D. Day

Normandy Beaches

War's a game called capture the flag. On asummer's eve when the days were the longest and warmest, the neighborhood kids divided into two teams. Dressed in dark sweatshirts and blue jeans we assembled in the field across the road. Each team brought a rag tied to a stick, the flag. The objective – steal the opposing team’s flag.

The old hay field was divided into two sections along the foot path that cut east to west between waves of dried prickly hay and berry briars. Hagadorn’s Mountain gathered the last rays of daylight behind its broad top and soon the field transformed into a textured pattern of blue and black shadows.

Once flags were hidden we scattered in search of the other team’s flag. Anyone captured was expected to surrender, no struggle. Escape was impossible unless a team member risked breaking into the enemy’s jail. There were no heroes. Captivity equated to a night of boredom and no one would risk that hell. The fun was in taking cover, not being found and lying beneath a star-filled sky until the war was over. By 10 pm.

Then the troops trudged home accusing the other side of hiding a flag out of bounds. Our wounds, the scraps of a stubborn pricker bush that refused to release a pant leg, or a swollen mosquito bite over an eyebrow, were tended to by our mothers while with our berry stained fingers we poked at the marshmallows floating in the froth of our hot chocolate. That was a special night.

What do I know about war? Nothing. It is just as easily a product of my imagination as a summation of another’s reality of long ago.

War is not hell. Hell is hell, created by the One who created all. War is the doing of men, the loss of youth, scripted in the blood of tomorrow's promises.