A Fistful of Fig Newtons (9 page)

“I see why they got screens all around that porch,” muttered Flick as he scratched frantically at his ribs.

Inside the building, which was a big empty hall with a lot of long wooden tables pushed together at one end and a row of naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, the Beavers milled around as though they owned the place, with the cool, on-top-of-it air of battle-scarred veterans. Captain Crabtree climbed up onto a chair and clapped his hands for attention.

“All right, men. Let’s quiet down here. Colonel Bullard will be
along shortly. He wants to greet you personally and will perform the initiation rites.”

The rain, which had picked up again, drummed heavily on the roof. Here and there, a few puddles soaked into the wood of the floor under dripping leaks. I stared out the windows to my right. A few kids who had arrived earlier in other buses trudged back and forth wearing raincoats. Somewhere off in the distance, I heard the sound of a Ping-Pong ball being batted back and forth.

“When the colonel arrives I want all of you to stand up straight and be quiet, y’understand?”

The crowd shifted restlessly. Outside I spotted a tall figure wearing a trench coat rounding the corner of the building. There was a loud clumping on the steps, the screen door swung open, and Captain Crabtree snapped to attention.

“Ten-HUT!” he shouted. “COLONEL BULLARD!”

The colonel, his face deeply tanned and seamed, as though carved from rich mahogany, strode to the center of the room.

“Jesus,” said Flick, “he must be seven feet tall!”

The colonel was wearing a peaked military cap with a large gold eagle. He wore gleaming black boots and carried a whiplike swagger stick, the first I had ever seen, which he slapped smartly against his dripping trench coat. The room fell silent, except for the steady patter of rain on the roof. He towered above Captain Crabtree, who was standing at attention atop his chair.

“At ease.” His voice was deep, resonant, official. “This looks like a fine body of men. We’ll soon whip them into shape, eh, Crabtree?”

Captain Crabtree nodded briskly four or five times and descended from his chair. Colonel Bullard cracked his face into a huge grin, his teeth gleaming brightly in the gloom. For the first time, I noticed he had a thin mustache, like Smilin’ Jack.

“Fellows,” he boomed, “we run a tight ship here.” He slapped his swagger stick hard against his whipcord puttees. “But a happy one. Right, Beavers?”

It was a rhetorical question, since none of the Beavers answered.

“But happiness, fellows, must be earned. A good workout in the morning, a few hours of honest labor, and then we have fun. Now, all you Chipmunks raise your right hand. So.” His gloved first shot up nearly to the ceiling. “And repeat after me the Sacred Oath of Chief Chungacong.”

He extended his forefinger and thumb at right angles, his forefinger pointing at the ceiling, his thumb jutting out sharply. “This is the secret sign of the Brotherhood of Nobba-WaWa-Nockee. Now,” his voice grew richer and fuller, “repeat after me: ‘Oh, Great Spirit of the Woods, Oh, Giver of Life …’ ”

Our forefingers pointed like a forest of toothpicks at the leaky roof.

“ ‘We shall work hard and play hard, with clean minds and clean bodies, to thy greater glory.’ ”

Together we shouted out the creed. The colonel paused dramatically. “And now, for the most important part of our ceremony–the Secret Wolf Call of Camp Nobba-WaWa-Nockee. Captain Crabtree, perform the call.”

The captain, eyes closed, tilted his head back and from deep inside his khaki tunic came a high, rising, spine-tingling wolf call. It echoed from floor to ceiling, from jukebox to screen door. The colonel, his face solemn after the last note died, said in a low voice: “Men, once you have joined your brothers in the sacred Nobba-WaWa-Nockee wolf cry, you will be bound together forever.” A hush fell over the mob. Even the grizzled Beavers were caught up in the occasion. “Together, men. Let’s hear it.”

The colonel waved his swagger stick like a wand over the crowd. Slowly at first, but then with gathering momentum, a great collective howl rose to the rainy heavens. I found my eyeballs popping, my neck bulging as some strange primitive beast deep within me rose to greet the rolling storm clouds. Schwartz, sweat pouring down his nose, seemed to be rising from the floor. The fat Chipmunk, his glasses steamed up in excitement, yowled
in the corner. The colonel, his face impassive, loomed like a great oak amid the banshees. Just as the wail reached its peak, he slapped his swagger stick hard against his trench coat. Instantly, as if a switch had been thrown, the howling ceased, leaving a ringing silence. The colonel stared slowly around the hall, his gaze direct and level, taking in all of us.

