It was 1968. I was 10 years old. It was August and the day was beginning to cool off as dusk approached.
I was stationed just outside Smyrna, GA in a special ops camp called Westwood Circle. Specifically, 119 Westwood Circle, a sophisticated military operations facility disguised to look like a single story brick ranch with a Ford and a Buick in the driveway.
The disguise worked. We were undetected…so far at least.
I had just been issued a highly specialized, Crossman Co2 Bee-Bee rifle, five Co2 cartridges, and a pint carton of round bee-bees from my Commanding Officer, General West, a Five Star.
He said the weapon and ammo had just come in at the provisions depot in town. The civilians knew that place as the Western Auto Store. Another clever disguise. We soldiers knew it as our lifeline.
He said the weapon had my name on it and there was a reason. He wrote it on there with a magic marker so the other soldiers in the platoon would know it belonged to me. I knew why he didn’t want the other soldiers to have it. It was because I was the chosen one. (And it was because it cost $14.99.)
I still remember his fateful words that day in August, 1968…”Be careful with this son. You could put somebody’s eye out.”
I humbly took the sleek, lightweight, pistol-gripped rifle and walked to my post at the edge of the broken terra cotta patio with the aluminum suncover and fake wrought-iron posts. I installed the first Co2 cartridge and listened to it hiss loudly as the firing valve penetrated the cold, tin seal of the cartridge. It scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know it would do that. Then I poured the ammo chamber full of the round, golden bee-bees and took my post.
These were not just any bee-bees. These bee-bees were meant for marksmen…snipers. They were round, with no flat dimple like the civilian issue bee-bees. They were accurate, deadly accurate. They were designed to fly straight…and not miss their mark. I was glad that day…in August, 1968, that I had been issued such a weapon and such bee-bees. For I was about to meet the enemy face to face.
There was a renegade soldier, an AWOL, who was known to have stolen documents. Valuable documents. Special ops documents. Documents that could reveal our location to the enemy. I could tell you more, but I’d have to kill you. Suffice it to say, we were all in great danger. That’s why I was chosen. That’s why the weapon of choice had my name on it.
As I stood my post and chewed my bubble gum, I realized it was time to make my rounds. I jumped on my bike and headed into the yard down toward the sandbox, without my rifle (the provisions officer forgot to procure a strap). It was then, about 20 feet from the sand box that I saw him…the enemy. The renegade, The AWOL, GI Joe. His head was just above the yellow sand mound in the left side of the sandbox.
Quietly he stared at me, his red hair and blue eyes glaring. He was dirty and worn. He had obviously been outside, alone, for quite some time. He looked…desperate.
He knew we had each reached our day of destiny. I dropped the bike and ran for the patio and the rifle. I pulled the rifle into position from behind one of the fake wrought-iron posts, thinking I would be pelted with his gunfire or a grenade. But no. Not a shot.
He had not moved. He still glared from the same position. His red haired head still peeking over the yellow sand mound.
The bastard was daring me to shoot him! Daring me to test my mettle! He was certain I would back down and forsake the platoon…forever branded a chicken.
I was 40 feet from him now, crouched low, my cheek against the peeling paint of the fake wrought-iron post. I began to sweat as I squinted to see him hidden in the sand box. The intertwining limbs of the yellow bell bushes behind him made good camo. He was hard to see now. I began to wonder if I might miss…if I might fail.
Then I remembered the words of General West when he handed me the rifle…”Be careful with this son. You could put somebody’s eye out.”
It was at that very instant that I saw the bastard’s blue right eye glisten in the low, evening sun as though it were a bullseye.
I snapped the trigger!
Pssssst! The Co2 powered bee-bee took flight! The enemy fell back! Was it over?
I blew a bubble, and ran to the sand box, rifle poised. Would this renegade, this GI Joe, be faking it and pump me full of lead when I came over the horizon? Somehow I knew, no matter what happened, I would still make mess that night.
He lay there in the sand, silent, eyes open, no rifle, no pistol, no knife. I picked him up, shook him gently, and knew with the sound of the bee-bee rattling in his head, that he was gone.
I had met my calling. I had served my task. It was time for supper.
