At night, this place could feel like Vietnam.

I spent my pre-teen years watching firefights on NBC’s “Huntley Brinkley Report:” Somewhere near Da Nang, a soldier feeds a belt of ammo into his M60, sending flashes of gunfire into the bush. You could never see the Vietcong, but in the next scene, dead bodies lay side by side. Growing up in eastern North Carolina in the late 60s, we didn’t play cowboys and Indians; we played Army. At age 13, I knew it could soon be real.–I just didn’t realize how soon.

In 1968, a dozen of us from my local Boy Scout troop arrived at Camp Charles in Bailey, N.C. ready for fun. The Girl Scouts were camping across the lake. We couldn’t see them, but when 85 boys yelled “hello,” we could hear the echo. Lake Charles was where my younger brother, Peter, and I learned to row boats and right a canoe–all required for the swimming merit badge.

My troop suffered a shock the first day. Our good-humored scoutmaster, who frequently carried a flask, did not show up. Instead we were assigned a provisional scoutmaster, an ex-marine who demanded respect. If a quarter didn’t bounce off our beds, it was 10 pushups. Even the mess hall was serious: “Sit up straight. No shouting. Finish your meal, scrape your plate and leave. Any scout acting up will be cleaning latrines with a toothbrush.”

We endured, and by Thursday afternoon, Peter and I completed what we thought was the last test for the merit badge–a one-mile swim in the nearby pond. Pete swam overhand and insisted on updating me every time he gained a lap. I reminded him that this was not a race. I mostly swam on my back and silently cheered when he left. Fifteen minutes later, he returned in fresh clothes to cut his fingernails while he watched me finish.

Before we scraped our dinner plates Friday, those completing the swimming merit badge were asked to report to the guard tower at the pond for a “special assignment” at 9 p.m. sharp. A sliver of moon hung in the trees. A million crickets surrounded us with sound, punctuated by the croaks of bullfrogs. When our eyes finally adjusted, we could see spidery fingers of Spanish moss touching the water’s edge. Gnats and dragonflies kissed the surface and danced in the rising steam. An L-shaped floating dock walkway jutted into the water below the tower. The seven of us talked aloud about raccoons, bobcats and water moccasins.

Two boot-licking protégés of the marine explained our mission: “Wait onshore until they call us one-by-one. Slip into the water and swim undetected to the dock. Don’t swim around it, but cross it, then swim to shore and arrive somewhere between the dock and the tower on the other side.” Meanwhile, they’d be in the tower sweeping a spotlight. If they caught us, we’d be dead, and must return to camp.

I hung back from the group to observe. For a moment, I wondered if Peter would catch up. But na-ahh, it was already too late–the event had started.

A heavyset boy went first. He waited until the spotlight passed, then pushed forward like a whale. The wake rippled 75-feet to the end of the dock. Surprisingly, the guards took no notice. The second inductee was asked to start even before the ripples stopped. There were splashes as he made his way to join the whale against the side. The 1×12 lumber gave them room to hide.

Each boy proceeded more quietly than the last. Now six boys hugged the dock, fingers clinging to the top planks. They ducked whenever the light swept overhead (but did not let go). They seemed confused about what to do next. Then came a voice from the tower: “You need to cross to the other side. You can’t go around.”

One athletic kid scissor-kicked to lift himself up, took one step across, jumped feet first–and disappeared. A long breath later, he emerged from the mist directly below the tower like a reincarnation. While the guards were praising his style, the whale seized his chance. The deck rolled as he lumbered across and executed what seemed a perfect cannonball.

The spotlight swung over: “You can’t enter the water like that. Get out!”

The next two boys waited for the ripples to subside, then slithered across the deck on their stomachs and slinked into the water. One boy got caught. The other dove deep and arrived ashore to congratulations for being the second to complete the mission.

Time slowed, but tension stretched elastic ready to break. Then somebody else splashed and was ‘lit up’ like Broadway. More time slithered by before the sixth kid tried. He too was spotted.

I counted to almost 600 when I heard from the tower: “If there’s anyone else there, enter the water now.”

Carefully, I crouched and waded up to my waist, then took a deep breath and ducked under. I could hold my breath for about a minute and swim underwater like an eel. With wide kicks and arm sweeps, I reached the dock 60 ft. from shore.

A minute later, a guard descended the tower and walked onto the dock. My next move was obvious but no one else had tried: I came up beneath the walkway. I dipped underwater when he passed by on his way to the end of the dock and again on his way back.

I wasn’t sure if he spotted me, but I started moving when he climbed up the ladder. Over the next 25 minutes, I slow-motioned toward shore under the deck. But now it was too shallow. I backed into a crouch, and quietly slathered mud across my back for camouflage. Then I ducked underwater, pulled myself under the rail and froze with only my head out of water. Soon the light caught me.

“What do we have here?” “Is that a snake on his back?”

I played possum until they told me it was OK. They congratulated me for my stealth. When I reached camp about 10:45 p.m., I told Peter what he missed and that I wasn’t sure when he could do a make-up since this was our last night.

He laughed. –The provisional scoutmaster told him the “special assignment” was extra, not a requirement for the merit badge. Also, I had missed the fun. Several troops banded together for ‘capture the flag’ (my favorite game), then roasted marshmallows over a huge campfire and told stories.

Unfortunately, it was lights out at 11 p.m. As I lay in the dark still agitated, Pete had one more thing to say: The whale had gotten into our snacks and eaten the last of our Oreos.

Endnote: I didn’t reach draft age until September 1973, my freshman year at Rutgers. The draft board issued me a card, though I was the only one in line. –The draft had ended in May.