Long ago, in a world that now feels far away, my sister and I spent lazy summer evenings ringing every doorbell in the neighborhood, recruiting kids to play our favorite game: Prisoners of War. It was wildly popular, far better than soft- ball—and always drew a crowd. We would start just before sunset, as fireflies began to flicker across our backyard, the perfect arena for the game. Tall pines lined the front of the house, horse chestnut trees bordered one side, and towering arborvitae stood guard on the other. Behind the house stretched what felt like miles of yard filled with natural obstacles—a pond, a cornfield, thick shrubs, and a coveted square concrete slab that served as the “prison.” A captured player was escorted to this slab and made to wear one of my mom’s nurs- ing scrub tops, marked with “P.O.W.” in bold black marker. The rules were simple, yet the gameplay was anything but. Two teams were evenly matched with 10 or more players each. One team hid while the other searched. If the teams were uneven, the odd player out became the umpire, settling dis- putes and keeping the peace. When a searcher found a hider, the chase was on. If tagged, the hider became a pris- oner and was marched to the slab. The only way to escape? A teammate had to sneak in and touch them, free- ing them to shed the scrub top and run off to hide again. Victory went to the searchers if they captured and de- tained every hider. We played in daylight and dark- ness, undeterred by anything short of serious injury. Twists and sprains were shrugged off. One summer, a player with a compound forearm fracture became a legend—the ulti - mate badge of honor in our fearless, rough-and-tumble world.
MARCH – APRIL 2026 | DEFENSE ACQUISITION MAGAZINE 41
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