| THE PLOVER BOYS AT
COLLEGE "Tom, have you seen my beanie?" "No. Anyway, no, not since our last frat meeting, Sam. Why, can't find it?" "Not right off. It should be right here on top of my dresser, where I usually have it. do you think that Dick borrowed it for some reason?" "No, I sure didn't, Sam!" Dick bounded through the door, still flushed from the tennis court, and tossed his racket onto his bed. "What do you need it for? We don't have to do any fraternity things for another month or so." "I don't need it right now, but you know how I am, everything in its place and all." "You know what, Dick, now that I think about it..." Tom rose from his chair and went to the closet. Mentally finishing Tom's sentence, Dick walked over to his bed and pulled his suitcase from underneath it. "My beanie's gone, too!" rang out simultaneously from both. Tom, Dick, and Sam Plover were brothers. Dick was the tallest, oldest, and most serious of the brothers. Tom was the middle and prone to moodiness. Sam, the youngest, was the last in name only. Spry and outgoing, almost as tall as Dick, Sam was, well, Sam! There was a long tradition of Plovers at Kisplatonic University, and in Hava Lotsa Suds Fraternity. There had been Plovers at Kis-P-U since the mid-1800s, and in the fraternity since 1905. The saying on campus was that there wouldn't be a campus without a Plover on it. Dick was the first of the three to reach Kis-P-U, followed by Tom and Sam together. Sam had been in an accelerated course in the military academy that they'd attended, and reached college one year early, at the same time as Tom. Dick was a junior, the others sophomores. All three shared the same dorm room. It was the same room that their father and grandfather had been in, while at Kis-P-U. They were in the same fraternity, and all were lettermen. Dick was on the tennis team, Sam played basketball, and Tom sculled. They were all on the football team. "Go Golems!" Both Plover parents were attorneys. The three sons planned to be attorneys also, upon graduation. the law was a tradition with the Plovers. The Plover coat-of-arms had three ink pots rampant, on a field d'azure. Fraternity life was mandatory for the Plovers during their stay at Kis-P-U. All the Plovers had exemplary grades. There had never been a Plover on academic probation. It would seem that Plovers were a permanent fixture on the Kis-P-U campus. But lately there had been a problem. Veterans. There had been an influx of newly-discharged veterans enrolling at Kis-P-U. These veterans as a general rule were older than the Kis-P-U norm. They were from different walks of life than the majority of the university's students, and were, in the Plover's opinion, noticeably "denser." They didn't fit in with the campus appearance, and caused some fraternity discord. Not that the fraternities ignored the veterans; the Plovers had actually initiated contact with a veterans group a few months earlier. They'd extended an invitation for the veterans to come to a fraternity function. The veterans hadn't responded. "Here!" How could all of our beanies be missing at the same time? I know we all had them, the last time we were at the fraternity house. Remember?" "Yes, I do remember, Tom. That was when we ran into those veterans. How skulky they were! How they looked at our beanies when we passed! I say! do you think that there could be a connection here?" "No, of course not, Sam. Not with the veterans. Why, they've served our country! They'd never do anything as dastardly as stealing fraternity beanies. That's communist!" "No! That's Nazi!" Sam blurted out. "And they're both the same to me! for anyone to put their hands on someone else's fraternity beanie without the owner's permission is grounds for expulsion in my book. When I think..." Tom exclaimed. "What will we tell father? That we lost our beanies? That we let them out of our sight? We'll be disgraced? Drummed out of the fraternity! That's near enough for expulsion for us. Father will disown us. We'll never be able to go home again." Sam said. "I'm for Canada!" Tom jumped about. "No, just wait a moment." Dick was the level-headed one. "We just have to think rationally...Oh, look, we have mail!" The computer on the desk beeped. Sam was the first one there, and opened the email. They gathered around the computer monitor and gasped at what they saw. There, in their glorious colors of orange and blue, were the beanies! Looking like smashed Fez's, white tassels drooping over the intertwined monograms of Kis-P-U and the fraternity, were the three errant beanies, lined up straight and true. "Where? Where are they? It looks like they're in a parking lot...No! Stop!" They all screamed in unison. The thunder of revving diesel engines came over the computer's speakers. A tank track appeared in the lower corner of the screen, stopping just short of the beanies. The engine noise was replaced by bugles playing "Charge!" "What does it mean? Where are they? What do they want?" Sam screeched. "Listen..." "A message for our young fraternity friends! A picture of some acquaintances of yours, right? Things that keep your scholastic brows warm in the wee hours? Do you want your beanies back? "Then listen to what we have to tell you! We have fought in the far lands that have no names! We have had the grit of Iwo in our teeth, and rinsed our mouths with the slime of the Rhine! We've battled