Summer 1978
Tom ducked down behind the prickly bush, taking care not to snag his new shirt. The camouflage pattern was the wrong green for the forest, but if he stayed still, he should blend with his environment. Heavy cotton clung to his back, damp with sweat. His neck and wrists itched within the confines of the collar and cuffs. Tom bore the discomfort as a soldier should.
Voices floated gently through the densely packed trees, born on a breeze that could be stronger. A lick of air on the back of his neck would be welcome about now. Tom hunched in a little closer to the bush and poked one finger inside. Carefully avoiding thorns and leaves, he bent a slender branch downward and peered through the gap.
The enemy didn’t even try to hide themselves. Dressed impractically in suits of scorching orange, purple, and blue, they were alien to the landscape. Hikers from somewhere other than the Pocono Mountains, exploring one of Penn’s many woods. To Tom, they were scouts from the enemy camp. Unwelcome guests to his corner of Pennsylvania.
Not that he owned these woods. Whoever had posted the signs every twenty feet or so on this side of the creek did. He hadn’t been prosecuted for trespassing yet, though, and if the enemy did capture him, they’d never break him. There hadn’t been a torture invented that could put down Corporal Thomas Benjamin of the 25th Infantry.
He waited until the enemy patrol rounded the next bend in the trail before moving to follow them. The prickly bush didn’t want to let him go, but Tom insisted. He shouldered his pack and ducked across the narrow trail, taking cover in the cool shade on the other side. Then, threading his way through the trees, he tracked the patrol to their camp.
Or where they’d decided to break for lunch.
His stomach rumbled as he watched them unpack several plastic containers from one of their packs. That the containers were color coordinated with their outfits did not escape his notice. The enemy had interesting customs. And whatever they were eating smelled really, really good. Was that fried chicken? Potato salad? And two kinds of pie?
Tom pulled out his peanut butter sandwich. The enemy was making so much noise that he didn’t even have to move slowly or worry about the rustle of plastic as he unwrapped the limp white square, crusts cut off. He eyed his drink. The scratched-up label advertised the liquid inside as Mello Yello, and the lid wasn’t a good fit. But he’d been carrying the same bottle for three weeks now, washing it out and refilling it with anything from tap water to lemonade he made from lemons acquired on his last mission.
It wasn’t stealing if he found a bag of lemons lying around.
A twig snapped somewhere off to the right, followed by loud chatter from farther down the trail. More enemy soldiers? He needed to report back, but could he cross the trail unseen? Make it over the creek without alerting the sentries? He tried not to panic as the second patrol drew closer, talking and laughing among themselves. Tom pressed his back to a massive tree, breathing hard.
A hiss came from above. He peered into the canopy—was his mission about to be complicated by a timber rattlesnake?—and saw a face peeking back down at him. He couldn’t make out any of the features, just a shock of hair the color of a Duracell battery and a beckoning hand.
Quickly, Tom decided whoever it was was on his side. A forward scout from another regiment. He grabbed a knot on the side of the tree and started climbing. Between lumps of sap, broken branches and, finally, some lower limbs, he found his way up in quick order, and by the time the second patrol had turned into the trail below, Tom was pulling himself over a wide branch and into the dense cover of leaves.
Now that he was high enough, Tom could see the planks wedged between two divergent branches, forming a wide platform above him. He reached for the edge of the closest plank and tugged, checking the stability, then climbed up over it, dropping his pack onto the platform before daring to look down at the ground.
The hikers passing below the hideout were dressed less loudly than the first group, which would make them more dangerous if they knew how to be quiet. Some patrol they made.
Leaning back from the edge, Tom turned to confront the fellow soldier. His first thought was how someone so big had managed to climb this high without breaking every branch along the way. His second thought ran along similar lines, allowing for the fact the boy wasn’t actually huge, just kind of chunky. The halo of curls, round and freckly cheeks, and equally round and freckly knees poking out of a pair of dark green shorts gave more of an impression of bulk than was true.
Of course, everyone was bigger than Tom. At nine, he still had the build of a seven-year-old, which could be an advantage, but wasn’t. He was a runt and he knew it.
