“Bandits at 4 o’clock!” shouted the older brother, mimicking the voiced alarm of the pilot.
“Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat” the older brother also responded, rotating the imaginary ball turret toward the approaching imaginary enemy fighter.
Next was the sound of a staccato rhythm from tracers raking the side of their aircraft.
The little brother, still in diapers, repeated the “rat-tat-tat-tat’s” of his big brother while placing one hand on the glass door that offered a wide field of vision to spot enemy aircraft, which glass door also doubled as the door to the back yard.
Though he had no idea what a .50 caliber Browning machine gun was, nor where 4 o’clock was, much less what was meant by “I got your six!” which is what his big brother shouted next, still the little guy was fully engaged in whatever it was they were doing.
Big brother called a cease fire for a moment and explained the meaning of “I got your six.”
“In a dogfight, an enemy pilot will fly behind our plane to shoot it down – that’s the six o’clock position – but our wingman is watching that area of the sky.”
Little brother grimaced at his big brother not at all understanding and at that same moment the unmistakable sound – and smell – of having just soiled his diaper filled their cramped quarters.
With a beatific smile that conveyed a mix of admiration of his bigger brother and total mystification, the one with the pudgy toes kneeling in the laundry room that had been transformed into the bubble of their B-17 bomber knew one thing.
They were winning this battle of defending their planes’ underside against enemy fighters.
At least that’s what his brother said.
Their mother – who loved antique stores and garage sales – had once found a seaplane rocking horse which the older boy thought had better purposes than simply rocking back and forth without getting anywhere.
Thus it was that one day the older boy converted the seaplane into a fighter plane, placing the craft on top of the clear plastic dome through which gunners had once actually watched for enemy aircraft from their B-17 bomber. The boys’ great grandfather had obtained the orb and converted it into a goldfish bowl.
Since this day there were no goldfish in the bowl, as it was being cleaned, over the bowl went and up on top of the bowl the older brother perched the seaplane rocker, aka fighter plane, and off into the wild blue yonder he soared looking for a dogfight.
And so it was that the boys passed the time while awaiting their airline pilot dad who that night would gather them in his arms and describe yet another cross country flight through beauty beyond even their little-boy imagination; a place far, far above them; a place where brilliant sunsets painted the sky.
A world they would see through the eyes of their airline pilot dad when he returned home.