through the jungles of Panama, only to win through to those of Southeast Asia. We've wrestled the mummies in Iraq and cooled our heels on the 38th Parallel. Wherever your parents needed their laws, wherever your grandparents needed their factories, we went there and made it possible! We paid for the land that Kis-P-U stands on with our blood, our blood its very mortar! "And we did that without ever wearing beanies! Steel pots and garrison caps graced our brows. Save your kepis for the French! "Kis-P-U's bylaws say that we have to live harmoniously with you, while we're here. But be aware we'll tolerate no Greek meddling. If you want your beanies back, click on the icon. If not, do nothing. You will see your beanies flattened. You have one minute." The three brothers looked at the icon, one of the black "danger/caution" figures. This figure was wearing a beanie and was being mauled by a tank track. "Well? Well? Are we going to bow down to these thugs? Quick! Call the dean! We must report this." Tom said. "No, that's not the way. First we must regain our beanies. Then we can make the appropriate reports." Dick reached for the mouse and clicked on the icon. The response was immediate. The tank backed off of the beanies and spent cartridges were sprinkled on them from above. "Good choice. Your printer should be printing a map that will take you to your prized beanies. And remember who we are! We're the Veterans of Kis-P-U!" "Gosh!" Sam let out a deep breath. "Washington, D.C. That's where we're going, boys. Let's get packed." Dick had taken the printout and immediately interpreted the symbols. Tom and Sam grabbed it from him, as he moved to his bed. "Yes, Washington, D.C. But, this doesn't say where our beanies are. This just gives us directions to the Washington Monument. I'm sure that's what this refers to. See this skull-and-crossbones? 'Underneath the skull and bones you'll find directions to the next zone.' They've turned this into a treasure hunt. I'll not tolerate this!" "Yes you will, Tom. We all will. For the honor of Kis-P-U and the fraternity, for all the Plovers who have gone here before us, we will beat these mutineers at their own game. And once we regain our beanies, we'll show these scalawags the true meaning of higher education!" The three boys hurriedly began packing their bags. Tomorrow was Saturday, and they knew that they needed an early start to be back for classes Monday. They talked amongst themselves as they packed. "How can someone who served our country be as cruel and dishonest as to steal a fraternity member's beanie? That's a blow to the very heart and soul of America. No more treacherous a deed was ever done by an American ex-serviceman. Benedict Arnolds!" "Yes, I agree with you, Sam. 'Sands of Iwo' and all. What do the veterans think they were doing in those lands, if not defending America's right to intellectual freedom? Beanies are not just attractive headgear, they are symbols of what made America the great country it is today. If these veterans who perpetrated this heinous crime can't see that, then I am very concerned about the makeup of our armed forces." "I agree. You know, Dick, my guess is that these veterans were draftees. Everyone knows that draftees were inferior in every aspect. I mean, look at the message the veterans sent us. "Mummies in Iraq.' Everyone knows there are no mummies in Iraq. Are there?" "America has been up against some sly enemies in the past. Remember the Hessians of the Revolution? It's very well possible that Iraq is employing the use of mummies. But I am sure it will help them none at all. Just as all of America's past foes have fallen by the wayside, so too shall its present." "Whew! I am reassured." "I am also. We should get to bed now, as we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow." The three brothers finished packing, brushed their teeth, got into their pajamas, and jumped into bed. "Good night, Sam." "Good night, Tom." "Good night, Dick-boy." "I hate being called that." They rose bright and early the next morning. Dick checked the computer for any new messages, while Tom and Sam changed out of their pajamas and brushed their teeth. "Nothing new here from the veterans. Let's get a move on and get this over with." They weren't far from Washington. They expected to be back at Kis-P-U early Monday morning. Sam was still venting his concern about the veteran's temerity. "Jeepers, Dick, I don't think I'll ever understand people like the veterans. It's like they just don't care about tradition, the things that created the United States, that make it stand head-and-shoulders above the rest of the world." Tom butted in. "Sam's right. The veterans attend their meetings, some of them wear their medals, and they have their own types of hats, like the VFW and the American Legion. Why would they take exception to fraternity tradition? Even though some of them will never be fraternity members, their children might." "Because veterans are cantankerous and contrary. They have chips on their shoulders that can never be knocked off. You see, I believe that a person who leaves for a war is not the same person who comes back. The person has the same name and fingerprints, but it is a different man that wears them when he returns." "Yes. Remember the story that mother let us read when we were young? 