It was not a lot of fun to be a kid during World War II, especially at Christmastime.

In 1943, I was an eight-year-old boy who roamed in the woods and sagebrush fields with two younger brothers hunting Japanese and German soldiers with make believe rifles and bayonets. I was tired of make believe; I wanted the real thing from Santa —a rifle made of steel, one capable of firing blank bullets and making noise and smoke.

While we were far removed from the real battles that were taking place overseas, we were reminded daily of the rush to train soldiers for overseas deployment. An Army fort was located eight miles from the dairy farm where we lived and a field training facility was less than a mile away. Almost daily, soldiers marched from their living quarters to the training site, and from time to time, they’d fall out for a rest break near our home. Of course, we’d rush to their side and ask them if they had a pack of gum or a Hershey bar they were willing to share with us.

More often than not they’d oblige on the condition that little brother George, three, would sing a song. They’d even give us a nickel or dime if we’d run to the dairy and get them a bottle of orange drink or chocolate milk.

We’d watch and listen as they conducted mock warfare drills, flinching from the sounds of hand grenade blasts and mortar shells whistling through the air. “When they put down a cloud of smoke to hide themselves from the enemy, we’d take off to the woods with our make believe weapons, climb trees and wait patiently for the enemy to appear. The least noise would prompt a make believe volley of gunfire. After the smoke cleared, we’d usually find our dog, Victor, prowling around in the underbrush completely unaware that he was the object of our sniper attack.

Such experiences coupled with Edward R. Morrow’s radio reports on the day’s battles on the front lines wreaked havoc with a good’s night’s sleep. I can remember having nightmares of being in harm’s way during bombing raids, air-to-air fire fights and hand-to-hand combat, only to wake up startled and drenched in sweat.

When my siblings and I wrote our letters to Santa, we were cautioned by our parents not to expect too much. The war effort was going full blast and rationing was the order of the day.

Sure enough, they were right and we were disappointed. A wooden wagon and wooden wheelbarrow were among the handful of toys and non-sugar treats we found under the tree. The wagon fell apart after the first rain and the wheelbarrow wound up in our mother’s wood cook stove.