DECEMBER 20th, 1989: THE DAY the Snowfront Campaign began. It was halfway through my 6th grade year, and it would only be three days before school let out for the rest of that year. A couple of popular 8th grade kids were having a snowball fight in a lot just outside of the neighborhood that day when Eric Sprinter threw an ice ball and knocked Jorge Ramos’ front teeth out. Things escalated from there, and you can imagine what happened next.
The next day, Jorge told his other friends what happened over lunch, and because he was popular, convinced a bunch of kids to ambush Eric and his friends that same day after school. Well, when one iceball hit Eric’s crotch, he lost it and ran.
They thought it was over. But the day after that, or the last day of school, Eric gathered his friends, and demanded war on Jorge’s armies. Not with bullets, but with snowballs. Not with shells, but with snowmen-head sized snowballs. Whichever army had the most claimed land by January 5th the next year would win the war, and the losing commander would give the other bragging rights, and their monthly allowance. I overheard that Eric was planning on buying a brand-new NES with the money, and Jorge was gonna buy himself some fake teeth.
And so commenced the Snowfront Campaign of ‘89 to ‘90.
My 8th grade brother, Ted, who I practically worshiped at the time, took sides with Jorge because his buddy Derek was cousins with Jorge. Plus he liked Jorge’s claim on what he was going to buy with the earned money at the end of the war more than Eric’s stupid NES.
Each kid was assigned a division; each division was assigned to a company; each company was assigned to a lieutenant; and each lieutenant was assigned to General Ramos. Though Ted was with Starlight Company, while I was with Golf Company, we every so often ran into each other in major battles. The smaller battles were usually only one or two companies, whereas major battlefronts were sometimes almost everyone on each side at once.
I don’t think I really got to be in a major battle until December 23, or as survivors of the battle call it, “Battle of Dig-Dug” (both generals were big videogame fanatics, and named the battles after popular videogame characters at the time.)
My company (Golf Company), under Lt. John’s command, was marched to the snow mounds near Mint Lane to supply a then fighting Bob Company with ammo (snowballs). But, not long after we got there, Lt. Aaron of Sprinter’s armies ambushed us.
I was lucky to take cover when I did because a boy right next to me got shelled, along with another girl. And lots of precious ammo.
I took cover behind a mound of pre-done snowballs while kids all around me got massacred. Not sure whether the opposing armies spotted us by sheer chance or somehow knew we were coming. Either way, they showed us no mercy. I think half of our army had been knocked down by the time someone gathered the courage to fire back. Took out the enemy’s lieutenant, I think.
The enemy company went into chaos without someone in charge. I guess Lt. John thought this was our chance to charge, so he commanded us to do so. And charge them, we did. If I remember correctly, I took out three opposing soldiers.
In the end, we won that mini-battle, and finished supplying ammo to Bob Company. We came in the nick of time, too, because the enemy was gaining on them and they had almost no ammo to fight back, winning us the Battle of Dig-Dug. Lt. John won a medal, of some sort, I think.
Then, on January 5th, 1990, the very last day of the Snowfront Campaign before both armies’ occupied land area would be compared, happened. I had six major battles worth of experience, and considered myself well-versed in action. The amount of occupied land area taken by our armies was slightly more than theirs. And they wanted that land back because it was the definition of the fate of the war.
There had been a blizzard producing four feet of snow the previous night. This was perfect for us.
The way it happened was Lt. John came knocking on my door thirty minutes earlier than usual. Behind him was most of my company. He told me that he gathered the others up because they were going to go dig a trench and tunnel system out of the deep snow. And so we got to work. About 2 hours later, we had a pile of snowballs big enough to supply a lot of people. We also had most of the front line full of trenches and tunnels.
We knew Sprinter’s armies were going to hit hard, so we prepared harder. Or so we thought, at least. But right as we were almost done with the system, a kid a few feet down the trench from me got shot in the head with a snowball.
Following that, a huge crowd of kids and teenagers appeared over the horizon. I think Sprinter gathered the whole of his army up, himself among them.
This battle was worse than the Battle of Dig-Dug. Much, much worse. Shells bursted here, soldiers went down there, and what was worse is that we were outnumbered ten to one.
This was the battle of Q*Bert.
