by W.H. Harrod
~Unguided Missiles
It must have been after Heywood’s eighth birthday, following the family’s move to a small rural community, that he became somewhat obsessed with the subject of aerodynamics. The word ‘somewhat’ is used because when one looks up the definition for aerodynamics it explains the interaction between airflow and the movement of solid bodies through air. As it’s purely the movement of solid bodies through air part that piqued Heywood’s curiosity, a qualifier is needed here. He loved to see those solid bodies go flying through the air towards other solid bodies.
Heywood was not able to take all the credit for the single invention that, for good or bad, set him apart from his peers. His peers being defined as any male child past the second grade who understood that most things existed for the single purpose of having something thrown at them. For an adult, a mailbox out front alongside a gravel road existed for the purpose of providing a temporary collection point for mail delivered to a home. For a country boy, having recently discovered how much mayhem can be created by the simple action of picking up only one of a bazillion rocks strewn randomly along miles upon miles of country roads and tossing it at an unwary metal box atop a post, ten, twenty, or thirty yards away, life finally had meaning.
Of course, life evolves, and sooner or later young country boys tire of limiting their efforts to chucking rocks at beaten up and often barely recognizable paper collecting contraptions situated so profusely alongside each and every country road. That’s what happened to Heywood, at least for the most part. It’s possible that he may have been contented with the mailbox rock chucking for a while longer if not for the interference of the local constabulary, but it’s doubtful. After a long spell of open season mailbox rock mauling, some nosey bureaucrat down at the post office started pushing for the small town’s only law enforcement officer to get off his lazy rear end and catch those hooligans intent upon the destruction of government property, namely all those dented up mailboxes. Before you could say “there’s a skunk in the henhouse,” somebody posted signs around town claiming it was a federal offense to destroy said property and offenders would be fined and/or punished to the fullest extent of the law.
Was this an inconvenience to all the young rock-chuckers in town? Probably, but it’s at those precise moments in history when genius often bursts forth. This is where Heywood came in. He had been mulling over an idea for some time (a week) that he felt sure would carry the entire group of erstwhile pre-pubescent mailbox maulers into the next generation of random projectile launching devices.
Actually, the idea should have come to him even sooner, but as he was closing in on nine years of age, he came to the realization that he had developed a thing for girls. Bang! He no longer got upset when those ponytailed little vixens came around telling Heywood and his buddies how stupid they were and that their daddies said they were a bunch of juvenile delinquents not worthy of the time of day. Heywood even found himself looking around for something to help him paste down that dadgum cowlick that refused to lay flat with the rest of the hairs on his head.
His new projectile launching idea made sense in so many ways. First, it ensured battlefield superiority for months and, maybe, years to come. Next, it practically assured that his group of kids would not have to worry about getting knots on their heads from a lucky rock flinger. Probably best of all, they could now fling almost anything they wanted at their sworn enemies, the Southtown hooligans, from up to two hundred yards away: rocks, lumps of coal, horse turds, eggs, (but this was risky because punishment was severe for egg stealing), and perhaps the all-time best projectile of all - walnuts, still green and in the husk. Those babies could be two inches in diameter, plus the shape and weight caused these munitions to travel much farther, faster, and truer. In essence, they now possessed the bomb.
Heywood’s idea required the gang to take control of some semi-wooded piece of real estate providing an uncluttered view of the nearby contested terrain. Then, with but the addition of a bushel of walnuts still in the husks and two red (no longer serviceable, but not patched more than a dozen times) rubber bicycle inner tubes to tie in sling shot fashion between two strong saplings, and they ruled.
Heywood long retained a vivid recollection of the very first time they loosed their ultimate weapon upon their unsuspecting rivals. It had taken them most of the morning to haul all the walnuts and the other equipment down past Mr. Decker’s pig lot and then through Judge Hatcher’s pasture, which sat right next to the rock quarry reeking with late summer stagnant water holes, to the planned field of battle. The gang didn’t know who owned the mostly timber covered acreage the young explorers claimed as their own. For as long as they could all remember it was just the place where kids escaped to build imaginary castles to delay for one more day the passing of those glorious moments of their youth. On this particular occasion, there was gonna be a new sheriff in town.
They planned ahead to make sure they had plenty of time to set up their little surprise for the Southtown gang. They really hated those guys, but they probably should have felt sorry for them as they all came from less well-off circumstances.