'The Monkey's Paw?' About how a mother's grief brought her son back from the dead? That's almost how America is, in its wish to bring its veterans home from the wars, even when it's not the same person who comes back. Isn't that true?" Sam had shouldered his backpack and had grabbed his motorcycle helmet. "The only thing I know is this is twice as bad as when Dora made a swimming suit top with both of your beanies at the beach. I don't like Dora!" "No one does, Sam. But enough of that. Are we all ready?" All had their backpacks on now and helmets in hand. "Then let's go! High five!" Raising their helmets high, they crashed them together. Sam fell down, and was last out the door. They were in the parking lot in a trice. They made their way through the parked cars and reached the motorcycle parking area where their Vespa mopeds were parked. They leaped upon them, and with a gallant cry of "Vespas Ho!" roared off campus. They headed towards Washington, where they hoped the mystery of their missing beanies would be solved. Sticking to the side roads the Plover Boys made slower time than if they'd taken the freeway. But they knew the roads well, so the only time lost was for gas stops. They knew a sorority girl, Grace, whose parents lived along the route they were taking. Grace's parents were on vacation and the Plover Boys planned to spend the night in the back yard. Sleeping bags were always stored on the back porch there. If all went as planned, they should be there around sundown. If they left early enough the next morning, they would be in Washington before noon tomorrow, Sunday. They'd be hard pressed for time on the return trip if they were to be back for classes on Monday. It had better not take them long to find their beanies! "Right-o, here we are!" Dick called, signaled a right turn and pulled into Grace's parent's driveway. "I hope they still have the refrigerator on the back porch. I'm all for hot dogs and marshmallows." "First things first, Sam." Tom said. "Let's get these mopeds into the backyard, and set up camp." "Well, hot dogs are first things first, in my book." Their camp was fast made, sleeping bags were rolled out and hot dogs were on the barbecue in short notice. The sun had set, and the stars were beginning to twinkle. Tom spoke up. "There's another thing I can't figure out about the veterans." "What's that, Tom?" Sam asked. "It's, what are veterans for, exactly? Here you have a group of people, who volunteered or were drafted into military service, where they performed a needed function. But what is their 'needed function' when they get out? I would say that the majority of veterans are unable to carry out simple daily tasks. Many of them can't work due to physical and mental traumas they got in the service. Many of them saw 'secret' things, and can no longer mingle with the general public. So what do they do? They move back in with their parents, and get on disability or food stamps or something, and generally become nuisances. A few get elected to public office, and few get civil service jobs, but the majority are totally without purpose. Here, in theory, you have a group of persons whose job it was, for a short period of time, to protect and serve our system. Then these same persons become a burden on our system for the rest of their lives, weakening it and causing great discord. Case in point." "You're right, Tom." Dick said. "What's more, many of these veterans were never even in combat. What do these persons have to gripe about? They spent their whole time in Colorado or Louisiana or someplace. Are these Audie Murphys or Sgt. Yorks? More like Sgt. Bilkos!" "No, Sgt. Bilko had medals. He must have done something. Maybe Beetle Baily..." "...sss...sss...my precious..." "What? What was that?" The Plovers jumped up and looked about, hearing an odd voice. "Master is curious, he is. Three masters, though? Sss... my precious...curious!" "Here! Who is there? Did anyone bring a flashlight? Sam, see if there is a flashlight on the porch." Dick ordered. "A quest! Precious...but one, two, three?" The Plovers heard an odd slapping sound, and then the voice returned from the other side of the yard. "Three precious, it's true! Gollum...gollum...the pull of the precious is strong, when it is one...now three!" "No flashlight! Listen, you! You had better say your intent, or I'll give you a sound lashing when I catch you." Sam balled up his fists and swung them about. "Truth, then...Middle Earth is broken and gone...the pull of the precious is split...sss...nassty Greeks! Three Masters! The precious has been passed on to you, but beware! the truth that will be shown you is great. Precious never lies. You will see..." The slapping noise returned, and faded into the distance. "What was that?" Tom screamed. "Was that a veteran?" "I'm sure it was, Tom." Dick replied. "But I think it's gone now. Let's hope this isn't an omen of what we have to face tomorrow." "I'm all in now. I'm for bed." Sam crawled into his sleeping bag. "Good idea. Another early start for us." Dick and Tom followed suit. "Good night, Dick-..." "Don't." "Hello! What's this? Who ate fish last night?" Rising out of their sleeping bags, Tom and Dick looked over at Sam, who was shaking mounds of fish bones off of his sleeping bag. "That veteran must have come back while we were sleeping." Tom said. "I know it wasn't me. I hate fish." Dick said. "But we're all awake now. Let's get a move on. I just don't feel right without