The boy seemed to be giving him equal appraisal, and Tom wondered which of them would speak first. If it was up to him, it’d be the other boy, because one of the best ways to stay unnoticed, aside from his size and camouflage shirt, was to stay silent. He continued studying his rescuer’s face, looking beyond the freckles to discover a pleasing symmetry of straight nose, even eyes of a light brown, and a surprisingly small mouth with lips that seemed a little too pink.
Finally, after what felt like a hot and close hour, the other boy broke the silence. “How are you wearing long sleeves and jeans when it’s melting out here?”
Tom inspected his new shirt and was dismayed to discover a loose thread on the lower hem. He tucked it into his old jeans and wiped his sleeve across his forehead, mopping up some of the sweat.
“A soldier’s will is stronger than the elements.” He told himself he was whispering to avoid being heard by the enemy.
“Huh. I’m Frankie and you’re trespassing.”
“Tom. And my orders are to patrol these woods.” No, jungle. He was supposed to call it a jungle.
“You’re weird.”
“Well, your hair is orange.”
Frankie tugged at his curls with a mournful expression. “I know.” Scowling, he gestured downward. “I was watching you. Why were you following the hikers?”
“It’s an enemy patrol.”
Frankie frowned. “Are you on something?”
“On something?”
“Yeah, you know, drugs. Weed. My brother smokes weed.”
“Huh.”
“So?”
“No. I was . . .” Heat crawled over Tom’s cheeks, making him even hotter than he already was. He shrugged. “It was just a game.”
“Like war?”
“Yeah.”
“My mom says war is dumb and soldiers are brainwashed dupes.”
A hot flare completely unrelated to the weather swept through Tom’s middle. “Soldiers fight so the rest of us don’t have to.”
“Put a lid on it. The war is over.”
Biting his lip, Tom looked away.
A slice of watermelon wobbled into the periphery of his vision.
“Want some?”
Tom took the wedge. It was warm and sticky, but all the sweeter for its suffering. Frankie offered him a can of cola next, as warm and sticky as the watermelon, and a crumbling cookie after that. He had a cache of food up here. Also, he was talking.
“. . . so my sister said she’d tell if Matty lit up outside her room again, and he paid her two dollars to stay quiet. Two measly dollars. I’d have asked for ten. He earns at least that much on Friday nights at the gas station.”
“What?”
Frankie glanced up from his handful of cookies. “The weed. Weren’t you listening?”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, I snuck up to his room to see if he had any more, but if he has, he hid it pretty well. Ever had it?”
“What?”
“Weed. Are you special or something?”
“Special?”
“Man, you’re weird. I’m not sure if this friendship is going to work out.”
“We’re friends?”
“Don’t you want to be?”
Tom had to think about that. He hadn’t expected to make a friend today. He hadn’t expected to make a friend at all. Could he expand his game of war to include a friend? Maybe Frankie could be another scout.
“You can’t be a sergeant.”
Frankie’s eyebrows were lighter than his hair. They twitched together in a brief motion, then straightened. “Okay, what can I be?”
“A private, first class, or a corporal.”
“What’s the difference?”
By the time Tom had finished explaining the ranks of the US Army, they’d eaten all the cookies. Having such a full stomach was an odd sensation. Made him sleepy. Not a good situation when caught behind enemy lines.
“Was your dad in the army?” Frankie asked.
“Mmm.”
“What does he do now that the war’s over?”
The cookies and watermelon and cola swirled around in his gut, fighting for room. Tom wiped sweat from his forehead and scrubbed the back of his neck with the same grimy sleeve. He was ruining his new shirt. Maybe he could wash it in the shower before his mom saw it.
“I asked—”
“He’s dead. He was killed in Vietnam.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Tom shrugged. He rarely knew what to say when people told him they were sorry. Words didn’t fix the reality of growing up without a father. He only had his mother’s words. “I’m sorry, baby. You can’t meet your daddy. He never came back from Vietnam.”
“I never met him,” he said now.
“Huh.”
Frankie offered him another can of soda and Tom shook his head. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Too hot?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to go swimming?”
“I don’t have anything to swim in.”
