They know what’s coming when their dad slams the front door. Their eyes squint, they scatter.

Their dad finds them, lines them up, and spanks them by the most hysterical to the most stoic. The loudest ones cry, “We didn’t do anything.” And he says the same thing, “This is for general principles.”

Their dad never spanks their eldest brother; he’s too old and off with his friends.

“Who is General Principles?” they ask their mom one morning. “Why does he tell Dad to spank us?” They imagine a formidable general ordering their dad to punish them.

Their mom blinks at them, like she does most of the time, and says, “Maybe you won’t get spanked if you behave.”

They decide to go find this cruel general. Since their dad’s out on the lawn picking snails off the grass to freeze in plastic baggies, like he does most of the time, they avoid meeting out there. And they figure the general orders their dad to attack the snails, too.

So they strategize their offensive in the backyard, drawing maps in the dirt, proposing troop movements, battery placements.

They suspect General Principles must be camped in the open land across the street. And as they march down the driveway, they see all of the silvery snail trails zigzagging over the concrete. They halt, mouth silent prayers for their comrades.

They creep stealthily by their bent-over dad on the lawn and sprint across the street. Then, they break into a steady jog over the dirt mounds their eldest brother and his friends built to jump their BMX bikes.

Soon they come upon a large Quonset hut painted in camouflage in the middle of a field of weeds. They crawl in the dirt and position themselves as close as they dare. They use a code of their own invention, more superior than Morse code, undecipherable to their enemies.

“Sneak attack,” they tap on each other’s arms, shoulders.

“Wait, we don’t have any weapons,” they tap.

They find an old broomstick in the weeds, brandishing it like a sword.

“No, we need a tank,” they tap.

“A bazooka,” they tap.

They frown at each other.

“Wait! We’ll capture the general’s flag,” they tap excitedly. Just last night they watched an old black and white war movie on Channel 11. A scene showed how the enemy’s flag was captured. How the enemy bawled like babies because of their defeat. How the winners ran down the battlefield, waving the flag triumphantly.

“Sneak attack,” they tap, again.

When they storm through the large camouflaged painted door, they spot the general, in his full regimentals with all his shiny medals, looming over an enormous map at the center of the hut. He looks their way. His eyes stay hidden behind dark sunglasses.

“What are you doing here?” It’s their eldest brother! He and his friends stand at the far end of the hut, guarding a massive multicolored flag with its reds and purple and black and blues.

“Yeah, wussies aren’t allowed,” their eldest brother’s friends say.

“We’re surrounded by the enemy, both home and abroad,” they tap.

“If we try to take the flag, they’ll pound us,” they tap.

“I think it’s wet willy time,” their eldest brother says.

“It’s wedgie time,” their eldest brother’s friends say.

“Got it,” they tap. “We’ll commandeer the medals, those shoulder pads with all the strings like they did in the movie last night.”

In another scene, after the epic battle, an officer had his epaulets and medals torn from his uniform. In disgrace, the ex-officer bawled like a baby.

They charge in two waves, overcoming the big man with sheer grit, ripping off medals, yanking off the gold fringe from broad shoulders. The general slumps to the floor, his sunglasses twisted on his red face, bawling like a baby. They retreat unharmed when their eldest brother and his friends strategize a hasty counter-attack.

Outside, they barricade the door handles with the broomstick. They run around the hut to find their eldest brother and his friends’ bikes. They let the air out of the tires like they do most of the time.

They shout victoriously. They zigzag over the mounds of dirt. They jump high into the air. They hold up medals that flash like a dozen tiny suns, the fringes that wave like a hundred tiny flags.

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