Hot summers usually brought things like baseball, homemade ice cream and juicy watermelons to our neighborhood of Mayfair in the town of Huntsville.  And this particular summer it also brought Nail Preston’s cousin, Walter Beauregard Sinclair, III, from the big city of Memphis.  All the Huntsville High School kids in the neighborhood were in awe of this 16-year old, city slicker, who already owned his very own classic car.  In spite of the impressive sound of his formal name, the Mayfair gang decided right off the bat that “Wally” was a better handle to hang on this sort of stuck up but likeable foreigner. 

Wally’s 1940 black Ford sedan looked like a Cadillac to us.  It was so shiny that rays from the sun bounced off it and almost gave you a headache unless you happened to be wearing sunglasses.  Looking at the car was like the slap in the face you get when emerging from a dark theatre into the bright July sun.  Also impressive was the stick gear shift in the floor with a plastic, hand-size replica of a human skull for a knob.  No doubt about it.  It was a fine car.  Man!  And now - even if just for a little while - we had a shot at it.  Welcome to Mayfair, Wally - old buddy.

Well, as we expected, Wally knew just about everything about everything, and gave the impression that folks in small towns like Huntsville had to be enlightened on just about every issue.  But we did not complain, because Wally was intent on showing off his car; and we intended to enjoy the ride whatever it cost. 

Wally took us to the local drive-in restaurants, our favorite hangouts. One evening, Wally (with the Mayfair gang on board) pulled into Whiteys - a greasy spoon in the Five Points section of town - where young waitresses took and delivered your orders from the curb.  Soon we were all munching on thick burgers loaded with cooked onions and splashed with mustard and ketchup, washing all this down with coke and milk shakes. That night Wally’s car smelled nice, like Wimpy’s Grill on the courthouse square at high noon on Saturday.

Each of our gang had worked on his respective parents for a ride with Wally this particular evening, and we had all promised to be home early.  And Wally had sworn on his long name, a number of times, that this would be the case.  Well, this would probably have all worked out fine, except how were we to know that Nail Preston’s persuasive and mischievous cousin, Virgil, was going to show up at Whiteys, where many local teenagers were hanging out and looking for adventure this night.  Virgil – also a cousin of big-city Wally - lived in Monrovia but went to Huntsville High School. 

Virgil was a farm boy to the core.  He told us he knew of a watermelon patch in the nearby village of Monrovia, where he lived - and knew like the back of his hand.  He must have been a natural born salesman or hypnotist, because in just a few minutes he had persuaded 50 carloads of idle HHS teenagers, including his two city-slicker cousins, to follow him the 20 miles out to Monrovia to raid the watermelon field of an unsuspecting farmer. Virgil assured us that the farmer was out of town and the coast was absolutely clear.  No problem.

We were kind of apprehensive at first, because this was something new; We had never done anything like this.  But showing hesitation was out of the question: Our buddies would think we were “chicken” or something.  

Wally insisted that this proposed adventure sounded like real fun, and all at the expense of some country bumpkin farmer.  Moreover, he said that the mission would prove to all that we were “real men.”  With a wink, he said, “Just follow me.”  And so we rode off to war in and behind Wally’s tank believing the line he borrowed from Franklin Roosevelt, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”  This statement turned out to be inaccurate in our case.

We drove out to Monrovia as though in a funeral procession, which actually (in retrospect) was rather appropriate, all things considered.  Soon we passed the house of the farmer who owned the watermelon field.  Sure enough, Virgil’s information was correct alright.  There were no cars, and it looked like there was no one home.  The house was as dark as this night, which had no moon at all.  The blood was pumping through our veins as we drove down a bumpy, dusty road for about five minutes and then, we were there.  One by one the engines were shut down.  Then it was dead silence until the car doors begin to creak open and the indoor lights came on and then went out again, like lightning bugs.  And then, it was pitch black or darker, if that is possible. 

Well, we began slowly walking toward the center of the field, stumbling at times over watermelons - and then recovering to continue the adventure.  Sure enough, the field was loaded with melons.  Soon, everyone began to relax, laugh and talk about the haul we were about to make.  We had no idea of the hell in store for us this night.

“Shut up!” several people suddenly said in loud whispers as though they had discovered something strange that did not make sense.  Then we all began to scan the darkness in silence.  This night was as silent as it was black, except for some very tiny lights way off in the distance.  These red dots seemed to move slowly (and erratically) dancing on the horizon all around.  Someone whispered, “What are those little lights?” And then after a long pause - almost simultaneously - it dawned on all us invaders that these tiny lights were actually lighted ends of cigarettes, and not far away at all.  God help us!  We were surrounded!  Then all hell broke loose.  Everyone behind one of those lights had a shotgun and began firing at us trespassers.