Heywood knew that some of the guys lived in shacks and wore the same clothes every day. That didn’t mean they didn’t have any pride. They knew they could beat up Heywood’s gang, and sometimes they did, just for the heck of it. More than one of the town’s best athletes was raised in a shack located in Southtown. No, this wasn’t about money, social position, class, or any of that stuff. This was about being kids. Most of the kids Heywood knew didn’t give a hoot if you were rich, poor, tall, short, dumb, or smart. What mattered was: could your bike out race the other guy’s bike, could you hit a baseball farther than the other kid, or how many raw hotdogs could you eat before you puked? Later when they all got taller and tried to act well beyond their age, they finally got to the ultimate comparison of who had the longest pecker. Heywood sadly admitted to still having mental scars from that ego deflating experience.
Returning to the seminal event that gave cause for this short story being written, all preparations were made and Heywood’s gang’s newest surprise was ready and awaiting the expected presence of the enemy tribe. Heywood knew they would come snooping around sooner or later. The rule was if you weren’t presently occupying it, then it wasn’t yours. The small knoll from which Heywood observed their foes arrival down in the valley that had witnessed so many hit and run encounters now drew none of the semi-crouching enemy war party’s attention as they approached the field of action.
Heywood was the one who received the honor of welcoming their sworn adversaries. He took his time testing the covering of several un-husked walnuts before finally settling on the perfect missile. The selected projectile was neither too soft, nor too hard. It was, to Heywood’s estimation, just right. Taking the two, now tied together old inner tubes in hand and securely placing the selected walnut within the folds, he turned until his stance was directly behind and in the center of the two stout saplings employed to serve as integral parts for the homemade launcher.
Everything was ready. Heywood would wait until the enemy walked into the field of fire. Not once during the minute they all squatted there waiting did their adversaries look in the direction of Heywood’s gang. This was going to be sweet. There are so few times in a young person’s formative years when he actually feels he has the upper hand, or any hand, for that matter. Right then you could have called Heywood’s gang, The Band of the Hand, because they had it all.
Heywood’s plan was to wait until the entire unsuspecting group, presently busy sneaking up on the small clearing under the limbs of an old hickory nut tree used by both factions as their official meeting place, congregated together in their usual celebratory fashion when discovering the site empty or recently abandoned. Heywood figured that if they were all in a group his chances of getting a direct hit would be improved appreciably. Mere seconds remained before he would let loose their newest weapon in an effort to overcome the vastly superior br
awn of the Southtown horde.
The tension among his supporters was obvious. Heywood surmised that because one of his fellow gang members started farting loudly and continuously, while another brave lad began hiccupping. It was okay, though, because they were far away from the expected impact area. That site criteria requirement was Heywood’s idea. If the worst happened and the enemy survived the shelling to discover their position and came up the hill after them, Heywood wanted to have a head start on the, by then, thoroughly irate recipients of the fat walnut artillery volley who would undoubtedly come running at them with visions of mayhem. Actually, that particular aspect of his plan probably played a very big part in Heywood deciding to go through with it. If things went bad (meaning they started beating up Heywood and his gang) he felt sure he could get home and lock the door long before any potential assailants arrived at his door puffing and panting. They could also expect to be welcomed by Heywood’s part boxer, part something else, big and mean, standing on four legs dog who hated all the taunting Southtown ruffians because the dog so often saw them sitting on top of Heywood beating on his head. Heywood figured things would die down in, maybe, four or five years when he could probably risk coming outside to sit on the porch.
Onward crept the oblivious marauders into the open space which both sides claimed as sacred ground. Heywood’s primary aiming point became the tall skinny kid with the scary elbows. That’s what you had to watch out for when it came to fisticuffs, those long pointy elbows. The guy knew it, too. While others tried to show off their muscles to frighten potential brawling partners, this guy took off his shirt to put both of those spear points on display. Even if he didn’t take his shirt off you knew something was weird as his sleeves never came anywhere close to touching his wrists. Heywood personally saw him bend over to touch the ground one day and he swore the kid’s head never got below his rear end. Heywood thought he looked like a skinny bench.
The enemy halted in the middle of the small clearing to check around in all directions to ensure no ambush awaited them, as had been the case more than one time before. However their attention was limited to the immediate area and not one of them thought to peer into the distance, where the ambushers watched their every move. Elbows, the leader, even gave out a couple of hoots while proudly displaying his elbows, of course.
