The Tank Man's Son by Mark Bouman

she’d filled one paper bag and started on a second, there came a knock at the door. Leaving the current sandwich open and without cheese, Mom rolled the top of the paper bag closed and carried it to the door, which she opened. One of the strange men was standing there, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. He stared at the ground and started to say something, but before he could, Mom shoved the bag of sandwiches at his chest. He caught it, cleared his throat, and then left. As Mom turned back to the kitchen, she kicked the door closed with her heel.
    “Mom, who was that?”
    “One of the men helping your dad.”
    “Helping Dad with war games?”
    “It’s just something your father is doing.”
    “Mom?”
    “ What , Mark?”
    “Can I have breakfast now?”
    Mom handed me one of the sandwiches and turned back to the assembly line. Taking a bite, I jogged out the door to look for the man.
    I caught up with him near the gun range. He had just tossed the paper bag full of sandwiches down into some sort of hole in the ground   —and before I could figure out what that meant, a small geyser of sand briefly spouted up from what I assumed was the same hole. What on earth was happening? A minute later I stood with my hands on my knees, panting   —eating a sandwich while running really took the wind out of me   —and the picture of what Dad was doing came into focus.
    In the sand in front of me was a hole the size of a house. And in the house-sized hole were a dozen men in a flurry of activity. Shovels, sweat stains, wood being braced against the walls, bright sand flying every which way   —it was like the earth had erupted. The men looked like they were working under strict orders, and even when the bag of sandwiches arrived, no one took a break. Unable to comprehend what exactly I was seeing, I pulled my eyes away from the project and looked for Dad. I found him, dressed in blue work pants and a filthy T-shirt, standing at one edge of the pit, his arms crossed.
    “Dad, Dad,” I called, running to his side, “what in the world is everyone doin g ?”
    Silence. I didn’t exist   —not when he had an army to command.
    After a few minutes of listening to Dad bark orders to the men, I wandered around to the other side of the pit. One of the men had just scrambled out of it, and I recognized him as Dad’s friend Dale. Dad called him the “ammo man” sometimes, and they liked to go to swap meets together. I asked him what was happening. He glanced at my father, who wasn’t looking, and said, “Underground command center for next week.”
    That explained everything, and also nothing.
    From down in the hole, a shout that was nearly a scream jolted me. One of the men was rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands pressed to the side of his head. At his feet was a bucket full of dirt thatmust have fallen back onto him. Bright blood was leaking down his face and across his bare chest. I couldn’t take my eyes off the contrast of red on white, even as other hands lowered the man bodily to the ground and began to fashion a sling out of shirts and rope. Once the man was rolled onto the sling and lifted back to ground level, my father barked orders.
    “You, you, and you   —help him outta here! The rest of you, take a break. Food’s here.”
    Two of the men who had helped with the sling jumped back into the pit, while one stayed to help the wounded man back toward the house. I followed.
    When they knocked on the door, Mom answered with another paper bag in her arms, presumably full of bologna sandwiches. When she saw the wounded man, however, she set the bag on the sand outside the door and nodded toward her car, then disappeared back inside. The men waited in the backseat. Mom reappeared carrying her purse and climbed into the driver’s seat, firing up the engine without even glancing at me. The car bounced down the driveway, no doubt on the way to Doc Kramer’s.
    Alone again, I wandered back toward the