by Linda Ratoff
Sunlight dappled Paul and Scott as they made their way through the unfamiliar woods. It had been a few days since they'd last seen Fox and Wylie, but they chose to stay away from main thoroughfares and towns all the same.
"Dad, next time we come to a clearing, can we go across it instead of around it for once?" Scott asked as he stopped for the umpteenth time that day to shake pine needles out of his sneakers. "I'm beginning to feel the moss growing on my north side."
"That sounds like a good idea," his father agreed as he stooped to check his shoes as well. "The trees seem to be thinning up ahead, so you may be getting your wish before the moss gets any denser" Paul returned, eyebrow arching.
As they cleared the last of the trees, father and son came to a shocked stop. Spread out in the field ahead of them were more military vehicles and people in olive drab and green camouflage clothes than they'd seen even when they were at Peagrum.
Before they were able to shake off their surprise and duck back into the dark safety of the trees, a soft female voice greeted them. "Hello, strangers. Now that's a new way to find us, coming through the woods instead of down the road."
Apprehensively, Paul and Scott turned toward the woman standing beside them, her arms full of small branches and sticks as if she'd been gathering firewood. Instead of the military green, she was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with some kind of club logo m it. "Hello," Paul returned warily.
The woman put down her bundle and brushed off her hands. "Welcome to the Valley Military Vehicle Collector's annual rally. You look as it you've just seen an enemy encampment. Don't worry, we're harmless," she chuckled. "I 'm Lynn Johnson."
Scott gulped. "You're... you're not with the military?"
"0h, heavens, no. Not at all, though most of the men and several of the women were in the service or grew up in military families," was the fervent response. "Please feel free to look around, talk to any of our members, check out the vendors If you'd like, Mr...?"
"Forrester, Paul Forrester." a relieved Starman answered as he looked around the field more closely. "This is my son, Scott. We had no idea there was anything like this."
Lynn nodded. "Most people don't. We've pretty much kept a low profile since 'Nam. Anything military's been unpopular since then. We're happy to welcome all interested people who share our love of history and want to preserve even a small part of it. Oops, we'd better move. Here comes the mule."
Paul and Scott quickly stepped to the side and looked around for a horselike animal with long ears. Instead, a motorized platform, every inch covered by happy, giggling children holding m for dear life, skittered past them.
As the dust settled, Lynn bent down and picked up the wood. ."I've got to finish setting up our tent," she apologized. "Feel free to ask any one any questions, but I warn you, most of the people here'll talk your ears off about their truck if you give them half a chance."
Paul unconsciously reached up to touch his ear, then realized that was yet another Earth expression he was-going to have to ask his son about. His curiosity overcoming the apprehension and with Scott trailing reluctantly behind, Paul made his way towards the center of the field where several different kinds of military trucks were lined up., many with their owners working on them. As they'd been forewarned, even the briefest of questions were answered in complete and enthusiastic detail.
Scott wandered away to check out a well-equipped Jeep while his father was learning everything possible about a small truck called an M-37.
A boy in his mid-teens approached Scott and asked ."Is that your father my dad's boring to death?" Hi., I'm Patrick," he introduced himself. "A lifelong member of this group."
"Hi, I'm Scott. Yeah, that's my dad, and I don't think he's ever been bored when he's learning something new," was the knowing reply. "We were just passing through when we stumbled into here. Do you know what all these trucks are?"
"Sure do," was the proud response. "Some of my earliest memories are about playing in most of them. That's my mom you were talking to over by the woods, and she thought you'd might like someone to show you around who would keep things simple."
"Thanks." Scott smiled. "There was something I was wondering about..."
When the man explaining the wonders of the flathead six engine to Paul stopped to take a breath, Paul glanced up to see his son deep in conversation with another teenaged boy. Politely excusing himself, Paul made his way over to Scott and his new friend. Learning about Patrick's offer to show them around, he readily accepted.
After a quick stop for some hamburgers, they paused for only a moment at the vendors selling mechanical parts as Patrick said hello to his old friends. "The same folks show up every year, so we're all m a first-name basis," he explained. Scott was intrigued by the clothing displays. He was able to persuade his father to try m one of the olive drab jackets and baseball-style caps. He himself preferred the soft, wide-brimmed "boonie" hats.
An announcement over the loudspeaker that it was almost time for the afternoon trail ride and swim gave Patrick an ideal. "Scott, how about coming along with us? You haven't lived until you've been on a trail ride in the back of a deuce-and-a-half troop carrier, and the lake's the greatest. My dad's still getting his truck ready for the judging tomorrow, so I 'm going to be hitching a ride with a friend. I'm sure there'll be plenty of room for you. You can borrow my spare swimsuit if you need one." It was still early and there were no other boys Patrick's age at the Rally yet. He wasn't eager to see his new friend leave. "You can change in our. tent if you'd like."
