Blitzkrieg in a wet forest on a dark day.

We were out for a short jaunt in low-lying lands on a wet afternoon; my spirits soar with the thud-thud of drenching rain.

A 12- and 9-year old jostled, raced, roughhoused, and bantered as we trudged and swooped through, and I overheard snippets as they came in and out of hearing range, and they had various questions about World War II. I don’t remember the context. It may have been because there was little context.

That is yet another truth I love about childhood: the endless and non-contextual pursuit of stories, knowledge, and adventure.

They began play-acting; slipping and sliding amidst the mud and rain as they imagined themselves as different characters in a 1942 battle. As they drew closer on a particular squirmish, I noted a certain expression on our daughter’s face; one that spelled something mischievous and possibly hilarious to come. She worked aggressively to avoid my eye contact or any awareness until she had limped to a feet ahead of me, standing in the path. Her brother pulled up beside her.

She grabbed her left arm, which appeared to be stuffed up her coat sleeve.
”I was fighting this here German,” she said in an elongated Appalachian drawl, and gesturing to the diminutive grinning long-haired blond boy next to her, “…and you know what he did?”

I shook my head truthfully.

“This here German Nazi fellow,” she stated, trying to suppress a growing grin, her voice rising to a shout, “…you know what he did?! I was out here mindin’ my own business, off fightin’ Hitler, and this here German man just shot off my damn arm!”

At this point, both soldiers devolved into paroxysms of laughter and they began racing away down the muddy path.

“Come back!”
I screamed.
”We don’t want gangrene to set in!”

Kids and their games.