Battle Fatigue Read Free Page B

the rest of the year, after I tell people when my birthday is, they start talking about it. “What day is your birthday, Joel?” asked Stanley Wiszcinski’s mom in April when I was at the Wiszcinskis’ house for Stanley’s birthday.
    â€œDecember seventh,” I answered, and just waited for the response.
    â€œDecember seventh! Who will ever forget that day? I was knitting a sweater when I heard.”
    I smiled and nodded politely. Grown-ups are so excited to talk about this that I am never sure if it is supposed to be the worst or the best day of their lives.
    My brother, on the other hand, was born on January 3. People don’t remember what they were doing that day, except my uncle. He could celebrate Sam’s birthday too.
    â€œJanuary third,” he says. “We were given extra rounds and we moved up.”
    â€œMoved up where?” my brother asks. I already know the answer.
    â€œThe Ardennes forest, Ardennes, the forest …” He gets lost in thought. January 3 is the anniversary of when the Allies broke through the German lines. I don’t really know what that means but breaking through seems to be big. It was the Bulge, which seems a weird name for a battle. My uncle was there.
    For a long time I thought people could just arrange to have their kids on the anniversaries of important battles and that when I was ready to have children they would be born on the anniversaries of battles that have not yet been fought but that would be important to me. In time I came to realize—and Sam did too—that his birthday was not as important as mine, except maybe to my uncle. But I don’t care about Sam feeling bad about not having as good a date as me, so I just dress him up as a German and tell him it is the Bulge and kill him.
    When Tony Scaratini comes over he insists on being a German too. Tony is the neighborhood bully. He is bigger than the rest of us and we are all a little afraid of him.
    â€œI’m the German. Give me the hat,” he demands.
    â€œWe already have the Germans picked out,” I say.
    Tony twists his face. He has a way of twisting it that makes him look really mean. Also very ugly. “You know why I’m the German?” he says in a menacing tone as he looks down at me.
    I do know why—because he is going to beat me up if I don’t let him be the German. But he wants to explain anyway. “I’m Italian!” he announces.
    Now I am getting curious. “So? You’re Italian?”
    â€œThe Italians were on the side with the Germans. And we don’t have any real Germans here, right? So I should get to be the German. I’m as close as you got!”
    I hand him the hat, relieved to have an excuse to give it to him without fighting about it, even though I hate the way he plays a German. He plays like he expects the Germans to win.
    Donnie LePine always plays an American. There is never any debate about that because, obviously, Donnie LePine is going to win. He wins at everything and always does everything well, and he is more popular than me even though he doesn’t have any World War II hats or things. His father was a navy officer in the Pacific but he didn’t bring anything good back. Donnie doesn’t need it. The other kids look up to me just because Donnie LePine is willing to come over to my place to play. I would like to get to kill him, or at least make him surrender, but he is an American and will never know defeat. Side by side we liberate Europe and the Pacific.
    â€œ Tdg-tdg-tdg-kadush-kadush. ” I charge the Germans, my brother and Tony, from across the backyard, fighting next to Donnie LePine, who is firing: “ Gudj. Gudj-gudj .” He also brings in an artillery barrage: “ Whaaaaa-k’brrm! ” That was his little thing. I never heard the phrase “barrage” before.
    The Germans are holding their own. “ Dew-dew-whack dew. ” But finally we get up