Scott looked at his father hopefully. The idea of actually getting to ride in one of the huge trucks was thrilling.
Sensing his son's excitement, Paul agreed, as long as the truck's owner didn't object, "And your parents give their permission for us to use the tent."
The pair quickly changed in the Johnson's tent, slipped their spheres their shirt pockets, and left their knapsacks in a neat pile in a corner. After climbing up the short ladder into the back of the truck, they found spaces on the long wooden seats across from Lynn Johnson and her young daughter, Holly.
"Glad to see you decided to stay," was Lynn's warm greeting. "I don't know if Patrick's warned you, but the ride can get a bit bumpy. Better find a good hand-hold," she laughed.
The ride up the paved road leading from the Rally site, like the main highway, was smooth and comfortable. 'The canvas arching over them flapped at each tie-down with soft snaps. The small convoy of military and civilian vehicles turned off onto a dirt road that quickly turned into a deeply-rutted wide trail. The passengers had to hold on tighter and tighter as the bouncing increased. A few times the novices followed the experienced riders's lead by standing and letting their legs act as shock absorbers. Six-year old Holly discovered the bouncing made her voice vibrate. Giggles followed by senseless vocalizing followed by more, louder giggles continued despite her mother's warnings to be quiet. Only the threat of not being allowed to swim finally silenced the child's noise.
Exhausted, Lynn turned to Paul. "That girl! After three sons, I thought I'd seen everything. But sometimes I wonder if an alien from space switched babies on me with that one. Have you ever felt like that?"
Taken aback, Starman could only stammer, "Alien child? No, no, not at all," as Scott busied himself by fiddling with the tie-down next to him.
The lake was everything Patrick had promised, the water cool and clear:' under the hot sun. The mothers and young children stayed nearer the shore, while the others swam out to and around a small raft anchored about twenty feet out.
As they were getting ready to leave, Scott's sphere slipped out of his pocket. Holly promptly pounced on the 'shiny marble', as she called it. It was all Scott could do to pry it out of her hand. He had to explain over and over he needed his lucky charm before she'd open her fist.
For the ride back, one of the other mothers agreed to take Holly back with her in her Bronco. She planned on taking a nearby paved road while the military trucks continued down the trail, with its ruts and rocks and downed tree limbs.
Everyone returned to the field in tire for the cookout provided by the club. Paul and Scott stayed to eat at the Johnson's invitation before setting up their sleeping bags off in the far end of the field. They dropped off to sleep listening to the sound of happy voices and the laughter of good friends.
Saturday dawned bright and hot. People started arriving early, some in their own old military vehicles, along with others who simply shared their interest. The club president, Jake Martin, finally realized why Paul looked familiar. Never one to be shy, he did his best to persuade the photographer to take pictures for the club newsletter as well as for a story being written by a local paper, " for a small fee and all you and Scott could eat at the club banquet that night," as Jake put it. Paul agreed, on the condition that his name not be used.
By noon, almost seventy military vehicles had arrived, about half ready for the rough and tumble trail rides, the rest restored and polished, all set for the afternoon's judging. Jake gave Paul a quick briefing on the different categories pictures were needed for: besides Beet in Show, the vehicles were judged on how completely they were restored, if all the parts used were original, how well done the work was, if the markings were correct, etc.
Scott followed his father around for a while before getting bored with all the waiting while the judges did their work. When Patrick mentioned another trip to the lake, he jumped at the chance. By the time they got back, most of the casual visitors had started drifting away and the club members were preparing for the banquet.
The quiet bustle of the campground was interrupted when Lynn realized that Holly was missing. Everyone quickly gathered at the Johnson's tent to see what they could do to help.
While Lynn's husband tried to calm her down, Jake did his best to find out how long the child had been gone. "Now when was the last time you saw Holly?" he asked gently.
The distraught mother tried to think back. Her voice racked with sobs, she explained what she knew. "She... she was supposed to stay at Lenny and Joy's tent, to play with little Karen, while I was at the mess tent, getting ready for tonight. Joy said the girls had some kind of fight, that Holly took her doll and stomped back to our tent. Joy heard her say something about going home, but thought she meant the tent. She saw Holly go in, and kept an eye over there until she saw re come back. We didn't realize my baby was missing until I went over to get her." At that, Lynn's voice broke completely.
Search parties were immediately organized, groups of two or three, each with walkie-talkies.
Paul was standing off to the side, wondering if he should offer his help, when Scott rushed up to him. Urgently, he grabbed his father's arm and whispered in Paul's ear, "Dad, my sphere's gone!"
When Patrick said there usually were lots of people at the lake during weekends, I decided it would be safer if I left it here, especially after I almost lost it yesterday. I just checked, and all my clothes were all messed up. I bet that little pipsqueak's got it - she's been pestering me to let her play with it." Paul nodded at his son's reasoning, then spoke up. "May Scott and I help? I'm sure you can use more people."