Lt. John sent some kids after some snow brick molds, some other kids after icicles to build makeshift barbed wire, and gave those of us remaining simple directions: half of us to fight back, and the other half to supply the fighters with snowballs. I got put onto the supplying half because the kid I got partnered with, Stan Isaac, who was an eighth grade boy who was a way better shot than me, and we both knew it immediately, so he got into his position, and I got into mine.
The battle went on that way for about fifteen minutes, until those kids with the molds came back, followed by the kids with the icicles. I wish I could say they made it to the trenches unharmed, but I’d be lying. They got shot to bits by some kids, led by… of course it was Lt. Aaron. Back in black, as kids back then would say (the time of Back in Black, duh!)
Once those kids got taken out, Lt. Aaron sent some of his men after the resources, and others after the exposed and vulnerable trenches.
We shot at them as fast and as hard as we could. But when one fell, another took his place, and eventually Stan got shot down. Stan. If those kids could take out Stan, then they could definitely take out me. So I did what any rational person would do: ran.
But some kids spotted me, and chased after me. Luckily, they didn’t know about our secret tunnel systems, so I leaped into one, and crawled out of sight. All those dummies ran right past me without realizing. Well, all except one. He got his buddy’s attention, and crawled after me.
They chased me through those tunnel systems for around five minutes before I crawled out of an exit that led directly to a hill overlooking Bowser lagoon (like I said earlier, both generals were huge videogame fanatics.)
I popped out of the tunnel, and my body rolled down the hill like a ragdoll.
I leaped up and tried to run across the lake, with a hint of hope that the ice would snap behind me and my pursuers would fall through it, but it didn’t. Instead, I slipped.
I slipped! I didn’t even make it two feet off the shore, and I freaking slipped like a total doofus.
While I sat there groaning, listening to the sound of my ears ringing, those jerks caught up to me.
“What do we have here?” said the taller and more bulky one of the two.
“Get up,” the other and shorter one says.
I obey, for fear of getting a horrible death.
“Walk!” the same one barks.
“What?” I ask, confused.
“Walk!” he repeats. This time, though, he gestures towards the middle of the pond.
“Why?”
“Walk, dammit!” he shouts.
I gulp. Walking out there, on ice that can’t be more than four inches thick, means almost certain death. But I obey, once again, for some reason.
I stand at the edge of the lake, sweating despite the subzero temperatures.
“Do I have to?” I blurt out, without thinking.
Raising the hand with a snowball, he yells, “Yes, now WALK, YOU SON OF A–”
His words are interrupted by the sound of a snowball hitting his friend in the back, collapsing to the ground.
“Bill, what happen–” He is once again interrupted by the sound of a snowball, but this time hitting him in the face. He collapses to the ground as his friend did.
I stand there, in utter surprise, gazing upon the two kids, lying on the ground, moaning.
I see a hint of movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn to face the source, finding a person dressed up in a white jacket, white snow pants, black boots, black gloves, and a black face mask. They looked like something straight out of a horror movie.
We make eye contact, staring each other dead in the eyes. Then, they turn, charge up the hill, and disappear over the horizon.
Then I plop down on the snow, and sit, thinking. Not about anything, in particular.
Just thinking.
In the end, most of Sprinter’s men, along with Sprinter himself, got taken out by our armies. The remaining two companies ran away, giving up their land.
We had won the war.
Sprinter gave Ramos his monthly allowance, and lost his popularity. I saw him not six months ago, actually. I was getting ice for our faulty ice machine at the gas station on Washington Road, when I spotted him. Eric Sprinter, probably in his mid forties, fat now, having a lonely smoke out front. Making no contact, I walked to the ICE cooler, grabbed some ice and paid for it, and left.
Me? I have a wife, two boys, three girls, and an old weiner dog. I never left my town, probably because I needed to take care of my parents right out of college, until they both unfortunately died of old age. My inheritance was about fifty thousand from each of them, and Ted got the same amount, now living in New York. I also inherited their house, which was the right size to start a family in, which I did.
I told my kids this story. My older daughter zoned out immediately, my younger daughter was too young to understand, but my boys? They loved it. Now I tell them the story almost every night before they go to bed.
I tell them the story of the Snowfront Campaign of 1989–1990.
