Epic battle

In 1955, when I would have been 11, I participated in an epic battle, what seems to be endemic to all childhood experience.
It was much like what paintball is now, except back then we didn’t have paintball.
The last man left standing was the winner, that is the only one not “shot.”
Shooting, of course, was imaginary; “Blam-blam-blam” with a pointed finger.
Your success was determined by how clear a shot you got; whether you caught someone in the open.
Our battle was pursued on the giant playground behind our school, a playground edged by tangled woods.
Gravel embankments could be used as trenches, and foxholes had been dug in the woods.
The last ones standing were me and Norman DeLong.
Even “Saltsy” Strode had been dispatched, as was Frank Cook.
Every neighborhood seemed to have a Frank Cook, the only Cub-Scout to successfully construct a crystal-set radio, and thereby attain his Lion badge.
The sort that would become an Eagle Scout some day.
Yet Frank Cook was “shot” in a tree, as was Saltsy Strode.
(I always wonder if Saltsy survived ‘Nam.)
Many participants were “shot” in that tree. They all had climbed it to gain height, but in so doing opened themselves to easy dispatch.
So in the end it was good old Norman DeLong and me, and I was not very macho.
But through guile and cunning I had avoided getting “shot,” and had “shot” quite a few.
So now it was me and Norman DeLong stalking each other.
I edged an embankment, and got him — he was wide open.
My winning was noisily disputed. No way could a wuss-boy actually win.