The Battle for St. Catherine’s

(Martinez, California, 1976)

I was in St. Catherine’s Cemetery on the outskirts of Martinez, trying to make some artistic compositions of headstones. But my mature, sixteen-year-old’s contemplation of the graphical possibilities of chiseled text on stone was suddenly interrupted by these kids, who were not so reverent.

They were playing war, running around, blasting away at each other, raising an awful racket, and didn’t seem to pick up on my haughty disapproval. In fact, this particular boy ran my way and slid onto the crypt next to me, taking cover behind its large granite cross.

Could not an artist find peace, even in a graveyard?

About to suggest that he quiet down and show some respect for the place, instead he turned to me and—breaking the fourth wall of theater—held a finger to his lips, indicating that I should be quiet, so as to not give away his location.

With that, I was suddenly brought into his world—a player in this game of war—maybe as my favorite combat photojournalist, W. Eugene Smith on Saipan.

Now I had two loyalties: one was to not give up his position; the other was to not lose a great shot.

I deftly pivoted and shimmied to better situate myself in line with him and the granite cross. Tension and danger hung in the air like kerosene, as he assessed his options and I framed my image.

Click.

The next moment, he launched his deadly attack, only to quickly then pay the price with his own life, writhing in a spastic dance of machine-gun fire.