Men of draft age were conspicuously absent from Madison Park during World War II.
Those exempt from military duty spent many long hours at the shipyards, The Boeing Co. and other companies that supported the war effort.
World affairs excluded the J. J. McGilvra set, yet most felt a desire to replicate what was going on. School work was dutifully done, chores at home agreed to, but in the microcosm of life in Madison Park, we enthusiastically played the game of War.
Several of us neighborhood kids chose sides, holstered our cap guns and made a trip to the hardware or dime store for boxes of caps.
Next was to find a location to conduct our war. We found a perfect place at the end of 43rd Avenue, near Edgewater, where there were old houseboats in the process of either being pulled to higher ground or towed to Lake Union. There, among the waterlogged relics, we played war well into the dark.
Right in the middle of a shootout, we heard some big watch man utter a fearsome "Hey! Get out of there!"
Nothing puts the kibosh on a good battle like some loud, 600-pound, 8 1/2- foot-tall man.
We retreated to a holding area for a while when someone suggested the swamp west of Edgewater. There were some old houseboats in this area as well as some old boat hulls that would work well for landing craft.
No sooner did the one war end then another one just a little further west began. With no homes close by, we were free to make all the war noise we wanted.
That is, until we crouched down waiting to attack the enemy and heard the hissing sound of a giant wharf rat right in front of us. That shut us up quick.
Upon reflection, we recollected this thing was 6 feet long, with a 6-inch-thick, pink tail covered with straggly, coarse hair. You could have put a saddle on it! Whatever it was, it was mad.
Being outnumbered (one of him to 12 of us), we surrendered yet another war site.
A couple nights passed and a friend called to say to meet at the end of McGilvra, just south of Edgewater, after school. There, we watched workmen pile in a big truck and head south to Madison. Two new homes surrounded by scaffolding built from clean, new lumber and no rusty nails loomed before us.
Once again, we chose sides, and in no time, battle gave way. Up and down the stairs, we climbed clear to the second floor by way of the scaffolding, firing our weapons only when the enemy was in sight.
Each night we waited by the alley until the big truck left to start yet another war.
Things were going well until about dusk, when a police car showed up during a shootout on the second floor. We ducked low so as not to be seen, and when all was quiet, we looked out the window right into the cop's eyes!
This guy was big - about 9 feet tall and near a ton in weight. We surrendered to his scolding and crawled home.
That pretty much ended War, but we still had our cap guns. It was fun to walk among the shoppers, fire our guns and watch people jump.
I figured if one cap under the hammer of the gun made a decent, loud sound, surely cutting a little, round explosive out of the cap and putting several under the hammer would be better.
Well, it did. The bang made our ears ring and even blew the hammer off my gun.
Without a way of getting $2 for a replacement, my personal wartime was over. Playing War with sounds from your mouth wasn't cool or hip.
Besides, it was spring, and one of the best things for a kid to do was about to transpire.
A big, steam-driven pile driver and a crane were replacing old pilings on the ferry dock. After school, we all ran to see a huge wedge of iron slam down on the logs and drive them deep into the sandy bottom. Huge clouds of steam poured out of the high stack above the boiler.
We all stood there sharing the same smile. As the last of the workers left the site, we knew this was to be the night to test those long guidelines ropes.
After giving them a big tug, we were satisfied that they would hold.
The plan was to hold the long
line from the boom arm, walk back the length of the barge, and the boom would follow. Then, giving it an extra wrap, run like a masterful ninja and fly up and around the ferry slip. It worked!
One at a time, we took turns as the others looked out for large watchmen. Each time we tried to outdo the kid before and swing out further.
This activity lasted for several nights, and each time we put things back the way they were.
After replacing the ferry pilings, the pile driver was taken to do work on other docks, and the big crane was pulled up to the south side of the little dock, so that it too could be repaired. The big crane was now positioned so if anyone would dare climb up the mast and jump, they would invariably land in deep water.
But there was no sign of hands among us warriors who would go first. The ladder leaned way into the mast; one would have to be aware that jumping short would allow the jumper to make a one-point landing on the barge deck below, leaving that person explaining the rest of his life why his face appeared round and flat.
The deck repair was almost completed, and it was heading to the end of summer - not a soul would jump until one day, some guy yelled, "Heck, I can do that!"
We all watched as he climbed up. He looked down every other step, taking a moment to breathe or contemplate his next move, and then he climbed back down. We all laughed with him.
The word got around Capitol Hill that the crane was at the dock in Madison Park. Leo Elliott, our dock hero, showed up one Saturday, and the word spread to the beach and everyone walked over to see him make the big jump from the crane.
He stood looking up, spit into his hands and rubbed them together. Smiling, he started the long ascent. You could hear a pin drop, so many were silent.
He stood on the cross arms, waved to us, stood on his toes, arched his back and dove into the dark water, making a huge splash.
We cheered in complete awe of our hero.
Leo Elliott, wherever you are, thanks for teaching us to be heroes in our own right.
Richard Carl Lehman can be reached via e-mail at mptimes@nwlink.com.[[In-content Ad]]
