(The following story is humor-enhanced for your protection.)

It was in the reign of Karl the Last of Drachenwald, and the Society was joining several other groups at Ronnenburg Castle for the annual gathering of historical re-enactors. Among them was a Czechoslovakian group who built and fired various classical and medieval siege weapons. The SCA was positioned on the opposite side of the castle in a clearing in the woods and held periodic battles for the edification of tourists viewing from the battlements. The castle owners had co-ordinated the firing times of the battles and the siege weapon demos carefully, as the Czech’s big thing was lobbing basketball-sized concrete balls over the ruins of the main keep. As the huge weapons took some time to assemble, we were assured that we’d be able to hold our battles and still be out of the line of fire in plenty of time.

It was during one of the woods battles, and I was setting up my merry band to perform an ambush near where the path around the castle passed the south tower. I had with me a few archers and six or seven fighters, to include Kelson Blacksword, squire to Sir Timoch and Karl-not-the-Prince, a newly authorized German national. I’m trying to set everyone in position when Kelson tugs on my surcoat sleeve.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"I heard a ‘thud’ noise.

"A ‘thud’ noise?"

"Yeah."

I listened. No thudding. "I don’t hear anything. Get back to your position."

Thud.

Karl-not-the-Prince waves me over, "Was ist das?"

"What? I don’t speak German. Kelson, what’s he saying?"

"He asked ‘What is that?’"

"What is what?"

"I dunno."

"Well, ask him! Did he see something?" I peer through the bushes.

Kelson babbles something in German. Karl-not-the-Prince babbles something back.

"What’d he say?"

"He said he heard something go ‘thud’ a moment ago."

"Ridiculous. There’s nothing out here that goes ‘thud’. There’s just us and we go ‘clank’. Ask him if he’s sure."

They babbled a bit more.

"He’s sure. I heard it too."

"Preposterous." I sighed theatrically and took off my helmet. I listened intently for a moment. Nothing. I was about to say "Poppycock" or sentiments to that effect when I heard it.

THUD.

"Thud?" I thought, "What goes ‘thud’?"

My stomach went ice cold and my eyes suddenly got real big. Basketball big, in fact.

"Everybody against the wall! Now! Move it! Move it! Move it!"

The U.S. Government had at that point in time invested several tens of thousands of dollars and gosh only knows how many man-hours of instruction to ensure that soldiers in crisis will instantly obey my voice commands. I am pleased to report that your tax dollars were not wasted.

From the vantage point of the tourists on the battlements, I’m sure it was vastly amusing to watch a group of armor-clad Americans (and one highly motivated German) attempt to clamber up the sharp incline of the tower foundation only to slide down again whilst clawing frantically at the ivy covered stones, and taking several other armor-clad gentlemen with him.

After a few seconds/eternities of watching the Keystone Knights in action, I started grabbing fighters and heaving them up to the narrow ledge around the base of the wall. When the last one was up I told them to start shimmying around the wall back to the Marshal’s Tent. I started to pull myself up the wall when I heard it.

Ptoink.

I felt a sharp pain in my back. "Well, that’s it." I thought. "I’m dead."

"Waitaminnet," the other half of my brain thought back. "Catapult rocks go ‘Thud’, not ‘Ptoink’. You’re not dead."

The first half of my brain countered, "But I’m in pain. I’m dead."

"Yes, you are in pain. But the pain in is the back, not the head. That’s where a catapult rock would hit. You’re not dead."

"Look," my brain explained patiently, "I expected a funny sound; I heard a funny sound. I expected sudden pain; I got sudden pain. Ergo," it finished triumphantly, "I’m dead."

To confirm this, I heard a voice behind me. "You’re dead."

I turned to see an enemy archer calmly nocking another arrow. "You’re dead. I got you." There was an arrow at my feet.

"What’re you doing here?" I demanded.

"Shooting you. You’re dead."

"Get up against the wall!"

This one must’ve been a civilian. He quivered a bit but stood his ground. "Y-you can’t talk to me. You’re dead."

It’s hard to argue with logic like that. Fortunately, circumstance provided me with a succinct rebuttal.

THUD!

The archer jumped a bit and whirled around. "What was that?!"

He turned around again to see me heading up the foundation at a dead run. "Think about it!" I yell over my shoulder, "What goes ‘THUD’?"

