A stiff, morning wind whips through Patch Barracks.  Brittle leaves swirl in circles, some lifted into the early autumn air.  While mothers lovingly peer outside their apartment windows at their progeny, fathers practice soldiering about five miles away.  The children shout boisterously.  Little boys imitate their daddies with their toy guns and serious expressions.  The girls squeal about the fortunes of their dolls.

Then, staccato bursts destroyed the calm of the kitchens: 

“We interrupt this program to bring you a special bulletin.  A man brandishing a knife broke out of a local prison.  He is serving time for the murders of his entire family.  The man is believed to be in the Stuttgart area.  He is about six feet tall with a ruddy complexion.  Take precautions.  More details will be passed along as they become available.”  

Military moms listening to the radio broadcast, scurried outside to warn their children.  Within minutes, the apartment complex is transformed from vibrant playground into ghost town.

With the killer still at large, a growing hysteria gripped Stuttgart.  Chilling details about the case surfaced in the local papers.  Though the man confessed to the horrific crime, the bodies of the slain family members were never found.  For the next several days, the news stayed the same.  Children were cautioned to stay indoors.  Bulletins about the man consistently exposed the fears of the townsfolk.  

“A man fitting the killer’s description was observed rummaging through trash receptacles at the park, however, no further details are available,” said one radio announcer.  

“An unidentified, bedraggled, unshaven man, believed by many to be the killer, was seen running through the streets,” proclaimed another broadcaster.  

However, with each news flash, the mystery man appeared as elusive as ever.  The police offered few clues.   The apartments now resembled prisons…or sanitariums.  Mothers were becoming slightly daft with their broods inside all day.  Fathers, used to the rigorous discipline of their jobs, lost all control of their kids.  The fighting and yelling increased incrementally.

For one precocious eight-year old and his buddies, the return to the great outdoors was a godsend.  It was impossible to play army cooped up in an apartment.  Soldiers march and fight and die outside.  How would the tanks rumble?  Where could they fire their weapons?  How could a mortar possibly fit outside a tiny window?  What Stuka fighters and B-17 bombers would risk taking off and landing in cramped living rooms?  Finally, there were only so many corners to peek around indoors.    

“Everybody knows that!” the boys whined to their mothers.  

After a week went by with no resolution to the case, a few parents began to let their children venture outside.   Soon, others followed suit.  Slowly, Autumn was vibrant again with the gleeful noise of children.  Days passed.  The weather turned colder.  

The war game was proceeding splendidly.  This campaign was conducted on a drizzly day at the hill-top ruins of a WWII German hospital.  Leading up to the site was a gravel road which emptied into a paved street.  This short street led to a series of military buildings, including an MP station.  Jimmy Frederick, the freckle-faced radio man, had been killed in a firefight with the enemy.  However, quick-thinking Tommy Harris had seized the dead man’s equipment and was frantically calling for reinforcements. 

“This is K69er Alpha.  Heavy Casualties.  Send help!”  

Just then came another screaming enemy rocket.  The blast blew Platoon Leader Sgt. David twenty feet into the air.  The boys were dying fast but enjoying every minute.  All knew they’d be in for a tongue-lashing from their mothers when they got home.  Their clothes, faces, and hands were caked with mud.

Suddenly, as Tommy was crawling through the muck, he noticed a strange formation in the wet earth.  He scraped his fingernails.  The earth had turned a dull white.

“Guys!  I found something!” exclaimed Tommy.  

Herbie Martin, Billy Knudson, and the “deceased” soldiers all moved towards Tommy.  The war games were over.  When they arrived to investigate with their friend, a few of them had the same, sickening feeling.  These were buried human remains!  Could they be the family members of the killer? 

Tommy blurted out, “Let’s tell the military police!”

Tommy immediately began to race down the hill, the other boys following in his wake.  Down the gravel road they ran, their hearts beating wildly.  This would surely be big news.  Tommy and his friends would inform the authorities who would then dig up the bodies.  Forensic tests would be conducted and one mystery would be solved.  The boys would be heroes, perhaps getting their pictures in the papers or appearing on television!  Visions of fame danced in their collective heads.  Five minutes later, the excited eight-year olds arrived at the station.  Tommy and his group were panting heavily.

