The Boogeyman

That afternoon the platoon comes over a ridge and nearly trips over the man sitting in the shade.

The man everyone knows.

The sergeant demands “Who are you?” in arabic.  His accent is terrible.  “Are you him?”  The man smiles and nods.  Suddenly he’s looking down a lot of gun barrels.

He smiles even more, his face as warm and inviting as santa, arms open wide.  His palms are old, and calloused.

“Gentlemen,” (in flawless english), “Look!”

He plays eenie meenie miney mo with the hazy middle distance.  “There.” A rock.  “There.”  A tree.  “Two there.”   Another rock.   “He’s not even trying to hide.” A shadow in another shadow. “And more.  And back the way you came,” he shakes his index at the sky, “and radio jamming.”

“You are alone; gunned; surrounded; with nowhere to hide; and you are silhouetted against the setting sun. Please, give me your weapons.”

“Ah, but if they shoot they’ll hit you, too!” reasons the sergeant.

“That,” says the man, “is why you’ll never win.”