Week #6—Operation Overpass

A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.

Proverbs 15:1

Winter of 1963

Dan—my older brother, better known as Marcus—ran our childhood like a low-budget boot camp. Four years older but the same height, I outweighed him by fifty pounds, yet he still ruled us with military precision. He carried a full mental arsenal; I showed up with a peanut-butter sandwich.

He collected rare stamps, old coins, and grudges—especially against Norman. And when he wasn’t cataloging his treasures, he was drafting neighborhood kids into whatever elite commando unit he’d invented that week.

One Saturday night, deep in a Michigan winter, the world outside froze solid. A foot of snow buried everything. By five-thirty, the dark had swallowed the yard whole.
To Marcus, that meant perfect conditions for a covert op.

Earlier that afternoon, he lined us up in the backyard—me included, though I’m convinced Mom forced his hand. His friends stood stiff at attention, breath fogging like steam from busted pipes. Marcus paced in front of us like Patton with a runny nose.

“Tonight,” he declared, “we blow the overpass.”

The newly built four-lane highway sliced across town like a concrete scar. To Marcus, it was a strategic stronghold. To me, it was where cars barreled through at seventy miles an hour while state troopers prowled like wolves in steel-blue coats.

We deployed at dusk. Snow swallowed us up to our shins as we crept around the overpass, each kid disappearing into drifts as if we’d trained for this our whole lives.

My assignment? Slide down the icy embankment, right beside the traffic lane, and plant the ‘explosive’—a coffee can stuffed with rocks—against a concrete pylon.

Marcus grabbed my coat collar, his breath clouding my face, and hauled me close. His eyes narrowed—part big brother, part drill sergeant, part tyrant.

“Don’t let anyone see you,” he hissed. “If a state trooper spots you, you’re toast.”

Toast? As in booked and tossed into Bay County Jail with a guy named Earl and his cousins. At twelve years old, that sounded like my entire future being flushed down the drain.

But orders were orders.

I dropped down the embankment, slipping and sliding like a logging truck on a runaway truck ramp. Snow shot up my sleeves. Headlights sliced through the flurries, each beam a prison searchlight sweeping for escapees. Hitting the bottom hard, I ducked behind the pylon, planted the canister, and felt like the bravest idiot God ever made.

Then the wind carried a familiar roar.

“COME ON! GET YOUR BUTT UP HERE!”

I clawed at the slope—got maybe four feet—then slid back down in a spray of ice and humiliation. Tried again. Same thing. The incline had turned into a greased carnival slide from hell.

Cars screamed past so close that their air washer clawed at me. Dirty slush pelted my boots. Any second, I expected blue and red flashing lights surrounding me and a searchlight pinning me to the embankment like a bug on cardboard.

“COME ON!”
The voice again, angrier this time.

I tried. God knows I tried. But after my fourth attempt, the shouting stopped.

Silence—nothing but the wind.

Glancing up the slope, no one was there. In the distance, a flashlight beam faded away.

The entire squad—Shep included—had bugged out and left me behind like a rookie casualty they’d write off in the after-action report.

Staying in character to avoid capture, I circled through fields, trudging through two-foot drifts for over a mile. My jeans froze solid, crackling when I moved. My fingers went numb. Every pair of headlights that swept my way made my stomach jump—this is it, this is the Trooper, tonight’s the night I go to the pokey.

When I pushed open the back door, snow dropping off me in clumps, there they were—Marcus and his hand-picked commandos—warm, smug, and drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows bobbing on top like tiny white life preservers, reenacting their daring escape. Their smug laughter and bold claims of their mission success turned my stomach.

“Welcome home, Sgt. Schultz,” Marcus said as his buddies cackled in the background.

I walked past without a word. Too cold, too tired, and too angry to trust my voice. I dropped my sodden outerwear and climbed into bed still wearing half-frozen long johns. Tears poured from the corners of my eyes. Not from failure but from the betrayal only an older brother can deliver with a perfectly straight face.

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If you enjoy stories about faith, courage, and life lessons, you may also enjoy The Logan Murdock Trilogy.

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