Unencumbered by armor, the archer beat me up to the ledge, sans bow. We make our way around to the Marshal’s Point, where the other fighters have huddled. I am met by Sir Timoch, the Marshal-in-Charge.

"Myles! Are they all out of the woods?"

"Yeah," I growl, jumping off the wall, "Me and Robin Hood here are the last ones." I look around me for a big enough stick. I found a beaut.

"Good!" he says. He looked at the stick. More like a club, really. "Um. I guess you’ve figured out it was the siege guys?" He was walking very fast to keep up with me.

"Oh, yeah," I answered calmly. "Yessireebob. Uh huh." I continue striding purposefully toward the front lawn of the castle, nonchalantly smacking the cudgel against my hand.

"Um, Myles? Where you going?"

"To cancel a Czech."

Timoch runs around in front of me. "Whoa! Whoa, Big Fella." He puts his hands on my chest. "You can’t do that." At this point, we’re in plain view of the siege weapons master. He’s about 5’ 9", all of 60 kilos dripping wet, a goodly portion of which is Adam’s apple, and wearing counterchanged striped tights that made my eyes hurt.

I focused on Tim, reluctantly. "Why not?" I demanded. "He tried to kill me." The Siege Guy is playing the crowd. "Seems only right to return the favor." I tried to step around him. A few tourists are looking our direction.

"It’ll be bad for your career."

He had a point. I considered a millisecond or two about the accommodations at Club Leavenworth. I saw the Siege Guy glance my direction and keep yucking it up with the tourists. What the heck. I gave him my "I’m Going To Vivisect You" look and started around Tim.

"Wait!" he stopped me again. "Wait. Is he looking at us?" I peered over his shoulder.

"Yeah. So?" I lock eyes with the Siege Guy again and communicated that not only would I vivisect him, but that I’d smile the entire time. He stops talking for a moment and a few of the tourists turn around to see what he’s looking at.

"Act angry."

No problemo. I wasn’t exactly sure what Timoch was up to, but venting a little seemed harmless. So I stomped around a bit, gestured dangerously with the cudgel and exercised some of my best Army Infantry vocabulary. Once in awhile I would shake my fist at the Siege Guy (with all the fingers; there were kids around and some gestures transcended language barriers). I let my body language reveal that not only would I smile throughout the vivisection, but there was the disturbing possibility that I’d occasionally giggle like a little girl as well.

We had a quite a crowd by this time. An elderly Japanese gentleman took my picture. Timoch still had his back to the Siege Guy.

"Is he still looking?"

I pause in mid-rant. "Yeah. Looks nervous too."

"Great." He gestures to Kelson and Karl-not-the-Prince. "Pretend to grab ahold of His Excellency."

Kelson and Karl-not-the-Prince exchange glances. With considerable reluctance, they each grab an arm. Kelson, the taller of the two comes up to just under my chin. Bear in mind that at this time in my life, I was in great shape, had a high & tight ranger haircut and, effectively, no neck. I’m also beet-red, in full armor, and have fairly well communicated my unhappiness with the situation.

Timoch walks over to the Siege Guy. The crowd parts. He says something in German.

"What’s he saying?" I ask Kelson.

Kelson asks Karl-not-the-Prince. "He’s asking him if he sees that large American over there, meaning you."

I look at the Siege Guy. He swallows. Oh, yeah. He’s seen me alright.

"What’s he saying now?"

Kelson asks Karl-not-the-Prince. "He’s telling him he’d better not fire that again while we’re in the woods." He listens some more. "The Siege Guy is asking him, ‘Or what?"

Mighty brave for a pencil-necked geek. I look up sharply at the Siege Guy, who takes a step back. I take a step forward and drag Kelson and Karl-not-the-Prince with me. Somebody I can’t see grabs my belt from behind. The tourists are enjoying the show and throw a few coins in the hat at the base of the big catapult.

"What’s he saying now?" I hiss.

Kelson translates. "Tim’s telling him you’ll cancel a check."

"Hey! That’s my joke."

"I know," Kelson rolls his eyes. He listens some more. "The Siege Guy didn’t get it either."

Figures. Tim talks some more. "What’s he saying now?" The Siege Guy’s eyes get real big. Bigger than basketballs, even.

Kelson asks Karl-not-the-Prince. Karl-not-the-Prince looks confused and slightly alarmed. Kelson starts to giggle.

"What? What?" I demand.

"Timoch says you’ll give him catapult enema and then see what goes "THUD". The crowd applauded.