The Tank Man's Son by Mark Bouman Page B

pace of firing picked up   —three shots here, five shots there   —I crept toward the bunker I’d seen the men working on, hoping it would be part of the main battle. In the black of night, everything looked different to me. I’d spent countless hours outside around the house, of course, but never had I tried to remain unseen and safe in quite the same way. Familiar shapes felt otherworldly, changed somehow, even though my mind still recognized them. Just as I neared my target, the noise of what seemed like a hundred shots exploded up ahead. Pop! Poppoppop! Poppoppop! I could see orange flames leaping from the ends of rifle barrels, seemingly on every side of me.
    Suddenly terrified of being caught in a battle   —even a battle I knew was a game   —I dropped to the ground and rolled onto my back. In panicI looked for something familiar. And there it was: a familiar shape outlined against the sky, black on nearly black. It was one of the few tall oaks that dotted the area, and I’d climbed into its highest branches many times. Trying to stay low to the ground, leaning forward but keeping my head up like Dad had showed us, I raced across the empty sand toward the tree. As soon as I reached it, I stood with my back against its rough bark, safe in the knowledge that I blended perfectly into its dark silhouette. I tried to control my breathing, but my heart was pounding hard enough that I expected a sniper to hear it and pick me off at any second.
    As soon as the next round of gunfire opened up, I began to climb. Branch by branch, trying to time my ascent with the bursts of noise, I made my way to a familiar perch, nearly thirty feet from the ground.
    It was only then, as my breathing slowed, that I began to take in the scene below me. Lit by a fingernail moon and a thousand bright stars, all reflecting off the white sand, the battlefield lay before me like a school diorama. Dark shapes darted back and forth across it, the flashes of muzzle fire showing the outlines of heads and shoulders for fractions of a second. The shots came from one direction, then shifted the opposite way, back and forth and then back and forth again. The gunfire was punctuated by shouts, by the occasional scream, and twice by what sounded like real explosions. It was a marvel of terror, spread below my dangling legs.
    Eventually   —minutes? hours?   —the fighting moved past my perch. Rapid staccato slowed to an occasional pop, and after a time I realized the battle was finished. Dazed and exhilarated, I climbed down the oak and walked toward the house. Halfway home, I heard laughter from the direction of Dad’s gun shed, and I followed my ears. Light leaked through the cracks and out onto the sand, along with the sound of men being men. Without thinking, I walked straight to the door and pulled it open.
    In the sudden shine I saw my father, standing among his troops, except that he was not my father. His face was striped, green and brown,and from the jungle backdrop of his skin, his eyes and teeth gleamed like white fire.
    “Come in, Mark!” he said, motioning.
    It seemed the whole room stopped to look at me. Needing to break the silence before it overwhelmed me, I blurted out, “Is it over? Who won?”
    “Your dad got his ass shot off!” one of them yelled, and the whole room erupted in laughter.
    “Well, I got a few of them first,” he countered. “And I   —”
    Suddenly the sound of gunfire filled the room. I screamed in pain and leaped into the air. Beneath me loomed the dark shape of a gun barrel, firing, firing, sending gouts of orange flame into my shoes and pants as I landed. The shooting stopped as I fell to the floor   —just as one of the men yanked open the shed door to reveal the shooter, who had shoved his weapon beneath the door and unloaded a full clip of blanks.
    I clutched my legs. The blasts had burned holes in my pants below my knees and burned my skin besides. I was the only one in the room without a