If the fat kid who farted when he got nervous hadn’t punched Heywood in the side of the knee from his concealed position behind a small cedar tree, Heywood may have tarried even longer. This moment was one he wanted to be able to recall, so Heywood took note of every small detail. He then placed the anointed walnut into the folds of the specially selected bicycle tire inner tubes, backed away from the saplings until satisfied he would not overstress the anointed tubes, took one last look at his aiming point, a lower limb on the distant hickory nut tree, and loosed the projectile.
Instantaneously, he became aware that his idea had worked. The path of the speeding projectile did not drop more than a yard over the entire distance it covered before crashing into a lower limb of the hickory nut tree. Near pandemonium ensued. The fat kid farted so loud that it was suspected he may have crapped in his pants before starting to cry. At the same time, the hiccupper took off on a hiccupping binge. Only some quick thinking on Heywood’s part - he gave the hiccupper a couple of quick slaps on the back to keep him from passing out from lack of oxygen. All during this time, Heywood giggled like a six year old school girl. He couldn’t help it; life was good. There was a God, and he approved of their flinging walnuts at a horde of hooligans.
While the confused group down below hurriedly chattered amongst themselves trying to ascertain what the heck was happening, Heywood readied the next round, and this time he would not aim so high. Only seconds later, another round was out the tube (so to speak) and on its way. Sure enough, Heywood’s aim was right on course. This time the projectile looked as if it would find the target. Visions of Elbow’s head saying hello to a two inch diameter, fully loaded walnut husk, danced in Heywood’s brain like those sugarplums fairies in that old Nutcracker song.
Alas, his second shot missed, passing within a foot of the main antagonist’s nose and disappearing into the thick tall weeds forming the rear boundary of the clearing, and still, none of the target group knew what the heck was happening. Their collective reaction was to stare intently up into the branches of the usually welcoming hickory nut tree. Heywood quickly determined he had time for one more attempt before a member of the target group figured out what was going on and led a charge up the hill. He had to make this next shot good.
Heywood took a look around to ascertain the status of his thinning out support group. Things looked pretty bad. The chubby kid with the suspected soiled pants lay in the tall grass whimpering as if he knew things were going to get very intense and that he was in no condition to make a getaway. The hiccupper stopped hiccupping, but he too looked as if he’d come to realize too late that his short legs would not serve him well when the stampede to the rear started. Fortunately, Heywood had already figured that his own level of courage would last just about long enough to get off one more round. Then, as he viewed it in the clearer light of day, it would be every former club member for himself.
“I’m getting the heck out of here,” came the frightened declaration of one of the kids Heywood normally considered to be something close to a loyal supporter whenever a disgruntled member felt a need for new leadership. He wasn’t a good friend right at the moment, though, simply because he now wanted to bail before they did any real damage with their once in a lifetime game changing weaponry.
“One more shot,” Heywood pleaded. “I’ll get that big elbowed freak the next time, I swear.”
The whole gang thought about it before giving him the go ahead, but Heywood also noticed that everyone, except for the fat kid and the short legged hiccupper, were edging their way towards the rear as he hurriedly loaded their weapon one last time before he also employed their about-face charge strategy. Heywood knew he needed to hurry as the gang down below began to scan the entire area to locate whatever it was that had them so frightened. Heywood’s hands shook as he fitted the final unhusked walnut into the now familiar folds of the long rubber bands. “Please, please, please,” he mumbled as the red rubber inner tubes willingly followed him the several yards in the opposite direction of the intended target.
“You better hurry up cause I’m gettin’ the heck out of here before they see us,” voiced the original naysayer.
Heywood paid him slight attention as he needed to direct all his mental energies towards the momentous task at hand - smacking the elbow freak up the side of the noggin with a fat green walnut. Heywood was a half second away from letting loose when he heard the screams from below.
“There those sniveling little creeps are. Get’em,” yelled the elbowed freak as he punctured the air with his flailing elbows while attempting to draw the scraggly members of his gang’s attention to the attackers’ no longer hidden position atop the distant incline.
That did it. The hiccupper went into spasms. The fat kid more than likely laid another pile in his pants if the even stronger odor told the tale. The rest of the gang started crashing into each other as they attempted to claim the single escape path exit point at exactly the same time. If Heywood hadn’t already locked and loaded their only means of defense, he’d have probably been right there with them flailing away in a pile after tripping over one another.
