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Monday, June 14, 2010


We waited for the night watchman to retire at midnight, our hearts pounding three times with every tick of the clock that hung above the entrance to the latrine. We were an eight man unit until Feldman dropped out. He claimed he was hurt, but we knew he was just afraid. I couldn't blame him. We were young, gutsy, and stupid, and had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.

When it was time, we moved liked a well-trained platoon through the untamed bush of the Highlands. Bartell led us with silent hand signals. His cool cockiness gave us the strength to advance when most of us wanted to retreat back to home base. We knew capture was a very real possibility, and that the consequences of a failed mission would be dire.

We were less than a hundred yards from our target when Burger went down. I found no signs of a wound, but the blood was everywhere. "Go without me," Burger whispered angrily, as he shoved me away. "I can't leave you," I told him. But when I turned my back on him to motion for help, he got up and ran back to base.

We entered quietly from the South side in three teams of two. Bartell closed the door behind us, and we were mere feet from our prey. The near total darkness made it difficult to see, but our fearless leader pointed and we obeyed. "You, over there....You, there," he mouthed until each of us was assigned a target. I stood at the foot of a bed, lit only by the moon, anxiously awaiting further instructions. For a moment I wished I was Burger. But then, Bartell urged me on. He gestured for me to make my move, and I did. I nervously reached down towards my mark, my hand inches away, when suddenly my arm stopped. I could move it no more because it was being held back by a force I could not fight. What we had feared most was happening. The lights were flipped on, and all I could see as my body trembled, were a pair of ass cheeks so big that the short shorts in which they were imprisoned could have clothed a small village.

Betty, or Aunt B, as the entire population of Camp Nachas called the girls' head counselor, had busted up our raid and nearly broke my arm. There she stood, all two-hundred dowdy, cellulite ridden pounds of her, screaming for us to get back to our bunks immediately. My five bunk mates ran, leaving me with Aunt B. and a room full of giggling twelve-year-old girls. I was humiliated, as Aunt B. held onto my arm, leading me out of the girls' bunk, down a hill and into the camp director's office. "Who was with you?" he demanded to know, as I wondered why I couldn't be a pussy like Feldman or get nervous nose bleeds like Burger. I wanted to tell him that we were just young, stupid kids. Hell, only three of us had pubes, and I wasn't one of them. I only went on the raid because Bartell told me it was cool. I wasn't even sure what to do once we got there. Now I was being grilled like a twelve-year-old P.O.W. by a fat chick who made poor fashion choices, and a middle-aged orthodox Jew who was pissed that he'd been woken up in the middle of the night to deal with a horny kid.

I didn't give up my friends, but I did get docked from Color War. It was a small price to pay for a fond memory of my summers at Camp Nachas.

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