good,” Jacobs said, and got down on his knees beside me.
“Are you going to pray?” The idea was sort of alarming. Praying was for church and Methodist Youth Fellowship, which my brothers and sister called Thursday Night School. When Mr. Jacobs started it up again, this would be my first year, just like it was my first year at regular school. “If you want to talk with my dad, he’s in the garage with Terry. They’re putting a new clutch in the Road Rocket. Well, my dad is. Terry mostly hands him the tools and watches. He’s eight. I’m six. I think my mom might be on the back porch, watching some guys play three-flies-six-grounders.”
“Which we used to call rollie-bat when I was a kid,” he said, and smiled. It was a nice smile. I liked him right away.
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh, because you had to hit the bat with the ball after you caught it. What’s your name, son?”
“Jamie Morton. I’m six.”
“So you said.”
“I don’t think anyone ever prayed in our front yard.”
“I’m not going to, either. What I want is a closer look at your armies. Which are the Russians and which are the Americans?”
“Well, these ones on the ground are Americans, sure, but the ones on Skull Mountain are Krauts. The Americans have to take the mountain.”
“Because it’s in the way,” Jacobs said. “Beyond Skull Mountain lies the road to Germany.”
“That’s right! And the head Kraut! Hitsmer!”
“The author of so many evils,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Do you mind if I just call the bad guys Germans? ‘Krauts’ seems kind of mean.”
“No, that’s great, Krauts are Germans, and Germans are Krauts. My dad was in the war. Just the last year, though. He fixed trucks in Texas. Were you in the war, Mr. Jacobs?”
“No, I was too young. For Korea, too. How are the Americans going to take that hill, General Morton?”
“Charge it!” I shouted. “Shoot their machine guns! Pow! Budda-budda-budda!” Then, going down way low in my throat: “Takka-takka-takka!”
“A direct attack on the high ground sounds risky, General. If I were you I’d split your troops . . . like so . . .” He moved half of the Americans to the left and half to the right. “That creates a pincers movement, see?” He brought his thumb and forefinger together. “Drive on the objective from both sides.”
“Maybe,” I said. I liked the idea of a head-on attack—lots of bloody action—but Mr. Jacobs’s idea appealed to me, just the same. It was sneaky. Sneaky could be satisfying. “I tried to make some caves, but the dirt’s too dry.”
“So I see.” He poked a finger into Skull Mountain and watched the dirt crumble and bury the hole. He stood up and brushed the knees of his jeans. “I’ve got a little boy who’d probably get a kick out of your soldiers in another year or two.”
“He can play right now, if he wants to.” I was trying not to be selfish. “Where is he?”
“Still in Boston, with his mother. There’s lots of stuff to pack up. They’ll be here Wednesday, I think. Thursday at the latest. But Morrie’s still a little young for soldiers. He’d only pick them up and throw them around.”
“How old is he?”
“Just two.”
“I bet he still pees his pants!” I yelled, and started laughing. It probably wasn’t polite, but I couldn’t help it. Kids peeing their pants was just so funny.
“He does, at that,” Jacobs said, smiling, “but I’m sure he’ll grow out of it. Your father’s in the garage, you say?”
“Yeah.” Now I remembered where I had heard the man’s name before—Mom and Dad at the supper table, talking about the new minister that was coming from Boston. Isn’t he awfully young? my mother had asked. Yes, and his salary will reflect that, my dad replied, and grinned. They talked about him some more, I think, but I didn’t pay any attention. Andy was hogging the mashed potatoes. He always did.
“You try that enfilading maneuver,” he said, starting away.
“Huh?”
“Pincers,” he said, tweezing his thumb and finger together again.
“Oh. Yeah. Great.”
I tried it. It worked pretty good. The Krauts all died. The battle wasn’t what I’d call spectacular, though, so I tried the frontal assault, with trucks and jeeps tumbling off the steep slope of Skull Mountain, plus Krauts tumbling off the back with deathcries of despair: “Yaaaahhh!”
Mom, Dad, and Mr. Jacobs sat on the front porch while the battle raged, drinking iced tea and talking about churchy things—in addition to my dad being a deacon, my mom