“Men, we are now brothers.” He turned and strode from the hall without as much as a backward glance.

“HOORAY! YAY! YAY! HOORAY!” A ragged cheer broke out.

Captain Crabtree was back on his chair. “All right, you guys. Let’s get cracking. We’ve got to move into the lodges before noon chow. Let’s go.”

Led by the Beavers, we charged out of the hall back into the rain. Lieutenant Kneecamp had unloaded all the baggage, which was piled up in five neat pyramids with signs on each one. He shouted into the hubbub: “Whatever pile your bag is in is what lodge you’re assigned to. I don’t want no arguments. That one over there is Eagle Lodge, that one’s Grizzly Bear Lodge, that one’s Hawk Lodge, that one over there is Polar Bear Lodge, and that one on the end is Mole Lodge.”

We finally found our stuff, after a lot of rooting around, in the Mole pile. It figured. I hoisted my suitcase, which felt twenty pounds heavier, since it was now soaked with Michigan rain water. Three or four new counselors had appeared, dressed in khaki jackets with yellow arrowheads on the sleeves.

“All right, you guys from Mole Lodge, follow me,” one of them called out listlessly. We fell in behind him as we struggled up a slippery clay slope toward the long line of log cabins.

A motley collection of kids squatted in cabin doors or lurked about in slickers and ponchos, watching the new shipment check in. A couple hollered: “You’ll be sorr-reee!”–an ancient cry that must have echoed around recruiting camps in the days of Attila the Hun.

The counselor glared in the direction of a pimply kid who ducked behind a cabin after chucking an apple core at Schwartz.
The counselor scooped up the apple core on the first bounce and winged it back at the retreating figure. It caught him neatly between the shoulder blades, splattering wetly as it hit.

“That’ll be three Big D’s, Klooberman.”

“Sir?” asked Flick as he staggered along under his huge steamer trunk. “What’s a Big D?”

The counselor glanced at Flick. “A Big D, kid, is a big fat
dee-
merit. You get more’n five and they cut off your ice cream. More’n
ten and forget the swimming. After fifteen, y’go on bread and water. Klooberman just went over twenty.”

“What’s gonna happen to him?” Schwartz asked, looking scared.

“Wait and see.” That was all he said as he swung open the creaking door of our little log-cabin home, standing aside for three startled squirrels to vacate the premises before walking in.

“Here it is, you guys, and you better keep it shipshape or you’re gonna answer to me, Morey Partridge, personally. Y’got it?”

We got it.

“And another thing,” he went on. “Once you pick your bunks, I don’t want no movin’ around, because of bed check. You pick yer bunks, y’stay there.”

We clumped into the dim little cabin. The walls were lined with bunks stacked three high, making six in all. The far wall had a tiny window that looked out into the black forest. Schwartz, Flick, and I were the first in. Behind us toiled three other Chipmunks, lugging their heavy baggage. The one at the end of the line was the fat Chipmunk. He dragged a monstrous steamer trunk over the threshold and without a word collapsed on the low bunk nearest the door. I don’t think he could have gotten any farther. He took off his glasses, which were round and metal-framed, with white tape holding one earpiece together.

“I wanna top one!” Schwartz said excitedly as he clambered up the narrow ladder to the highest bunk near the eaves. I shoved my suitcase onto the middle one. Within five minutes, we all had our individual territories staked out and we were ready for business.

“What’s your name?” I asked the strange Chipmunk in the bunk opposite me. He was unpacking a pair of water wings from his suitcase.

“Calvin Quackenbush,” he said over his shoulder, somewhat defensively.

The fat Chipmunk snorted nastily. Quackenbush glared at him. “What’s so funny, fatso?”

Life in Mole Lodge was already hardening into the pattern it would follow in the weeks to come.

From somewhere out in the rain a bell clanged–immediately followed by the thunder of hundreds of galloping hoofs.