No offer was going to be refused, and the new volunteers were quickly outfitted with a radio and roughly-drawn rap.
As the parties scattered, Paul and Scott checked their campsite area first. Some flowers Scott had noticed the night before were gone, freshly picked it seemed. Paul decided to try looking in the woods instead of following the road.
"Too bad you can't use your sphere to home in m mine," Scott complained as he tripped over some tree roots. "It'd be a whole lot easier than just bumbling around like this."
"You know that's not possible, Scott," his father reminded him. "I would have been able to find you and your Uncle Wayne when he had it, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember," the boy answered, his head down as he tried to make his way around more roots. Instead, he ran right into his father, who'd stopped to try to listen to a faint noise off in the distance.
"Scott, can you hear that? It sounds like crying."
The teenager stopped, and listened as hard as he could. "I think I hear something; I can't be sure."
"I am sure. It's not that far ahead." Ignoring the underbrush, Paul followed the sound, stopping every few moments to listen. Before long, he could see her, huddled under a bush and clutching her doll and a small bouquet of flowers closely to her. Beside her lay Scott's sphere.
Paul scooped the wailing child up into his arms. His gentle touch and soothing voice soon calmed her, and she fell into an exhausted sleep in the safety of his embrace.
Scott broadcast the good news over the radio. By the time they made their way back, the other teams had already returned and were waiting for them.
That night's banquet turned into the biggest celebration the club had ever known, with Paul and Scott as the guests of honor.
By the tire the sun had started to burn off the early morning fog, the campsite was beginning to close itself up. One young couple, their trailer packed up and secured, were policing the area, dragging a large trash bag behind them as they made ever-decreasing circles, cleaning up any debris that may have been left behind. Those not needed at their awn camps, or already finished, were taking down the two large club tents used for the cookout and banquet. Scott was fascinated how quickly the first one collapsed in on itself when the center pole was removed and then the side poles were pulled down. Everyone knew what to do, even Holly who happily scampered over the canvas with a little brush to clean off any grass clippings or other debris before the tent could be folded up and put away. Scott volunteered to help with the second tent once he saw the routine.
Holly's father clapped Paul on the shoulder "I still don't know how to thank you for yesterday. I realize you said you and your son have to be leaving today, but I wish you'd let us treat you to breakfast. There's an American Legion near here that serves a public Sunday brunch that'll knock your socks off. You can spend the night with us, and I'll be happy to drop you off at the bus station in town tomorrow morning. Unless, of course, you'd rather I bring You back here and you can finish your walk in the woods.
Paul looked over to where Scott was doing his best to get the tent into its protective bag, eyebrow raised as he stored the expression 'knock your socks off' for later explanation. "No, the bus station would be fine. Moss can't grow on you in buses."
George Fox's finger jabbed at the photos on the major's desk. "I'm telling you, Sir, I saw these two sitting in the back of one of your trucks. If my assistant here," he shot a dagger-like glance at Wylie," had been able to find a place to turn around sooner, weld have been able to catch up with the convoy. I've had a red flag alert on these two for a long time. Surely it popped up."
"And I'm telling you, I have no idea what you're talking about," the exasperated National Guard commander shot back. 'Weld have no reason to take these men, or anyone for that matter, into custody, and we don't pick up hitchhikers. You must have been mistaken."
"No, sir, we're not," Wylie volunteered, trying to redeem himself in his boss's eyes. "They were sitting in the open back of an M-37, plain as day."
"An M-37, you say? Are you sure of that?" the major's aide queried.
"Yes, sir," Wy1ie nodded emphatically. "I spent a lot of, time around the motor pool when I was in the service. As the convoy passed us I saw a couple of M-37's, several M-38's, a 151, and..."
The major laughed. "But no Humvee's? I thought not," the major responded to Wylie's shaking his head. "That wasn't one of our groups, but a local civilian club. This weekend was their annual Rally."
Fox jumped at the new information. "Civilians? With military trucks? That's perfect! There must be records, lists of some kind of who they are. You've got to get me a copy of that list."
The major smiled tightly as he interrupted the agitated man. "No, Mr. Fox, we don't. When the military is finished with these Vehicles, they're sold to anyone who's interested. We'd have no more reason to keep a list on them than any other antique car club." He raised his hand to stop Fox's further sputtering. "I especially do not appreciate anyone making such demands while refusing to give m any information concerning the subjects. I am not a private fresh from basic with no security clearances." Barely keeping his temper in check, the major pointedly looked past Fox to his aide. "'Lieutenant, would you please show our guests to door? The front door." Major Thomas Martin waited until after the office door was firmly shut before he reached over to the phone and started to dial the number of his kid brother, Jake. Perhaps he could explain why the weird little government agent was so determined to track down a photographer and teenage boy.
THE END
Written by Linda Ratoff