I didn’t realize it at the time, but my first experience with writing military fiction was also my first experience with plagiarism.  I was seven years old, and my family had just moved from Marietta, Georgia to the nearby town of Austell.  Our new house was only a dozen or so miles from our old apartment, but the distance was enough to put me in a different school district.

Before our change of address, I wasn’t even aware that other schools existed.  Park Street Elementary in Marietta wasn’t just my school.  It was the school.  The only one I’d ever seen.  How could I possibly go to school anywhere else?

But it turned out that there were other schools in the universe.  I discovered this when I found myself sitting at an unfamiliar desk, listening to an unfamiliar teacher, in a classroom full of complete strangers, in a preposterously round school building called Richard B. Russell Elementary.  (My mom said my new school looked like a donut.  My dad called it the circus tent.  I preferred to think of it as Hell.)

A few months later, I would learn that there are worst things in life than changing schools in the middle of the year, but if you had told me that back then, I wouldn’t have believed you.

Except for my brother who was two grades ahead of me and avoiding me like the plague, I didn’t know a single person in that school.  No friends in the classroom.  No familiar faces in the lunch line.  No one to pal around with at recess.  No seat buddy on the school bus.  Even the textbooks and assignment sheets were strange and alien to me.

So when my new teacher announced that she would be holding a story writing contest, she had my attention immediately.  As she laid out the rules, I began to smile.  The stories would be submitted anonymously, and the class would vote to select the best one.  (Good…  Good…)  Illustrations would be permitted.  (Even better, as I considered myself something of an artist.)  And the grand prize was to be an ice cream cake, which the winner could take home to his or her family.

I nearly stood up and cheered when the teacher revealed this last part.  This was my chance!  It was the perfect setup!  I would write a dazzlingly brilliant story, brought to eye-popping life by my full-color art work.  My classmates would not even realize that they were acknowledging the glory and talent of the new kid when they selected my entry as the obvious winner.  And then, when I was basking in their collective adoration, I would have an announcement of my own.  Ice cream cake for everyone!  The frozen delight would not be going home with me on the bus.  I would be sharing it with my fellow students.

No longer would I be the new kid.  I would be the story master.  The artist.  The provider of icy confections.  All would love and admire me.  And best of all, I already had the ideal story in mind.

My favorite song back then was Snoopy vs. the Red Baron, by the Royal Guardsmen.  If you’ve never heard it, you can take my word; that was a pretty cool song.  In addition to having a catchy tune, it told the story of a beagle who takes to the skies atop his dog house, to duel with the infamous World War I flying ace, Manfred von Richthofen.

To my seven year old mind, that song had everything a story could possibly need.  It had a flawless balance of military action and humor.  It had history.  It had a life-and-death struggle against superior odds.  It had blazing machine guns, and a flying freaking dog.  With that much literary goodness going for me, how could I possibly lose?

I sharpened my number two pencil and got to work.  After a bit of deliberation, I decided to change the title.  I was certain that none of the other kids in the class were cool enough to listen to the Royal Guardsmen, but there was a slim chance that one of them had heard the song in passing.  To be on the safe side, I changed Snoopy to Spot.  This was, I judged, a sufficient injection of originality.  For the rest of the story, I could rely on the actual contents of the song, along with a couple of illustrations depicting my visual interpretations of aerial combat between a murderous flying ace and a cute cartoon dog.

I paraphrased the plot line of the song.  “A long time ago, after the turn of the century, in the cloudless blue skies above Germany…”

When it came time to extol von Richthofen’s impressive record of kills, I quoted the lyrics verbatim.  “Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty or more.  The Bloody Red Baron was rolling out the score.  Eighty men died trying to end that stree of the Bloody Red Baron of Germany.”*

*The word “spree” was not part of my vocabulary at age seven, and I assumed that I would learn all about the mysterious term “stree” at some point during the second grade.  Or possibly the third.

With such a powerful source to draw from, my story was finished in no time.  Away went the number two pencil, and out came the felt-tipped markers.  I was determined to make the art work every bit the equal of the literary tour de force I had just penned.  And so I did.

My first drawing depicted the deadly Baron in the cockpit of a bright red delta-winged fighter jet.  (I apparently didn’t have a good handle on the state of the art for World War I aircraft in those days.)  Streaking from the Baron’s jet toward some hapless Allied aircraft were at least thirty missiles, each trailing black curly smoke and long tails of orange fire.  The Allied plane—not nearly as badass as the Baron’s delta-wing—was already pockmarked with black dots that represented bullet holes.  The pilot was clearly done for.

My second drawing showed Snoopy…  I mean Spot…  astride his dog house, flying straight toward a head-on collision with the Red Baron’s jet.  Guided missiles and machinegun bullets (represented by dashed lines) screamed across the page in both directions.  It was a snapshot in time, captured a mere fraction of a second before all of those lethal projectiles struck home.  Chaos and disaster just one heartbeat away.

The finished product exceeded my wildest expectations.  Looking over my story and drawings, I knew instantly that I was going to win.  No one could possibly compete with the lurid high-octane excitement of Spot vs. the Red Baron.

I left my name off the pages, as instructed, and carried my masterpiece to the teacher’s desk where I laid it face down.  (Also as instructed.)

Then I had to sit at my desk and wait, while all of the slower kids in class struggled to complete their doomed entries in my contest.  I passed the time by mentally practicing my acceptance speech, and imagining the taste of ice cream cake garnished with victory.

At last, the final story was turned in.  The teacher shuffled through the pile, pulled out a story at random, and read it to the class, holding up the attached drawings for examination by her students.  I didn’t think much of the story or the illustrations.  They were adequate, I supposed, but definitely not in the same caliber as my work.

Teacher read another story, and another, and then another.  I sat waiting for mine.  And waiting.

She finished off a lame tale about a purple horse who could turn invisible, and then proclaimed the voting period open.

I was stunned.  What about Spot vs. the Red Baron?  Had she overlooked my story?  Was such a thing even possible?

My hand shot up.  The teacher ignored me.

I waved my raised arm from side to side, in the time-honored gesture used to capture the notice of inattentive pedagogues.  The teacher made eye contact with me, gave her head a single shake, and proceeded with the mechanics of soliciting votes for the contest.

This was appalling!  I was being cut out of the contest!  Denied my rightful chance at victory!  But no matter how long I kept my hand in the air, it was clear that the teacher was not going to call on me.

Finally, the prize was awarded.  I think it went to the purple horse story.  I honestly don’t remember.

I lowered my unacknowledged hand in defeat, and sat through the rest of the school day in disbelieving silence.  My master plan was in tatters, and I didn’t even know where I had gone wrong.

When the final bell of the day rang, I joined the scrum of kids shuffling toward the exit.  The teacher intercepted me at the door, and handed back my story.

She had circled the word “stree” in red ink, along with an annotation to check my spelling.  In the margin was a note which read, “Nice drawings and good penmanship.  Look up the word ‘Plagiarism’ when you get home.

I did look up the word, and then I understood why my story had been disqualified.  It had never occurred to me that stories and even choices of phrase might actually belong to the people who created them.  I took that lesson to heart, and I’ve spent my life as a writer trying to avoid making that same mistake again.

And—to this day—I don’t know what ice cream cake tastes like.