Like all great wars it was named after it was over. And like all great wars the name wasn’t entirely true. The Great BB Gun War of 1984 really started in the fall of ‘83. And for all it’s “Greatness” there were only 4 participants. My brother Adam age 10, Chuck age 10, Reuben age 12 and me age 12. Every war has a purpose. Something to be gained. Something to be won. In the end it appeared are only hope was to inflict the maximum amount of casualties while not taking any yourself.
It began when Adam shot me right beneath the butt in the hamstring. It doesn’t seem like it should be possible to put someone down with one BB. But it is. A sniper shot like that will not only put you down but make you scream out in pain for your mommy. And make you do the sideways floor run/shuffle like Curly from the three stooges. On the ground writhing in pain a plan is formed. A plan of revenge. These three laughing hyenas must pay and pay dearly. It was also the first of 283 purple hearts I would award myself over the course of being deployed for a year. War takes a terrible toll on the men involved at the front lines.
It built up slowly over the fall and winter with each of us taking pot shots at the other from a ‘safe’ distance. By spring it was a full on assault. Safety goggles were acquired and worn. Riding your bike to the pool? Why yes I will wear my googles and 3 T-shirts. Yes I know it’s 95 degrees. I need my gear. One of these BMX mounted dragoons could be behind any tree or house along the way.
Alliances were formed, broken and formed again. Machiavelli would have been ashamed at our lack of principles. One Saturday morning it was every man for himself. An hour later all four powers had joined forces against a Red Breasted Robin committing genocide against the local fishing worm populace. War changes a man and after the summary execution of Robin none of us were the same or could remain allies. Again it was every man for himself; Chuck was the loser and had to bury Robin while Reuben hummed taps. We would have had a 21 gun salute but dad was stingy with quartermastering BBs and the amount of times we had to pump the guns dimmed the luster and prestige of the salute.
One morning Reuben had hidden himself in the huge Sycamore tree in our back yard waiting to ambush Adam and I as we came out the back porch. Fortunately Adam spotted him and we shot him from our second story bedroom window. He fell out of the tree and ran home gasping he couldn’t breath. I guess he could breath by the time he got home because his mom never called our mom.
The war came to a brutal and decisive close when Adam shot a non-combatant (our little brother Ben, age 4). Ben took a shot right to the butt wearing only tighty whities and cowboy boots. The high stepping circular dance to follow was hilarious. Sadly Adam shot him in the basement less than 5 feet from dad. It would be generous to call the War Crimes trial that followed a kangaroo court. We were convicted of Crimes against Humanity and of failing to meet the Arming Accord of Christmas ‘82 we were required to sign before receiving our initial munitions. We were sentenced to the Hot Box (our room) and prison rations (white navy beans) for the remainder of the summer and stripped of our weapons indefinitely.
We had learned a valuable lesson. Don’t be a big dummy right in front of your dad. At least have some plausible deniability.
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