“What the heck is that?” Flick hollered, rushing to the window and peering into the woods–the only point on the compass from which the sound wasn’t coming. The thunder grew. Schwartz threw the front door open. Kids hurtled by, kicking up muddy water, yipping and yelling as they ran, hundreds of them pouring out of the lodges, from every building, all rushing down the slippery slope that we had just struggled up. There’s something about a rushing crowd of people that sort of sucks you in. In a moment, I found myself out the door and running with the crowd, sloshing through puddles, Schwartz panting beside me. Flick brought up the rear, falling down and getting up and falling down again. We must have run 100 yards amid the ravening mob when Schwartz, gasping and wheezing, shouted at a tall Beaver who was going past us like a freight train, his knees snapping high, his arms flailing.

“HEY! What’s going ON?”

Without looking aside, the Beaver tossed back, “It’s Hamburger Day!”

We had arrived at Nobba-WaWa-Nockee a few minutes before the absolute pinnacle of the week: Saturday lunch.

From all directions, streaming hordes of kids surged toward the mess hall. Some raced up from the lake, carrying paddles; others dropped tools and Indian beads as they ran, fresh from leathercraft. I saw a counselor, attempting to slow the mad dash, engulfed and overrun by the mob. Up the steps we ran, spraying mud and gravel. Inside the mess hall, most of the tables were already filled with hardened campers who knew the ropes. The meal, served by fat ladies in white uniforms, turned out to be light gray hamburgers, soggy French fries, cole slaw, and pitchers of cherry Kool-Aid, a true kid meal. The uproar was deafening as pieces of bun flew through the air and counselors battled the
barbarian hordes, attempting to maintain some semblance of civilization.

“NOW, SIDDOWN! YOU CAME IN HERE TO EAT, NOT THROW POTATOES AROUND!” Captain Crabtree, in a momentarily clean uniform, shoved at writhing bodies amid the turmoil. It was all over in a couple of minutes. Stuffed with hamburgers and soggy with Kool-Aid, we followed the crowd back out into the rain.

“Hey, you guys!” It was Morey Partridge. “You better not be late for forestcraft. Down at the rec hall in ten minutes. Y’get two Big D’s for every minute you’re late, so get your rumps in gear.” He scurried off into the drizzle to break up a wrestling match that had broken out in the mud.

Out of breath, faces red, clothes clammy, we squeezed into the crowded rec hall, which was already filled with Beavers and fellow Chipmunks. Another counselor stood on a platform next to a blackboard, peering at his wristwatch. At the stroke of one, the lecture began:

“Forestcraft consists of learning to live off the land in the wilderness. The Indians …”

Behind us the screen door slammed noisily and three Chipmunks attempted to skulk in unnoticed. The lieutenant at the board rapped his pointer sharply on the floor.

“Sergeant, get those men’s names and lodges. We’ll deal with them later.”

A chunky counselor wearing a Nobba-WaWa-Nockee T-shirt and a businesslike crew cut closed in on the cowering malefactors. There was a brief session of muttering in the corner and the lecture continued. It was all about how you could tell what direction north was by looking at the moss on trees and how, if you knew where north was, everything was O.K., for some reason. The moist atmosphere of the rec hall slowly approached that of the Amazon jungles as 100 tightly packed bodies exuded noxious gases and the flat voice of the lecturer twanged on. Schwartz dozed off and limply slumped sideways against the leg of the pool
table. Immediately, the sergeant rapped him sharply across the neck with a rolled-up copy of
Field & Stream
.

Schwartz started violently, his eyeballs round and glassy. “It’s got my foot!” he blurted incoherently. Apparently he’d been trapped in the middle of a nightmare. Chipmunks snickered for yards around.

“What’s your name, Chipmunk?” The sergeant peered into Schwartz’s face.

“Uh … Schwartz.”

“What lodge are you in?”

“Mole.” Schwartz had yet to learn that no enlisted man ever gives his right name or serial number to an MP.

“That’ll be two big ones for interrupting the lecture.” The sergeant scribbled something in a notebook.

“The direction that vines and creepers grow on the trunks of trees is important. When lost, a woodsman …”