When the world was young

Life is a chevauchee

In the past few years of covid, I have had cause to think about what is being missed by a generation of kids who, disguised behind masks and prevented from hanging out with friends, have had to make do. But “making do” does not create happy and heart stopping memories. What have we done to our children?

In thinking these thoughts I have had equal cause to remember my own days of memory-making. My home town was situated such that residential neighbourhoods were located on benches of land at varying altitudes on the mountain slope and that typically accommodated two or three streets of houses.  The neighbourhoods were separated by bush on the steeper slopes between the benches creating a natural barrier between them.  It was this separation which gave rise to a series of “100 Years Wars” between the prolific boomer-aged children with whom I grew up and, as with King Henry V, the battles often took the form of a quick chevauchée.

In the case of my neighbourhood, the primary killing field was a large meadow in the middle of which was a derelict and largely stripped, model T Ford truck.  The meadow had been developed by dozing piles of dirt against the treed forest and, in the passage of time, it was grown over with tall grasses and a few immature willow and coniferous trees.  The pushed-up piles of dirt served several purposes two of which were to provide protection against an aerial onslaught and to provide a ready supply of rocks to send back against the enemy forces. The carcass of a car was the coveted prize and many a wound was opened in defending or attacking the prize.

The declaration of war was a surprisingly ritualized event for such young warriors and was generally initiated in the schoolyard.  A crowd of kids from one neighbourhood would form in the schoolground, push their favourite to the front and announce to anyone within earshot that they were challenging those from a named neighbourhood bordering on the field of battle to a war at a specific time and day.  There was never any need for the challenge to be confirmed.  Honour demanded acceptance.  To not accept the challenge was to break faith with generations of older warriors.  Organization for the event began immediately and in earnest.  Both groups knew from ancient ritual which dirt pile was theirs to garrison and protect.  Redoubts, breastworks, hedgehogs, abatis… all were constructed on both sides of the field as the mighty warriors showered down taunts and insults on their opposing number. 

The tension, bloodlust and excitement mounted as the day of judgement drew near.  It is hard for me to fathom, over these long years, how our parents didn’t discern what was going on and make efforts to stop it.  Perhaps they enjoyed watching the spectacle as much as we enjoyed participating in it although I never actually saw an adult enter onto the field to watch.  My memory tells me that, as soon as someone was knocked senseless by a well-aimed rock, a parent was soon enough at hand to bring the chevauchée to an end and help carry the wounded off the battleground.

As with its declaration, the start of war was a highly stylized and choreographed event.  The challengers would occupy the skeleton of the Model T and those challenged would take up a position on their dirt pile.  Rocks would be piled everywhere especially for those defending the rusted relic as there were not a lot of weapons to be found upon the meadow, it having been scoured as clean as the plains of Gaugamela.  That is significant because one of the regular fighters was named Darius… well Dario but that is close. 

The action would start with a few desultory projectiles arcing their way from behind the dirt pile and into the massed defenders.  A lone spotter would call out the correction to the launch coordinates and soon more projectiles would find themselves airborne and locked on target.  The defenders who were crafty would identify 3 or 4 of their own spotters to watch the projectiles and warn of danger while the rest would keep a steady bead on the dirt pile preparing for the all-out assault which was sure to come.  Watching rocks homing in on you has a mesmerizing effect.  No one wanted to be a modern Harold and take a rock in the eye.  In a different context and much later in my life I was almost crushed by a huge rock thrown up by a mine blast even as I was transfixed watching another rock that soared high above.  It can be an unnerving experience.

The actual assault on the Model T could be tactically varied depending upon how the dirt pile leader read the situation.  If he discerned that the defenders were crafty and not likely to be transfixed by the incoming rocks he might hold back the general assault and instead send out skirmishers who would make a broad sweeping run at the Model T to unleash two or three rocks at close range.  Like Medieval “faint hopers”, their moment of greatest danger occurred as they passed the target zone at high speed, discharged their armaments and, turning their backs, raced for the safety of the dirt pile.  These modern petardier sprouts were the Billy Bishops of the battle and this job was not for the faint of heart nor the slow of motion.  A two-pound rock in the back of the head could end the fight before it began – and no one wanted to be hung on their own petard explosive or not. 

When the dirt pile Napoleon had gotten his measure of the opponent by a few of these petardier skirmishes he would generally call for a general assault and push the point of his army spear into the weakest link on the Model T.  This was most often the location of the youngest defender.  Often the generals leading the defenders, having learned from Hannibal, would purposely create a weakness to draw the attack and then destroy the oncoming horde with a clever flanking maneuver of older, more experienced warriors.  Cannae was a lesson well learned in my town.  This tactic was often chosen by a general who had a younger brother on the field.  The younger brother, as a form of “pay to play”, had to agree to be the “rabbit”, as it were, and take the brunt of the attack which allowed the flanking maneuver. 

In general, it was impossible to know how such an attack would turn out until it turned out.  The fog of war made it virtually impossible for a young general to move his troops to a new position once they were unleashed.  When the call to go over the top was made, it was every man for himself and devil take the hindmost.  Whispered words of encouragement passed between the nervous and high-strung troops as all hoped that their rocks would find their mark and that they would not be downed by an errant stone to the face.  Facial wounds bled the worst, induced the most temptation to cry and were the hardest to explain to your mother.  A facial wound was the worst.  It just was.

When the attackers exhausted their supply of missiles, they would veer off formation and hightail it back to the dirt pile.  This was the moment of greatest danger as it would almost certainly draw the defenders out of the truck and onto the battlefield proper.  If the defender’s rocks were not exhausted the danger to the attackers was extreme.  Safety depended upon speed and sloth was met with personal disaster.  No one with long hair rode their donkeys under trees - metaphorically speaking.  The defenders now became the attackers and on they rushed as the dirt pile defenders scrambled up and over, hopefully in time to scoop up a rock before turning to defend their side of the battlefield.  If numbers permitted and the dirt pile Napoleon was clever, a reserve group would now rise up from behind the safety of their berm just as the last of their warrior mates passed by.  I have been a member of such a reserve force and relish to this day the look of shock and horror on the faces of the attacking defenders as they realized that they had run straight into our trap.  Scoring the winning goal in the Stanley Cup final can scarcely match this feeling of strength and invincibility.

Most often the dirt pile attack and the Model T defender counterattack would result in pretty much nothing but a bunch of breathless boys.  It turns out that accuracy is almost impossible when throwing rocks while running at top speed.  But the point of the exercise was not really to hit anyone.  There were never any Odoacers split from neck to scrotum by the broadsword of Theodoric, but minor bloodletting was not unknown.

So much for the chevauchée of junior league battle.  Perhaps this experience hooked deep into my psyche because I have always thought that life should be lived this way - short bursts of energy to push out into the unknown and then rush back to sensible ground when things get too intense. It has also occurred to me that perhaps our parents didn’t really love us and were willing that we die defending a rusted model T truck. Or perhaps they loved us too much to take this experience away from us. It is confusing.

In any event I am glad that in my youth I missed out on having to wear a mask on empty playgrounds to save me from an inescapable virus. My parents just made sure that I caught whatever was going around and, I suppose, hoped for the best in terms of my recovery. I think they were right to do so.