Battle Fatigue Read Free Page A

rod that slides in and out. I like the feel of it, pulling the heavy rod out and up by a handle, pretending to slip in a round, slapping the handle down, and jamming it in. Ready for combat. The only problem is that to do this you have to hold the gun with one hand, and it is so heavy I can barely lift it with both arms. I have to rest the whole thing on my lap to play with the bolt. My brother and I have contests to see who can hold the rifle straight out and for how long. But neither of us can hold it up for more than a second or two. I can do a little better than he can.
    When we play war, Dickey doesn’t join us because he is three years older. But he lets us use his Japanese flag to surrender.
    He is always busy building things with lawn mower engines. Where does he get all the lawn mowers? He builds metal frames that he says are made out of beds. Whose beds? Then he puts the engine on the frame and adds wheels and he has a cart with a very loud motor that he can drive around the neighborhood. His white T-shirts always have grease on them.
    In our wars there are rules. The Germans can’t surrender. The Germans always have to die. But the Japanese surrender. I’m not sure why. Maybe because we have a Japanese flag and we don’t have a German one, so the Germans don’t have anything to surrender with. I wonder, though, shouldn’t the Japanese be chopping their heads off? But in our wars they just surrender. They did surrender in the real war too. Whatever the reason, you would think this makes playing a German a bad deal. Still, you would be surprised how many kids want to be Germans. In fact, everyone wants to be a German because you get to wear one of the hats or one of the helmets or carry a canteen. If you are Japanese all you have is a flag for surrendering. My brother likes being a German and wearing one of the fur hats and I enjoy being the American who kills him. I get to kill him in several different ways on a good summer afternoon.
    â€œ Tdg-tdg-tdg-kadush ,” I say, pointing my toy wooden Western rifle that doubles as a machine gun. And my brother jerks several times and spins and then falls dead, being careful not to let the fur cap fall on the ground. Sometimes he places the cap over his face as he lays dead. Or I jump on him and stab him with my make-believe knife. I can do whatever I want because he is the German and I am the American and the Americans always win and the Germans die. After he dies I take his hat to bring home to my family in America as a souvenir. He is happy that he gets to play with us.
    I am two years older than my brother, Sam, and I have always been glad that I was born first because, even though he is already as big as me, being born first gives me the advantage in most things. I even have a better birthday: I was born on December 7, on the seventh anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Your birthday is always the most exciting day of the year. But on my special day everybody talks about the bombing of Pearl Harbor, “the sneak attack,” and what they were doing when they found out.
    â€œI was making lasagna,” Popeye Panicelli’s wife says, emphasizing the word “lasagna” as though it were a clue to understanding World War II—and maybe it is.
    â€œWe were planning our first car trip,” says my father.
    On my birthday, newspapers write about Pearl Harbor and it is talked about on television.
    â€œLook at this, will ya,” says my uncle, and I walk over. There on the television screen are films of ships sinking with black smoke coming out of them.
    â€œWow!” I say.
    â€œLook at her go,” says my uncle. There is a long pause and then he adds, “The old Arizona .” Another long pause. “There she goes.” And a minute later, “Look at her go.”
    My birthday is the same every year. The same pictures on television, my uncle saying the same things with the same pauses. Even during