As a boy of eight years, playing army was the most fun imaginable. Each season of the year brought with it its own challenges and expectations—cold and wet, or blistering heat—and each was met with furious deliberation and fiery determination. No neighborhood went unscathed; no battleground was without the blood and sweat of numerous engagements soaked into its soil.
From as early on in my childhood as I can recall, I always loved playing army; it was my favorite outdoor activity. Nothing else compared to playing army. Having conversed via email with many men of my age, their own memories of playing army were among the best days of their lives. There was undying passion of play and a sincere sense of adventure to be found in army games. Tromping around the neighborhood with sticks, or plastic guns tracking the enemy provided endless hours of pure joy. We were kids; we mimicked what we saw on television and in movies as what appeared to be the most marvelous escapades ever.
In one of my recent email conversations one man admitted to longing for the return of those days, and dreamed of how great it would be to be able to “just drop everything” and go off to play army. Whenever my friends and I played, we were prepared for long patrols. Canteens were at the filled and at the ready. Cartridge belts were fully equipped with not only Good N’ Plentys, but Tootsie Rolls, Red Hots, Licorice, and anything else worth buying in the penny candy shelves at the B & F Market. Those were great days indeed.
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