“There’s a body up there.  On the hill.  And he did it!” shouted Tommy.

“Calm down, son,” said a beefy-looking sergeant named Foster.

“Now, tell us the full story,” reasoned the squarish-jawed Sergeant Jones.

Tommy caught his breath and proceeded to relay the entire tale.  He told of how he and his buddies were playing on the ruins of the old hospital and how he had discovered the bodies in the squishy mud.  Tommy’s confession must have been convincing.  After some talk among themselves, Sergeant Jones decided to organize some soldiers to visit the site.  In all, about ten armed privates marched their way up the hill, commanded by Sergeant Foster.  Sergeant Jones forged ahead in a jeep.  The boys, meanwhile, raced up to the location to meet with their real-life counterparts.  

The suspense for Tommy and his friends was nearly unbearable.  These brave soldiers would find out the truth and they’d all be heroes!  After a few minutes, both parties converged on the site.  Nearly everyone was huffing and puffing.  Sergeant Jones wasted no time.

“Detail, halt!” screamed the authoritative Sergeant Jones.

“Tommy, where is the location?” said Sergeant Jones, his voice toned down considerably.

“Right here,” pointed Tommy.

“Private Stafford, begin digging right in that spot. Tell me what that stuff is,” said Sergeant Jones.

“Sure thing, Sarge,” answered Private Stafford.

The young private buried his shovel into the soft earth, mixing the whitish matter with the dark brown hues.  After turning over the mud with his tool several times, Private Stafford announced, “It’s not a body, Sarge.” 

By now, all the men in the detail had nudged forward to get a look.  Sergeant Jones peered into the whitish-dark terra firma.  Tommy and the boys looked puzzled.  If it wasn’t a body, what exactly was it?  Sergeant Jones grew impatient.

“Detail, attention!  OK, men, the excitement’s over.  Let’s get this show on the road.  Private Stafford, back in line!  Forward, march!” yelled the Sergeant.

The men cocked their rifles back over their shoulders and began their regimented descent down the hill.  Sergeant Jones pulled away in his jeep.  The marching men remained as perplexed as the boys.  However, in keeping with their orders, they trudged along.  This had been the most fun they’d had in months.  Keeping the peace could never be confused with the heart-stopping excitement of battle.  The march continued until the one private in the formation couldn’t stand it any more.

“Permission to speak, Sergeant Foster!” said one soldier.

Sergeant Foster relented.

“What was that mess back there?” questioned the private.

Without changing his cadence, the sergeant informed his men.

“Sergeant Jones used to grow them back home in Kentucky.  He says they were giant mushrooms.”

The marchers broke out laughing.

“Settle down, men,” quipped Sergeant Foster.

Meanwhile, back at the hospital, Herbie and Billy looked at each other in disbelief.  Tommy, who’d started it all, wiped away his tears.  David and Jimmy knelt down and began to dig away more of the squishy mud.

“They didn’t even tell us what it was!” wailed Tommy.

That afternoon, all of the boys returned home.  They were quiet as church mice.  No one, it seemed, wanted to stay up to watch television.  They just curled right up into their comfortable beds after wolfing down dinner.  War games were invigorating but exhausting.

When Sergeant Harris arrived home that evening, he hugged his wife Betty and then quickly found his favorite chair.  Propping his feet, he tried to relax from the rigors of a week of camping out.  

“There was an uproar today the last day of bivouac.  Some of the guys were talking about a ‘mushroom detail.’  I couldn’t quite make it out.  Then, on the radio on the way home, I heard this story about some boys playing soldier who found a giant mushroom,” said Sergeant Harris.

“Oh, it’s probably nothing,” sighed his wife.

“Where’s Tommy?  I don’t hear him.”

“He’s in bed.  He came home a muddy mess.  I’m sure he was up the hill again.  I gave him a bath and some dinner and he wanted to go right to bed.  He was babbling something about that killer when he nodded off,” said Betty.

This and other stories reside in the mostly autobiographical book Gratitude. Available from Pocol Press and Amazon.