my beanie." The Plovers rolled up their sleeping bags,and returned them to the porch. A hasty toilet, and they were back on the road. The rest of their trip to Washington was uneventful, other than Sam's brief encounter with a junebug. They wheeled into Washington well before noon. Having been in Washington before, they weren't distracted by the many sights that the nation's capitol had to offer. They made a beeline straight to the Washington Monument, where the veterans said they would leave their first clue. Parking the mopeds, they began to stroll towards the monument. "Remember, act nonchalant. We don't want to attract any unwanted attention. If we do, the veterans might become nervous and remove our clue or the beanies themselves...Looking like tourists, that's our goal." Dick advised. "Right, Dick. Tourist it is. Awfully quiet today, isn't it? You'd think there'd be more activity, even on a Sunday." Tom replied. "All the better for us." Sam observed. "Dick, just what are we to do if we actually nab one of the veterans? We really can't thrash him; I don't hold with that, even though I think veterans are totally useless. I don't think turning him over to the police is proper, either. I'm sure that the police have more than their fair share of contact with veterans, what with the way they drink (meaning the veterans, of course), but I'm also sure that the police will ask what the monetary value of the beanies is. Now, we all know that beanies are priceless, representing a superior lifestyle, an existence that surpasses our mortal surroundings and represents the alpha and omega, totality. But the police won't accept that concept as monetary value. Even if we were allowed to press charges, the veteran would never be punished as he should. "And that's the question, should there be punishment in this case? After all, we're talking about American veterans, who still get sympathy and support from the community. Would we be viewed in a bad light, should we decide to go to the police? And would public opinion sway the case against us? I mean, we still don't know how the veterans got our beanies. Their defense could be that we lost them and the veterans were just returning them to us." "We'll cross that bridge when we reach it. Look there, is that a bayonet stuck in that bench?" Dick asked. Throwing all caution to the wind, the three sprinted to the bench in question. There they found a missive pinned to it by a bayonet. "Yes, this is what we're looking for." Dick continued. "Here, read this." He read the message aloud while the others silently read. "'We're glad to see you've made it this far! You'd have been here sooner had you a car! The beanies you seek, Because you are weak, We'll tell you where they are!' "And it's signed 'The Veterans.' Look at this map, it's even like an old movie map, dotted lines and all." "Right again, Dick. OK, here we are right here." Tom jabbed a point on the map with his forefinger. "Agreed?" "Yes! Yes! Of course. Do hurry, Tom." Sam grew impatient. "See the street names that the dotted line follows? Here, here, it finally ends...here. But what is this supposed to represent? Another street?" "No, it seems to be another monument. Some kind of long, fairly low black wall. That's rather odd." Dick said. "Whatever it is, we have the directions on how to get there. We ought to be on our way." Tom handed the map over to Dick. Dick led them back to their mopeds, and then on to their new destination. As he read the map he could hear Tom and Sam conversing behind him. "We are lucky the veterans are such dunces! This has to be the shortest treasure hunt that I've ever been on. I wonder how many veterans it took to plan this?" "One or two entire armies, I'm sure, Sam. And I'm sure many of them got lost before they were through." "Yes, it's a good thing they didn't have to walk home from Guadalcanal or where ever." "That's right!" "Look!" Dick called. "That has to be the monument we're looking for." A long black wall appeared in the distance. As the Plovers neared it, they could see writing on it. What it said, the couldn't tell. This time the brothers rode right up to the monument, not even bothering to park their mopeds, letting them fall to the ground. All three Plovers ran along the wall. "What is written on this thing?" Sam asked. "It looks to be a name, or names." Tom answered. Dick was somewhat in the lead again. "Funny, from far off it looked like there was more writing on it. Read what it says up close." Sam read. "Lee...Harvey...Os-..." "And here they are!" Dick triumphed. "Our beanies! Right in the middle of a 'D!'" "They're stuck to the wall with some kind of brown adhesive...Oh, I hate veterans!" "We'll have to wash these before we wear them, Tom." Sam predicted. They peeled their beanies off of the mysterious wall, and returned to their mopeds. "Hate's a strong word, Tom. We're displeased with the veterans, but hate them? No, hate is unwarranted here." "I don't want to quibble now, Dick. I just want to get back to Kis-P-U before classes tomorrow. But the veterans have to be taught a lesson, taught that some things in this country are still sacrosanct. I think that Dora can help us here." "I don't like Dora!" "No one does, Sam." THE END Be sure not to miss the next Plover Boys Adventure, "Drafted! the Plover Boys on the Front Lines!" or "Pheasant under Gas." On sale at your favorite bookstore. |