Even during the late fifties—and on into the early sixties—little American boys were still at war with the Japanese and Germans. Although movies about Korea had begun to trickle out, almost none of the young enlisted men seemed to realize that battling with the Russians, or perhaps the Chinese, would have been more relevant.
To recommend the Viet Cong would have been pointless.
That's why on a late-summer afternoon in 1958, as Willy Miller hid in his foxhole, he was on the lookout for signs of Nazi armor or infantry. Separated from his company during a parachute jump, he had no definite idea of the enemy's position, but he knew Hitler's divisions were somewhere in the area; they always were. It was only a matter of time until they showed themselves.
Unfortunately, when he left the house he'd been planning a Martian expedition, so he'd neglected to bring his Army rifle and his rubber bayonet, and he was fairly certain that the ray gun stuck in his belt wouldn't work in the middle of the twentieth century, except maybe as a pistol. The surprise approach of a German squad might force him to retreat all the way home.
With one open palm shading his eyes, and keeping a particular watch for snipers, Willy slowly scanned the remains of what once had been a tiny woodland. Most of the trees had been knocked down over a year ago to make room for a new high school, but for some reason the project had been several months on hiatus. The site had been left gouged and cratered, littered with mangled pines and oaks, and sprinkled with unidentifiable bits of machinery. An orange-yellow bulldozer, shielded from the nearest houses by a bank of earth, sat immovable and dead as a burned-out tank, with prairie grass growing between its treads: an ideal addition to any suburban battlefield.
Willy's outpost consisted of a squarish hole a little more than four feet deep, sunk halfway into the earthen wall that hid the other eyesores from the neighbors, and fenced around the top by a snarl of broken trees. A single massive log formed the barrier to the rear; along the remaining three sides, random gaps let him view the field below without being seen. Nicely positioned and well-camouflaged, the spot, on the whole, seemed pretty secure. Of course, if a bunch of Krauts happened to peek over the edge he'd be trapped like a fox in its den, but in that case he'd go down fighting with his bare hands. It was almost sweet to imagine the final struggle.
Although he was ready, if need be, to face a horde of murderous Germans, Willy was unprepared for being found by Peter Balaku.
Peter—-three years older, a foot taller, and at least twenty pounds heavier—was a friend of Willy's big brother, Timmy. The guy was the kind who'd give a kid a friendly slap on the shoulder one minute, and stick gum in his hair the next. Surrounded by adults or other civilized people, he could more or less be trusted; out here, and Willy all alone, his sudden appearance was reason to worry.
"What are you doing in my fort?" Balaku demanded.
"Nothing. I was just playing Army. I didn't know it was yours." Willy sulked, turning to scale the ladder of broken branches and naked roots.
"That's trespassing," Peter observed. "You'll have to be punished."
Willy commenced to climb.
"Get back down there!" Balaku hissed, pointing angrily into the pit. "Stay there till I say you can come out!" He disappeared, but returned shortly after with a length of purplish vine. "All right, get up here."
Willy climbed uneagerly out of the bunker, hoping that if he cooperated nothing too bad would happen. Meanwhile the older boy, balanced on the carcass of an old pine tree, stripped the vine of its tiny leaves, his face expressionless as he watched his captive ascend.
Willy had barely clambered out into the open when Balaku hopped to the ground and ordered him to sit on the fallen trunk. "Stick out your arm; put your hand down there, on the tree." Peter stood nearly motionless for what seemed like a long time, looking down into his prisoner's eyes; only the fingers of his right hand moved, continually adjusting his grip on the vine. Finally, slowly, he lifted his arm high above his head. When he snapped the arm downward, the whip whispered through the air.
The younger boy instinctively recoiled; the vine slapped harmlessly across the bark.
"DON'T pull your arm away!" Balaku explained, adding, in a tone too low and steady to permit any dispute: "Put it back out there, and don't move it again until I tell you to."
Once again Willy placed his hand flat on the bark, palm down.
Two lashes. Four.
Six.
Red lines, not quite parallel, began to rise along Willy's forearm, while finer lines seeped blood through the skin. Yet he kept his arm where it was, unable to do otherwise. There was no hope of escaping Peter's physical power, or of denying his authority. All Willy could do was refuse to acknowledge the whip.
Balaku made ready to deliver another blow, withheld it, tossed the vine to the ground. He seemed displeased and a little disturbed by the seven-year-old's silence. "You'd better be here when I get back," he threatened, then half-trotted, half-skittered down the wall of dirt.
The sounds of his search for a more terrible weapon gradually faded in the distance. In the meantime Willy sat obediently on the torture bench, rubbing his scratched and welted arm, awaiting his brother's friend's return.
Three or four minutes passed; any moment he expected the scuffle and crunch of Peter's approach. Instead, Willy could hear only birds calling to each other across the devastated ground, and, from high overhead, the thin roar of a military jet. At last he stood and peered in the direction Balaku had taken. Seeing no trace of his tormentor, he got up on tiptoe, and finally hauled himself up onto the tree trunk for a better view.
The older boy was nowhere in sight. Willy turned and gazed toward the clutch of houses a couple of hundred yards off, wondering if Balaku would be finished before dinner time. Why was he taking so long? Maybe he'd relented; or maybe he'd simply forgotten.
Willy looked up. The sun was still warm, and the sky was very blue. A bit of breeze rustled through the lazy weeds. He hesitated, remembering the unquestionable voice.
Then he crouched, slid quietly down the other side of the embankment, and escaped into the open field.


James Henry Taylor is an Associate Professor of Physics, Central Missouri State University, Warrensburg. He is the author of Honeysuckle and Other Stories (Cave Hollowo Press). One of his stories appeared in Sweetgum Notes 2.1.


Copyright © 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

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