It was like the Fourth of July, or Antietam, and we were not sitting in a grandstand viewing the fireworks or battle from safety.  We were being shot at like fish in a barrel, and the enemy was taking no prisoners.  The multitude of gun flashes and explosions - as the powder ignited - shattered the darkness and silence and filled the sky and eardrums like a thousand lightning bursts.  The panic was as real as described in tales of some of the bloodiest battles of war.  Some poor devils in the field cried out, “I’m hit,” clutched their chests, and fell to the ground.  In the confusion people ran into each other to escape and became disoriented.  And all the while we invaders were stumbling over those damn watermelons (that were no longer in demand), and slamming into the ground.  Quickly, we were up again - dirty and wet from the dew - and running in panic.  But no one knew in which direction to run; we just ran for our lives in some cases stomping through watermelon rinds like they were egg shells.  It is amazing what you can do to a watermelon with your feet when you are scared as hell.

Most of our immediate crew, including Nails, somehow managed to stay together and make it to Wally’s car, and we dove into it secure in the knowledge that it would protect us from the hell that surrounded us.  But you can imagine the sinking feeling when we realized that Wally (or more importantly, Wally’s car key) was missing.  The whole time people were streaming by in panic trying to escape.  Someone shouted that he saw Wally go down, that he had been shot.  My God, Wally is dead and there is no key!  More panic!  We exited the Ford in a flash and leaped into another car that had a driver and was pulling away with a pile of scared and battered bodies.  We left in the biggest hurry that the world has ever seen, once the tires quit spinning and grabbed dirt.

We flew back to Whiteys.  And for an hour or so, shell-shocked and confused people trickled back to town.  The shooting and panic had been so real that all the would-be thieves were amazed they had survived the massacre and were not shot full of holes.  Then the truth slowly began to emerge as the shock wore off.  Virgil and his country buddies had set the whole thing up to put one over on the city boys.  And this they had done like professionals. 

Wally’s car spent the night by the watermelon patch.  And Wally - the greatest city slicker of them all - like many others ran as far away from that field as he could.  After a couple hours of becoming oriented, he walked the twenty miles back to Huntsville.  Nail’s dad retrieved Wally’s car the next day, and Wally left immediately for Memphis.  He never came back.  Both he and his parents decided that Huntsville boys were a bad influence on Walter Beauregard Sinclair, III. 

After the parents in Mayfair allowed our gang back on the streets, Al and Hank – two other HHS classmates who had been shot at that night - admitted to being a little confused, and speculated over the motivation behind the whole thing.  Al said that some folks in a city like Memphis thought that people in a small town like Huntsville were ignorant or unsophisticated.  Similarly, the people in the small town of Huntsville thought the people in the country village of Monrovia were backward.  In contrast, Al said people in the smaller towns believed their common sense was superior to street smarts and they look hard for the right moment and action to prove this and put one over on the city folks. 

Al continued on this line of thought, AIt seems that many people regardless of their position in life have a need to perceive that others are beneath them and are not as sophisticated.  And this feeling pervades all classes of people from the highest to the lowest.  It’s like an expanding universe.  It’s ...”   Hank always hated it when Al became analytical and philosophical and he interrupted, “Al why do you always try to explain why people are the way they are?  Don’t you understand that people are the way they are just because they are, and that’s all there is to it.  All this thinking makes my head hurt.”  Al and Hank agreed on a couple of things though.  They vowed that they would never again steal a watermelon (or anything else) for that matter.  And everyone in the gang decided that country boys are meaner than hell.

People in Huntsville and Monrovia to this day still talk and laugh about that night and the great watermelon war.  But no one in Huntsville ever trusted Virgil quite the same way again, and he probably still looks over his shoulder. 

Author’s Note:  This story is based on a real event.  The author (Al in the story) was one of those being shot at.  Some 50 years have passed since the watermelon war in the pitch-black Monrovia countryside.  The initial version of this story, with all fictitious names, was published a few years ago.  Afterwards, an HHS classmate of the author phoned to say that her husband, Sherman, admitted to being the mastermind behind the war.  She said – after reading the story – he confessed and stated, “I’m Virgil.”  (Actually, there were a couple of Monrovia residents represented by the character, Virgil, in the story.  One went to HHS and was a member of the 1958 class.)