“You’ve got something on under your jeans?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’ve got something to swim in.”
Tom helped clean up the platform by sweeping crumbs over the edge while Frankie sealed the lids on a set of orange Tupperware. Then he took point, slinging his pack across his shoulders before picking a path down the tree trunk. He waited at the bottom for Frankie and watched in surprise as the larger boy descended with ease and agility.
When they were both on the ground, Tom’s eyes were level with Frankie’s chin. Just.
“You sure are short, Tommy.”
“Tom.”
“How old are you?”
“Nine.”
“Hey, me too. What school do you go to?”
“Chipperfield.”
“You live in Pocono Court?”
More heat stung Tom’s face. “How did you know that?”
Frankie, with his round cheeks and endless supply of cookies obviously lived somewhere nicer than a muddy circle of trailers.
“I’ve seen you crossing the creek.”
“You’ve seen me?”
“That’s not the only fort I’ve got in these woods.”
“Oh.”
Voices sounded to the west and Tom snapped back to his mission. “Another patrol is coming!”
Frankie gave him an odd look before smiling. “We better make a break for the creek.”
“Good plan. This way.”
“I know where the creek is.”
“Fine. I suppose as the newest recruit, you should lead. I’ll take the rear guard position.”
“Sure.”
Still smiling, Frankie took off at a jog, dancing delicately around tree trunks and over lower bushes, proving again that he could move lightly and quickly. Following, Tom decided that this was fun. Having a friend could work out. Frankie glanced over his shoulder, and then he seemed to drop from view, letting out a sharp cry as he disappeared.
Banishing panicked fantasies of pits infested with sharpened stakes, Tom skirted a tree and nearly tripped over the same root that must have caught Frankie. The ground sloped away from the base of the tree, exposing several woody vines, and Frankie had rolled to the bottom of the small hill and lay curled on his side, both hands wrapped around his ankle.
“Ah! Dang it.” He hissed before uttering an entirely unmilitary whimper.
After scrambling down the slope, Tom knelt at his side. “What is it?”
“My ankle. I tripped over the tree and came down wrong. Is it broken? Can you see any bones sticking out?”
Tom’s stomach rebelled, sending a hot surge of cookies and cola up to visit his esophagus. He swallowed, wincing at the burning retreat, and leaned forward to look at Frankie’s ankle. There didn’t seem to be any blood. “Here, move your hands. I can’t see anything.”
“It’s broken, I know it’s broken!”
“It might be a sprain.”
Should he go get someone? Abandoning a soldier behind enemy lines was the opposite of heroic, but he couldn’t exactly call for a medivac out here. Tom pulled Frankie’s sock down to expose the ankle. Still no blood and no bones, and he couldn’t tell if the puffy appearance below the red indent left by his sock was normal or not.
“Let me see your other ankle.”
The injured one was puffier. And turning sort of red. Tom looked Frankie up and down. He’d stopped whimpering and hissing, but was obviously in pain. What should he do? A head taller and lots of pounds heavier, Frankie wasn’t going to fit over his shoulder.
“Can you stand?” Tom asked.
By the time he was upright, grim determination had hardened the soft lines of Frankie’s face. Tears beaded his pale lashes, but he hadn’t broken down.
Tom inserted himself under Frankie’s arm like a crutch. “Okay, let’s see how this goes.”
The journey back up to the hiking trail was torturous, leaving them both a sweaty mess by the time they reached level ground. Tom could almost feel Frankie’s pain. They’d been limping along the path for several minutes when Tom heard someone ahead of them. His first instinct was to duck away and hide. But even though Frankie’s injury could be tied into the game, Tom didn’t want to play anymore. He was tired and worried. He’d twisted an ankle before and it had never hurt for this long.
A man and a boy came around the bend, maybe a father and son.
“Frankie?” The man strode forward, all of his face wrinkled up with concern.
The boy—a taller, slightly skinnier, less orange version of Frankie—ran past the man, skidding to a stop at Frankie’s side. “You okay?”
Frankie only grunted, so Tom spoke up. “I think his ankle might be broken.” He pointed in the direction of the creek. “We were running down to the creek and he fell.”
