The Tank Man's Son by Mark Bouman Page A

wooded hills, hoping to discover more about the war games.

    The next Saturday evening, men seemed to materialize out of nowhere, like clouds. Cars parked helter-skelter across the driveway and the surrounding sand, wherever there was an empty piece of ground, and when the men climbed out, they drifted together toward a point behind the shed. The uniforms and black berets were familiar by now, and all were carrying guns, along with pistols strapped to their hips and homemade hand grenades slung from harnesses worn across their chests.
    At the center of the storm of activity stood Dad. An air of excitement and anticipation crackled around him. He wore his scuffed work bootsand plain camouflage, so faded and stained it looked as if it had come from the Salvation Army. His trusty 8mm Mauser, the standard rifle of the German army in World War II, rested in the crook of his arm, and a .45 pistol was strapped to his side with a simple holster. He stood out among the younger men, all of whom were dressed in expensive and painstakingly customized uniforms, complete with insignia and patches and loops for extra gear. Most of them had cropped their hair in military fashion, while Dad was almost bald on top. But there was no mistaking who was in charge.
    Jerry and I watched from the sidelines, awestruck, as the impressive array of hardware and men marched past. We sidled closer and closer to Dad, but no matter how close we stood, he chose not to acknowledge our presence. No one else did either. We were two skinny boys drowning in an ocean of men, guns, and egos. Each new arrival strutted, displaying his weapons, looking for approval from those already gathered.
    The sun set behind the ridge on the other side of the road, and the oaks faded from dark green to gray to black. All at once, a serious mood descended on the group. The men sorted themselves into two teams   —red and blue   —and passed around armbands. Dad, standing at the front of the blue team, seemed to notice us for the first time.
    “You boys stay out of the way.”
    With that we were dismissed. It was time for the men to get on with their serious business.
    “Come on, Mark,” Jerry said. “Dad doesn’t want us out here. Let’s get back.”
    But I had no intention of going inside. Over the previous few days, we had found bunkers, trenches, and traps scattered everywhere, and now they were actually going to be used for battle. I’d discovered one that had been almost completely hidden, carved into the side of a hill.
    “Check this ou t !” I’d hollered to Jerry. “This thing is huge!” Theopening was so small, we’d been forced to crawl through it, but the main room of the bunker opened up so we could stand upright.
    “And check this out,” Jerry had said, extending his arms as if holding a rifle. “You can shoot through this opening without being seen!”
    The inside walls had even been lined with sections cut from felled trees to guard against collapse. There was no going back to green plastic army men and sand castles. This was the big time, and it was all ours. Or at least it would be when Dad and his buddies weren’t using it. The bunker was one of half a dozen the men had carved out. Our minds boggled at the possibilities. And the night of the battle was when I’d first see all of these preparations actually used.
    As if sensing my thoughts, Mom called from the house. “Mar-ark! Mar -ark!” Her voice stretched like taffy, calling me back for dinner and bed. She had warned me to stay inside during the war games, but that wasn’t something I was prepared to do. I needed to see what happened that night   —to see what all the fuss was about.
    “Let’s go watch TV,” Jerry said.
    I shook my head. “You go back. I’ve gotta see this, and see it up close.”
    The gunfire began at dark. The first shot startled me   —even though I knew they were firing specially made blanks   —and I immediately cursed myself for being a coward. As the