Luke Morris

May 25, 2004

Revision: 3/3/2005

The Secret Defenders

We never told our grandparents about the Nazis in their backyard, and they never found out on their own. As far as I know, they are still ignorant of the earth-shattering events in which they took part. Nor did Mom and Dad or any of my aunts and uncles know about our work. For all their alleged wisdom, adults know nothing of the real world. But we knew. My cousins, my brother, and I risked our lives every summer and winter for years to defend that house and grounds from the onslaught of Nazi ninja invaders who sought to take it for themselves. We filled each day with chaos and carnage; I can’t count the times I tasted death, glorying in my sacrifice for the cause.

When Rob, Marc, Nate and I first congregated on our trip to Grandma’s, we knew what we were facing: two solid weeks of blood and sweat, of gunfire and lasers and ninja stars, of secret missions and sneak attacks and sabotage and subterfuge. It was no picnic. Actually, we had a lot of picnics, but they never turned our minds from the danger that we might meet at any moment. The backyard was a bees nest, an acre of grass and trees that we had to patrol constantly, keeping alert and ready for the storm of brown shirts and assassins and storm troopers that would come at us from nowhere, surround us, and force us back to the tank. The adults thought that our tank was an old catamaran on a rusty trailer, which goes to show our effectiveness at camouflage. Who could guess that the dual pontoon hulls were tank treads, or that the disconnected mast placed on top was a nuclear cannon? Who could know that a tumbledown tool shed contained a cache of weapons, ammo, and explosives, or that four ordinary boys were experts in military strategy, armaments, and the most lethal of martial arts? Only we knew these things – and the Nazi invaders learned them at their peril.

This day started as any other. The dawn broke and scattered light through our sleeping quarters. Four hours later we rose, shoveled cereal into our gullets, and laid out our plans for the day. “Rob,” I said, “you’re running reconnaissance. Marc, you snipe from behind the tool shed. Aim for the leaders. Nate . . . ” At this point I went back into the bedroom and hit my brother with a pillow until he woke up. “You’re running the tank. I’ll take the lookout from the top of the north tree. Move out!” After another hour of rousing Nate, we were on our way. Rockets whooshed through the air as Nate shot down Kamikazes from the tank; a grenade landed at Marc’s feet and he leapt for the tire swing and swung away just in time; Rob raced out into the field like Rambo, his twin tommy guns a-blazing, mowing down foot soldiers left and right; and, stripped of my weapons, I took on twenty ninjas with my bare hands, killed them all, and hung them from the trees as a warning. Then we went in for lunch.

In the afternoon we returned to the battlefield, refreshed and ready. But the enemy had now taken the fight to the open sea of Middle Straits Lake. We climbed into our wetsuits (or swim trunks, such as they were), leapt astride our Ducati dirt bikes (that looked like Schwinns), and shredded rubber all the way down to the beach road, two blocks away. We skidded to a halt on the beach, parked our bikes, and charged into the water to engage the Nazi commandos. “They’ve taken the Raft!” I cried. “Prepare the grenades!” We launched our tennis ball grenades, then dove beneath the surface and came up on the other side of the raft (except for my brother the amphibian, who came up ten minutes later on the other side of the lake). Bullets tore across the water like rain, and the Nazi officers leered at us from the raft as their commandos dove for the treasure at the lake bottom. We dove after them, though, and soon turned the lake a frothy red with fascist blood. Finally, using all of our Navy SEALs training, we captured the raft, liberated the hostages, and did celebratory back flips off the diving platforms. As evening crept in, I led my team home, swatting at the Nazi mosquitoes on the way. We arrived home, a hard day’s work well done, and we met in the back room, Fort Apache (“No Girls Allowed!”), to discuss the enemy’s tactics and to prepare our mission for the next day’s heroic defense.

In the end, though, all of our efforts, the grueling and bloody toil we went through for years uncounted, came to naught. Unable to overcome us by force, the enemy used time as its ally, worming its way into the financial structure of the house we had lived to defend. Grandma and Grandpa sold that house and moved to Florida. We left West Acres, the lake, the woods, and childhood behind for good. I guess those Nazis won after all.