Last night as I returned home, I found a toy army man posed on top of our doorbell, pointing a rifle at me. I hesitated before turning the keylock, thinking I might be crossing an imaginary check point and be required to state my business before entering my home. Maybe it was my imagination, but my posture seemed to stiffen under the eye of this one-inch military man, so I squared my shoulders, got out my identification and saluted my wife when I entered the house.
Army men, at least the monochromatic toy versions, are a time-honored tradition around our house since I was a kid. My brother introduced me to these green guys, having been inspired by a host of television movies at the time, particularly Pork Chop Hill, the Desert Rats, and, most inspiring for him, a movie called The Dirty Dozen. That one showcased a lousy band of no-good criminals and imprisoned scoundrels who were repurposed to take on an impossible military mission. After watching the movie, Gary enlisted twelve of his best fighters and sent them out on treacherous missions around the house, positioning them in treacherous spaces like mom’s make-up drawer, the breaker panel, and in front of our icy mailbox.
All of these military encampments challenged the very fabric of our family, but the last one became a battle in and of itself as our mailman, a shy and sensitive fellow, slipped on the surrounding ice trying to sidestep the carefully arranged troops underfoot. As his feet went out from under him, he grabbed the mailbox for support, but became hopelessly stretched out in no-man’s land, not able to pull himself up nor wanting to fall and flatten Gary’s military encampment. His predicament soon caught the attention of Mrs. Odermeier across the street, who ran out in the bitter cold, presumably to help him regain his balance. Instead, she reached into his bag, yanked out a package she’d been waiting for, a free giveaway bottle of perfume whose bouquet complimented her floral bathrobe, then slid away.
From our vantage point, watching with binoculars from the picture window, Gary’s diabolical plan was pure entertainment. He had correctly surmised the mailman’s temperament, a man who could not bear to step on toy soldiers or be deterred, as the saying goes, by rain or snow or rubber army men. The Dirty Dozen had prevailed again. Later, after reading the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Gary decided to make his soldiers immortal as well as invincible by cutting off their heads. This bothered me somewhat, not because it was creepy or frightful, but because I could never win another army battle as long as I lived – his soldiers could not be killed or defeated and would always prevail even if I had flame throwers, bazookas, and 200 men on my side.
In honor of our brotherly tradition, the first present I bought my grandson, Cash, was a bucket of army men. He was three days old, but I decided to get him started early and regularly created battles around his crib, sippy cup, and goldfish snacks. By the time he was one, our armies were engaged in combat while he sat in his car seat. By two, I had suffered serious battle losses and retreated, holding on only by turning the air on high and blowing his approaching infantry to the floorboard.
Bravery comes at a cost.
For now, I hold my position, but it isn’t easy. Cash is starting to develop superior combat noises, and, as every trooper knows, the guy with the best noises wins. While I still do a first class machine gun and walkie-talkie chatter, his fiery airplane crashes may have me beat… at least until my Dirty Dozen make their comeback for the cause of toy soldiers everywhere, and childhood play.
Then, it’s off with their heads!