What happened next is still something of a blur, but somehow Heywood did let loose of the rubber bands holding the husk encased walnut representing, most likely, their last chance to ever exact revenge against their Southtown tormentors. Heywood soon realized that the trajectory was too low. Disappointment pushed aside his fear of being pummeled by the ruffians starting to move in their direction, but he also realized that he yet had the best opportunity of being the first former member of the club to get to the escape path. It was a narrow path which would mean that all those following behind would be
caught first allowing Heywood to have a better opportunity of escaping unscathed, excepting for the severe damage done to his suffering reputation as a gang leader and strategist.
Heywood glanced back towards the path of the low flying projectile right as it, as expected, took an early dive towards the ground. The reality that his grand scheme had failed again pretty much took the wind out of his sails. He was weary of trying so hard and getting bested by a bunch of Troglodytes. By the time the Southtown gang got to the top of the incline, he would be leading his disheartened gang members in a most disorderly retreat. This time, for sure, the surviving members would come together and vote him out of office. He would no longer be the main honcho or, what they would call today, the alpha male. He might even be relegated to sharing a tent with the chubby kid or worse, the hiccupper, if they ever again got to go on a camping trip, that is. Things were looking bleak.
Experiencing great disappointment at the prospect of the third attempt also failing to do righteous harm to the leader of the reviled Southtown gang, Heywood resolved to do a one eighty and run for his life. Then a miracle happened. The vision of the incident survives undiminished in Heywood’s memory to this day. The low flying projectile, which had already been given up on, received some last second help. Heywood still didn’t know what the projectile hit, but whatever it was caused the embodiment of all his hopes and dreams of outright disaster befalling his mortal enemies to become a reality. In simpler terms, the walnut glanced off something hard on the ground and smacked Elbows square in the nuts. The kid hit the dirt face-first and laid there unmoving. Of course, the remaining leaderless ruffians stopped their charge to gape in disbelief at the groaning, unmoving lump, lying face down in the field.
Heywood, too, stood immobile amazed at the wondrous sight to behold. The cries of sheer agony grew even louder. Their mortal enemy was in real pain. Even his gang members halted in their tracks to marvel at the sight. But was this merely a clever ruse to halt their determination to run for safety?
“Let’s hit’em again,” came the cry from a gang member who earlier threatened to provide Heywood with real competition for being the first one to gain the lead in the expected hasty retreat.
Seizing the moment, which often is credited as being the main determinant in turning sure defeat into a glorious victory, Heywood hurriedly loaded the giant slingshot with another round. A fourth ill-aimed, unhusked walnut soared just above the heads of the unbelieving and leaderless Southtown ruffians tearing a lower branch clean off the hickory nut tree. The leaderless mob danced around their face down and moaning leader like a bunch of headless chickens. An amazing resolve filled Heywood’s fellow gang members with a determination to continue the fight unlike ever before.
“Let’s hit’em again,” came the call from the ranks. And that’s what they did. This time Heywood aimed just above shoulder high to allow for some drop and then let loose another round. Two of the targeted group members smashed into each other face first as they jumped to keep from getting hit by another of the projectiles that were wreaking havoc upon their groveling lives. Climbing to their feet while cursing one another for getting in the way, they looked back up the hill to witness Heywood and his excited fellow artillery men bringing more ammunition so Heywood could carry on with the assault.
The next time Heywood looked down range after reloading, he was in for a shock. For what he witnessed was formerly unthinkable. The entire group of Southtown hooligans was in retreat. The best part of it was watching them drag their face down, clutching his privates, leader by the heels as they scampered back over the same route they so boldly used to enter the field of battle only minutes earlier.
What Heywood did next surely solidified his recently questioned leadership position. He used one last projectile to place a limb breaking shot just over their heads as the Southtown hooligans continued their ignominiously hasty retreat, a retreat that would be recounted with pride around future campfires for years to come.
Right at that moment, Heywood expected every kid in his walnut flinging group stood a little taller and grinned a little wider. They all probably learned something about life that wonderful day, though no one ever agreed on exactly what it was. For Heywood, it taught him to try to get along with others. If that didn’t work, well then, tie an inner tube between two strong saplings and smash them in the testicles with walnuts.