?" I urged my friends. "The girls can be buck privates. We'll make believe the enemy is over by the garage."
The PFC didn't like my idea. "How do we know when we kill 'em?"
"You're not as dumb as you look," Buck Private Judy told me.
"You best not call the Corporal dumb," ordered the sergeant.
"Well, I just did. I think I'll make a sandwich, instead, drink a glass of cold milk, and eat a couple of chocolate chip cookies Ma baked yesterday."
"Did you say chocolate chips?" I asked.
"You're not only dumb but you're hard of hearing, too."
"No, I'm not, I said. "Let's go with Judy and eat chocolate chip cookies instead of playing war."
"No way," retorted our sergeant. "Ma would ground both my sister and me."
"Let's play war," pleaded Crazy Annie. "I want to be a medic."
"Huh?" questioned our sergeant.
"Pretty please, with sugar on it. I'll make a white arm band with a red cross."
See what I mean? Annie's absolutely bonkers.
"What are you gonna do? Spend an hour or so making that armband? No way." The sergeant then directed us back to war. Minus medic.
"We can make believe," said Crazy Annie.
Everybody but me looked at her as if she was crazy. We're family. So, I stuck up for her. "We're in a make-believe war, aren't we? So, why can't we make believe Annie has a white arm band with a red cross on it?"
"My name's not Annie," objected Annie. "It's Annette."
"Annette's a stupid Frog name."
"Is not."
"Is too. It's French, pure and simple."
"I wouldn't be a medic," interjected PFC Nelson. "Medics carry bandages and stuff. They don't shoot. So, I couldn't defend myself and I'd probably get killed."
"She doesn't have to die if she doesn't want to," I told him, rubbing my hands in some dirt and applying it to forehead and cheeks. As far as I was concerned, three soldiers fighting a battle was dumb when we could have five, instead.
"What are you doing?" asked the PFC.
That's why Johnny is PFC and I'm corporal. "I'm applying camouflage."
"Camouflage? Didja hear him? That's dirt. You're really dumb, Gordy."
"If you don't watch out," I told him, "I'll have you court martialed."
"Dirt's dumb," said Buck Private Judy. "I'm not going to put dirt on my face."
"You got a better idea, like maybe applying your mother's rouge and lipstick?" I asked.
"No way, Judy," said the sergeant, "lipstick and rouge are out. They're for Halloween. This is war."
"I didn't say I was going to use rouge and lipstick. Gordy did."
"Nurses wear lipstick and rouge. So, there," said Crazy Annie, sticking out her tongue.
The sergeant and PFC dug their fingers into dirt and applied camouflage.
Pvt. Judy stood there, arms crooked at an angle. "Didn't you hear me? I'm not going to put dirt on my face."
"Neither am I?" said our medic, wearing her make believe white arm band with a red cross.
"See," said the PFC, "what did I tell you? Boys should play with boys and girls should play with girls."
"You're dumb, Johnny Nelson," observed Judy, "and just why are you shouting? You'll not only wake up the dead, you'll let the enemy know our position."
"We need more than three soldiers to fight a battle," I said.
"I agree with Gordy, uh, I mean Corporal Hoffman," said Sgt. Amundson.
"I'm against it," said our PFC.
"You're outnumbered," I told him. "It's two to one. You lose." At once, I dropped to my belly. "There's one behind that Jap tank," I yelled, aiming the black plastic rifle with red-tipped barrel I bought at the Five and Dime for fifty-nine cents. I aimed at the entrance door of Amundson's garage that was just opened by Mr. Amundson, himself.
"What tank?" yelled our medic, twitchy as a wild bunny rabbit. Naturally, it would be my sister who would ask such a stupid question.
"That one," I pointed at the garage with its long term resident, a 1936 Ford tudor, which hadn't been on the road for years. Their dad was a bit slow in everything he did, walk, talk, everything, because his legs were crushed between two paper rollers at the Consolidated paper mill. No matter, I aimed at him and shot. "Ka-pow."
"Ya didn't get me," said Mister Amundson, wearing a gosh darned smile.
"You're not supposed to be smiling," I warned him. "You're dead."
"You missed me completely."
"He's still alive," shrieked our sergeant who promptly threw a hand grenade at his father. "Ka-boom," went the sergeant.
"You forgot to pull the pin," said Mr. Amundson.
"Dad," complained our sergeant. "I did pull the pin. I got you. You're dead. Let's advance, men."
We rose and made our way forward a few feet and then flopped on our bellies. "I wanna be a corporal like Gordy," said the PFC.
"Gordy's corporal," answered the sergeant. "Next time we play, you can be sergeant and I'll be corporal."
I objected. "You're never a PFC. Why can't I be corporal and you be PFC?" At that very moment, I felt something on my back. "What's that?"
"It's a cat. A tiger cat," yelled our medic, most excitedly, I might add.
I turned on my side in order to see it. "Get it off, will you?" The cat held on. "Ouch."
Everyone was laughing except for me. "What's so funny? It dug its claws into me."
"It likes you," said Judy.
"How do you know?"
"It didn't hop on us. It hopped on you. And it doesn't want to leave you. You're its friend."
"The heck I am. I don't like cats."
"You're truly dumb, Gordy."
I reached back and tried to push the darned thing off. It meowed and jumped off me, made its way to my face, and nuzzled. "Aw, gee, would you quit bothering me?"
"Its motor is running. That means it really likes you," said Annie, our neighborhood cat authority.
"I hear it," said the sergeant.
"Yeah, I hear it too," said Johnny.
No doubt about it, its motor was definitely running. Because I heard it, too.
"It loves you," said Crazy Annie. "It's chosen you as its master for life."
"Master Sha-master," I complained as I stood. "I like dogs. They're loyal. Like Lassie."
That darned cat arched its back and rubbed against my leg. I kind of kicked it away. Not hard, mind you. When It looked up at me, I swear it actually looked sad.
So, I walked a few feet away.
"Meow." It followed me. Straight in the air, its tail looked like a fly rod.
"Here, kitty. Here kitty, kitty," urged Crazy Annie.
The cat didn't even look her way.
"I agree with Annette," said Bob. "It thinks you're its master."
I bent over and tickled its furry head.
"Meow."
Next, I walked a couple of yards away.
At once, the cat followed.
"You guys might be right." I bent over and stroked its head again. "How ya doing, Mike?"
"Mike? Where'd that name come from?" scoffed Johnny.
"That's not a name for a cat," objected Crazy Annie.
"Mike's a dog's name," agreed Judy. "What'd I tell you? Gordy's so dumb."
"I am not. Mike's a good name." Then I said to the cat, "Isn't that so?"
And guess its answer?
"Meow."
"It's Mike," I said eyeballing everyone, "and that's final."
"Okay by us," said the sergeant, ever the mediator.
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