“Near the big tree?” the man asked. “I really need to pack some more dirt around those roots. Add it to the list, would you, Matty? Okay, Frankie, let’s get you sitting down a minute so we can take a peek at that ankle of yours.”
Frankie made a needy whine as Tom tried to ease out from under his arm. Matty—the weed-smoking brother?—immediately picked up the slack on Frankie’s other side, and together, all three of them helped Frankie sit on a boulder beside the path. The man crouched down to inspect the now very swollen ankle.
“Sure looks broken. Can you move your toes?”
“Hurts,” Frankie hissed.
“I don’t wonder. Let’s get you back to the house and Matty can call up your dad.”
Tom took a step back, assuming his part was done. But the man turned to him. “Son, think you can keep on being Frankie’s other crutch while Matty runs on ahead?”
Ducking his head, Matty did just that, disappearing back around the bend in the trail.
Frankie gave Tom a pleading look, and Tom sidled closer to Frankie again and offered his shoulder. That was what friends did, right?
The man supported Frankie from the other side and together they lifted him off the rock. With Tom being so much shorter than the rest of the party, they made a lopsided group, and he wasn’t bearing all that much weight. The man seemed to be doing most of the work. But when Tom tried to edge away, Frankie gripped his shoulder.
Ducking his head, Tom renewed his efforts by slotting himself more firmly under Frankie’s arm, jostling him. Frankie moaned in pain.
“You’re doing just fine.” The man peered over Frankie’s head. “I’m Robert, by the way. Matty and Frankie’s uncle. Who might you be?”
“Tom.”
“Well, Tom, I’m glad to make your acquaintance. Frankie’s lucky to have such a steadfast friend.”
But we only met today, and he was on my patrol—
“You live around here?” Robert asked.
Tom swallowed. “Over the creek, s-sir.”
Instead of accusing him of being where he shouldn’t be, Robert nodded his head. “Right close, then. You like wandering these woods?”
“I . . . er, um.” Tom dipped his chin and muttered, “I didn’t see the signs.” Which was only sort of a lie. He hadn’t seen the No Trespassing sign until the first time he’d crossed back over the creek. So he couldn’t say he hadn’t known he wasn’t supposed to be here now. Would Robert blame him for Frankie’s fall?
“We were playing war,” Frankie put in, squeezing Tom’s shoulder again.
“Were you now? I remember playing war with your dad.” Robert’s face took on a wistful expression.
Ahead, the path took another turn, bringing them closer to the edge of the forest than Tom had dared venture on his own. The trees were starting to thin. Beyond lay a sweep of deep-green lawn, with a barn and stables off to one side and a riding circle hemmed in by a split-rail fence.
“How’re you doing there, Frankie?” Robert asked.
“Okay.” Frankie sounded like he was in pain, but was being brave about it.
“What about you, Tom?”
Tom turned away from the sight of lush grass, sleek and polished horses, and a barn that promised a thousand mysteries. “I can head home now, if you like.” They wouldn’t want him, the trespasser from the trailer park, muddying up their lawn.
“Nonsense. I need your help to get Frankie up to the house. Then I’m sure Madge will have some cookies for our brave soldiers. Maybe a pitcher of lemonade.” Robert smiled warmly.
After all he’d eaten that day, the last thing Tom wanted was more food. But maybe he could pocket some of the cookies for his mom. She was working late tonight and wouldn’t be up to cooking dinner when she got home.
“And might be I could talk to you about a job,” Robert continued.
“A job?”
“I need someone to tell me where all the holes are on these trails. Where folks might fall and break themselves. Think you could do that for me, seeing as you’re familiar with the woods and all?”
Tom glanced up at Frankie, who was nodding vigorously, even with his face all twisted up in pain. “And you have to come visit me in the hospital, until I can walk again.”
“I’m pretty sure your dad can set your ankle for you, Frankie.” Robert’s eyes were twinkling. “But you’re going to need help getting around. So what do you say, Tom? Want to make yourself useful?”
Despite the bewilderment unfurling in his chest, Tom found himself matching Frankie’s nod. Up and down, fast enough that all that green grass blurred. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”