Introduction,

This is every Mother's fear. This was before the days of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. when all us children knew where books about cowboys and Indians, plays on the radio about the adventures of the lone Ranger and William Tell. Girls in the village had very little excitement as we were expected to grow up to be mothers or work in one of the Cities factories. Even biking was frowned upon. I rebelled from a very early age and frequently it took me deep into danger. If I thought my own daughters could climb a tree the way I did I would freak-out. 

My days of being a squaw have finally come to an end. No more will 1 be tied to a tree with binder twine and school scarves. The indignity of mock scalpings and peltings with mud balls are at an end. I am a cowboy, 1 have a gun.
    They only gave it to me because it was broken. No matter how hard 1 tried, the trigger never made that beautiful click, it stayed locked firmly in position. This wasn't a problem, for me. 1 could shout bang as hard as the boys. 1 could climb trees as tall as they did and now they were allowing me to become a cowboy.
    My mind spun, 1 didn't have to be a cowboy, anything 1 wished was in my power. The steady drone of an aircraft engine made me realize just how many things 1 could be and 1 ran to the edge of the field to wait…

Savoring the treacle taste of a fluffy piece of toffee 1 watched as the Tiger Moth banked against the crystal blue sky. It turned so slowly that for a split second I thought it would stop in mid-air and deprive me of my game. The drone spluttered and died only to roar again as the plane rose above the trees. It vanished for a moment, only the rising tone of the engine told me of its closeness. I felt the cold of the metal gun in my hand, my finger poised. Over the trees it came, only feet above the ground as it dived to deliver its lethal load. Under the telephone wire and on towards me. The hot sun caught the wings and reflected the glow of the poppies beneath it. On and on came the Red Baron, closer and closer until just above me, the red of its underbelly beckoning, the black wheels close enough to grab. The heat from the engine made hairs on my face wiggle, water trickled from my eyes and my throat tightened from the smell of oil.
    "Bang!" 1 shouted and the engine miss-fired again. A moment of panic surged through me, the Baron was dead! Then the roar of the engines and a warm wind on my face as he flew above me to spray the rest of the cornfield.
    Licking toffee from the cold barrel of the gun 1 gasped at the acrid taste and rummaged through my pockets until 1 found a half used pear-drop. My eyes alighted on William Tell who was about to unleash his arrow at his unfortunate little brother. 1 dropped out of a tree and landed, less than perfectly, next to him. "Bang! You're dead! " I said. My fingers ran over my new toy, stroked the barrel to feel the smoothness of the metal. Mine was better than the boy’s, theirs had a ridge where the two halves of the barrel were glued together. 1 held it up to the sun and looked down the barrel; something was stuck in there. Several sticks later 1 decided to let my uncle fix it, but only after 1 had shot every cowboy in the village. "Bang!" I shouted every time 1 tried to move the trigger.

My brother was there when 1 asked Uncle Joe to fix it. As Joe turned white and his breathing came in little gasps my brother took me by the hand and walked with me to the shops. Then he bought me a new gun, as mine couldn't be fixed, he said. He bought me a new bow and arrow as well. So you see, 1 won't ever be a squaw again.

Years later, my brother told me the true story of the broken gun. A bullet had jammed in the barre1; the fully loaded clip was disposed of by the army, as was the Luger.

Epilogue

In East Anglia, during the late fifties early sixties many weapons of war were found laying around fields. Once while many adults were working in a field the children, aged from three to five played football for many hours. When it was time to go home one of the men went to pick up the little ones. They were crying because they had lost their ball but nobody could remember any of them having such a luxury. The ball was eventually found, one grenade with the pin bent by the first kick. Very scary!

Even today on some of our beaches we find bombs which are disposed of by the brave bomb disposal unit. There was the case just two years ago of a 500LB bomb dredged up near my college... but that is another story.