ONE TOY SOLDIER STANDS ALONE

26 August 2014   Houston

I was six years old when I first saw a toy soldier. It was of a marksman, aiming his rifle at some distant target. He was sitting on a window ledge in the kitchen of a man my mother was dating at the time. I pointed at it and smiled, saying: "You have a toy soldier!"

That very instant, Herbie took the small plastic man down from his lofty perch and gently placed it into my hand. "It's yours, now!" he said, smiling, and so began a time in this little boys life when toy soldiers marched into my room and into my toybox.

Although toy soldiers have been around since Pharoah's time, they seem to have really caught on only during the last days of the 18th century. Made of wood, stone, lead, and other materials, it was not until after WWII that plastics began to be used for this purpose. Plastic was cheap, so the overwhelming majority of the population could afford to have at least some.

Shortly after receiving my small gift from Herbie, I went to the local Drug Fair drug store and with a small amount of pocket change I bought a bag or two of US soldiers, compatible in scale to my recent acquisition. Soon these little guys were everywhere.


We visited a military base, and I delighted in saluting every soldier I saw - be he officer or enlisted man - and every once in a while one of them would return the salute! I toured Quantico in Virginia, and watched with great fascination the radar and Nike missiles installations. On the way to our apartment from Quantico, I noticed the rotating signs at each gas station, and imagined they were radars, searching the skies for enemy aircraft.

This was during my military phase, where I loved everything Army! It was no coincidence that Herbie was in the Army, and he nicely provided me with a leather jacket onto which my mother lovingly sewed several Army patches. I was so proud of that jacket! Also I was periodically given a regulation "burr" haircut. I was a regular little GI!! I actually had a REAL (practice dummy) hand grenade.

Oddly enough, in my play with these little plastic military men, I never had them fight each other. Instead, I would have them all combine forces against a new and more deadly menace, such as a giant monster.

We attended military functions, such as dinners and dress marches. I loved to see soldiers march in formation, to a cadence. One day, on the Mall in Washington, D.C., there was just such a big event. Marching soldiers by the thousands were joined by jeeps pulling cannon, tanks, and other military vehicles. Suddenly a large artillery piece let loose with a tremendous roar.

BOOM!!!!!

The whole crowd was silent, and I blurted out, with my little voice that carried for blocks: "Did anybody get KILLED??"

Death was not at all anything that I could relate to - not at age 6. I did not associate hand grenades, bombs, missiles, tanks, guns - or even bayonets with anything unpleasant. I was invited to dinner by a friend of mine, and his father had lost his leg during the war. I was sorry, but really felt no empathy back then. Such is the innocence of a child, I suppose.

We moved to New Orleans, and my little military group came along with me, to have more adventures on the front steps of my grandparents' house. They were joined by spacemen and Indians and cowboys and Civil War soldiers - a very strange mix indeed, and even stranger were the enemies they faced.

Then somewhere along the way I must have grown, and the little men were relegated to cigar boxes and put up on shelves, forgotten. I had schoolwork and many other things on my mind. The country changed its attitude towards the military, and as a result, toy soldiers were no longer seen in the living room floors where little boys lived.

One day, my little cousin came down from Pittsburgh for a visit, and he had a ball playing toy soldiers with me. So, like Herbie before me, it was time to send the troops off to a new and distant land. My marksman would be among the ones to go.

Several years later I had gone up to Pittsburgh to help my aunt and uncle move. It was an arduous task especially moving the refrigerator! The move mostly done, now, we were making a sweep for anything left behind. In the dirt I saw my little plastic soldiers, left there some time ago by another little boy who now was a bit bigger. I decided to leave them there. If he had wanted them, he would have picked them up, or come back for them, I thought, and maybe he did so at a later date. I really don't know.

I walked away from the bush under the stairs that hid the little group of soldiers, and then I stopped, and turned back. I went searching through the sand, as if I was saving Private Ryan, and soon found the marksman soldier I had gotten as a gift from Herbie at age 6, picked it up and put it in my pocket. Yes, the soldiers were my gift to him, but this one was special to me, and so I cleaned him up and took him home.

The little marksman remains in a small, wooden cigar box loaded with many other things I treasure above all my other possessions. Once in awhile I take it out and it reminds me of days long gone - days of playtime and fun, when the world was innocent and good.

I know soon enough the time will come when I must pass on this little gift to one of my grandsons, but I somehow don't think this little bit of plastic will have the meaning for him that it had to me. To him, it will only be a little toy soldier in a cigar box.

One toy soldier stands alone.

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☟BELOW: A set of 60mm U. S. combat soldiers, 1950's vintage, by MARX.