I can still remember that muggy July morning. The air was so heavy it felt stuffed into our small rooms. I was awakened by a call from my mother, announcing that breakfast was ready. As I drowsily slid out of bed, I peered out the open window and noticed the grey sky, framed by curtains that moved in slow motion. The panorama outlined by my window was slowly changing to the color of Mrs. Fay's slate garden walls.

As I ate breakfast, Mom lectured me to stay close to home. Drifting from the radio, the voice of an announcer repeated that there was a good chance of rain by noon.

"Oh, great," I mused to myself, anticipating a rather boring day of nothing much to do. The plan of venturing to the frog pond that Georgie and I had schemed up the night before had to be scrubbed.

Like clockwork, the bell rang at 9:15 and Mom called to Georgie to come in. Georgie was staying at his grandmother's for the summer, and we had become good buddies. As part of the morning ritual, Georgie sat down at the table and immediately was served breakfast. His "order" was simple&emdash;he always wanted whatever I was eating. As his freckled cheeks expanded like a hamster's, due to a conglomeration of eggs, bacon, toast, and milk, Georgie posed the somewhat muffled question, "What are we going to do today?"

"We have to stick close to home 'cause it's supposed to rain," I mumbled.

"Okay, let's go in the yard," replied Georgie, and we ran out of the house with Mom's "stay close to home" ringing in our ears.

We strolled into the yard with nothing particular in mind. I halfheartedly kicked a ball down the alley, while Georgie walked by the old pear tree. I noticed that he was standing immobilized, watching something very intently.

"What'cha doin'?" I queried.

"Just lookin' at the black ants goin' up and down the tree&emdash;there must be a million of them. Some are carryin' crumbs of bread that your mom left out for the sparrows."

"Hey, I got an idea," I blurted, "I know where a bunch of those red ants are&emdash;ya know, the ones that crawled up Louie's leg yesterday. Let's put the ants together and see what happens."

"Neat!" squealed Georgie. "I got the black ants!" He ambled (Georgie wasn't much of a runner) over to the trash can to retrieve a jar and he began to feverishly brush the climbing ants into the "transporter." "Man, I got two platoons or maybe even two brigades here," Georgie said while holding a makeshift lid over the top. "They're ready&emdash;let's go!"

We made our way through the weeds to a small clearing, where the red ant mound was situated. The activity was rather sluggish, perhaps in anticipation of the impending rain. The only movement consisted of four or five ants dragging a piece of bread, recently foraged from Mom's "bird food."

"I'll get 'em moving," I announced as I grabbed a twig and began poking it into the crest of the hill. After a couple of good jabs, we saw what seemed like a thousand ants scurry out to challenge whatever was threatening their domain.

Georgie slowly stalked closer to the hill, and it reminded me of Godzilla tiptoeing towards Tokyo. He turned his jar over, pouring the black ants onto the red ant enclave, causing the ant hill activity to go into overdrive. Even more red ants came streaming out to defend whatever ants defend, while the "mercenary" ants began to get their bearings and go for the bread and opening of the mound. Individual combat vignettes were forming up all around.

"Ha! Look at that!" boasted Georgie. "My guys are slaughtering yours!" The attackers were double-teaming many of the red ants, tearing and snapping at whatever happened to get in their way.

"Here come my guys!" I yelled. Hundreds of red soldier ants were now rushing out to reinforce their beleaguered comrades. "My guys are winning&emdash; check it out!"

There go a couple of yours getting their butts kicked!" taunted Georgie.

"Look at these two guys!" I said as I watched a black and a red soldier ant locked in their own solitary battle. But after several minutes, the attraction of locked mandibles waned. My attention turned to a piece of bread being carried off by three black ants&emdash;the spoils of war, I thought. Several others were scurrying off with the bodies of three workers. Pincers gnashing, legs thrashing, and antennae flailing, the number of active participants was decreasing and the intensity of the battle showed signs of slackening.

"My guys have killed most of yours!" I triumphantly stated.

"But most of yours are dead!" retorted Georgie.

"Yeah, but it's who wins that counts!"

The drone of the cicadas and crickets was superseded by rumbles of thunder. The clouds that had become engorged during the half-hour battle and finally disposed of their burden. Heralded by a deafening crash of thunder, a torrent of rain began to drench the battlefield. Many ants lay strewn around the hill as droplets of rain began to pelt the dusty soil, making miniature craters that were life-sized to the combatants.

"Boys, get in here right now before you get soaked," Mom hollered out the kitchen window. As we halfheartedly ran towards the house, I glanced back at the battlefield. There, the gallant soldiers, some still desperately locked in futile combat, were slowly being inundated by muddy water, which meandered into Mom's tomato garden, carrying the prized pieces of bread. I caught sight of Georgie's glass jar that he must have dropped and broken. The jagged edge of a large shard pointed upwards in the shape of a monument. "See ya' tomorrow!" said the rumbling Georgie.

"Boy that was fun," I said to myself. "I wonder if I'll ever see anything like that again"

Unfortunately, I would.

Glen P. Aylward, Ph.D.
Pediatrics