The 1936: Horror Campaign is a bimonthly event in the Mid-Atlantic region of the U.S., set in the 1930s, with a background that lies somewhere between "Indiana Jones" and "Cthulhu Live." For the season finale, the game needed an Armored Car. This is the chronicle of three volunteers who had volunteered for prop making and got an economy sized task - build an armored car on Friday afternoon which would be deployed during a battle on Saturday afternoon.

As GMs, we had put together a quick sheet that gave several views of an actual Armored Car of the era. The idea wasn't so much that the end product would look much like it as that it would convey the concept that this was not a modern armored vehicle. It would have boxy lines, and could be built out of sheets of cardboard. We considered trying to draw out a cutting plan but abandoned it for two reasons. First the actual design was going to depend quite a bit on the vehicle it was built on. Second, the fact is that a detailed arts and crafts plan generally breaks down in the face of actual materials and requirements. We weren't going to be handing it over to school kids, so we figured it would be best to give a few pictures and turn them loose. I did end up quickly penciling out a few cut diagrams showing how I'd thought of putting it together, but generally we turned our volunteers loose with nothing but their imagination, some details as to how to use stove bolts as connectors, and a few pictures. The results were just as good as if we'd printed out a detailed and measured blueprint, and took a lot less prep time.

I was very pleased with the use of stove bolts in the final construction. These were standard hex bolts with a nut on the opposite end. You wouldn't think you could use them to easily join cardboard…the heads should tear right through. However, we put very large diameter washers on both sides, and the bolts held fabulously.

We'd done a fair amount preparation. Unable to get the actual measurements of the vehicle that the frame would be fitted to, we had at least prepared the necessary materials. Six full sized refrigerator boxes, painted a bluish gray. We'd worked with large cardboard props in the past and realized that it would be hopeless in terms of time, expense and actual coverage, to spray paint the tank. In square feet, this would have a surface area not much smaller than one side of a small house. And it would be hopelessly difficult to paint it once it was mounted on a car. Among other things, there would be someone's very real car under it, and being randomly dripped and spattered with paint would probably not make them very happy. We weren't certain that the frame would hold up to actual painting while standing independently.

So we laid the sections out in the backyard, and painted them the week before. This resulted in a brief panic when rain began to pour out of a clear sky, but all the pieces were fairly dry and were towed into my living room, where they consumed most of the available walking area.

For transport, the elements had to be carried up on rooftop. I'd had real problems with big cardboard sheets buckling in the wind before, arriving without much more strength than notebook paper. So I took one of the smaller sections and folded it over the stack, so that there was one solid wedge meeting the air in the front. Weighed down with a huge travel chest that also went up top, we had no problems with buckled cardboard.

Anita and Cheryl:
We all volunteered blindly, therein lies the magic!

There we were, three LARP gals, two from New York City and one from Washington, DC. We had all volunteered to come to the game site one day early to help the GM's of the '1936: Horror Campaign,' set up for the season finale - 1936:SPAIN. Of course we all generally knew that the event was set during the middle of the Spanish Civil war (1936-38).

The Project: We all expected that the game set up was going to be stuff generally related to putting up some army tents and assembling what might serve as a reasonable facsimile of a front-line army-style camp. What we didn't expect was that the GM had this grand idea in his head for something really interesting; "An Armored Car-Tank."

Day One - Building: So there we were, in the middle of a shady cow pasture with several pictures found on the web of what Spanish civil war armored car-tanks looked like. A largely illegible set of notes from the GM of how he envisioned this prop, a bag of nuts, bolts and washers, a couple of rolls of duck tape, a tile knife, and this pile of debris; correction, five collapsed Sears refrigerator boxes painted 'German field gray.'

The grand plan was that we were going to cut, score and fabricate the painted cardboard into something that would fit over a Volvo and hopefully look like an armored car when we were done. Of course, none of us had done something like this before and there was one tiny complication. This thing was supposed to set on top of a Volvo, but we didn't have the subject Volvo or the measurements. So we were going to have to 'guess,' by using Anita's Toyota Corolla. (A Volvo turns out to be much wider that a Corolla)

Professional skills-wise we were: a professional actress, a commercial artist and a cyber-cop! Vocationally, though, the skills were clearly stagecraft oriented, with a combined theater craft experience of nearly fifty years (Tashi's an old fart); for the most part we generally thought we had this covered. The first assumption we made was that the show business end of the Tank had to be the front side. No matter what, the front part had to look good.

There were four main sections of the Tank. In the front, the first challenge was fabricating some of the cardboard to resemble the engine housing typical of vehicles of the 1930's. The second section was the central body housing where the doors and windows would be. The third section was the back section with just extended out over the car's trunk, higher than that of the car to a position resembling where a truck's rear line might have been. The intention was to keep the box-shaped look of the tank. Finally came the turret piece, which was octagon-shaped to hide the sunroof cut out where the topside machine gunner would sit.

The front section by far was the most time consuming because of the detail of trying to fabricate the 1930's engine housing; the fabrication process was an exercise in classic sheet metal style cutting, scoring and bending of the cardboard and jointing using nuts and bolts. Once the housing and grill were fabricated the next step was to start with the main body section. This section had to have the front Armour plate where the driver's viewing slots were to be cut. Without the actual Volvo, we had to leave a lot of extra slack just in case.

On the main body section, we did not actually cut down the cardboard on the sides for concern that the car might be larger than the Neon we were using as a model. Instead we opted for general jointing and shaping with an eye on making the main section partially telescopic side to side to allow for adjustment to the actual vehicle. Also we did not cut the window in the sunroof area for the turret and door openings at this time. That had to be done when we had the actual car. Our thought was that we could always cut cardboard down later. "You would have thought we were clairvoyant," Tashi commented.

We built triangle shaped mounting posts with flaps on the bottom which we duct taped to the roof and the trunk to help us establish a superstructure to mount cardboard on in order to elevate the cardboard from the roof and over the trunk of the car and give the tank a more square look since cars today are built more aero-dynamically than armored car of 1937. Within about 5 hours we had all the rough general components assembled on Anita's car, all ready to be sized and fit to the Volvo. It's amazing what three women can do with a knife!

Day Two:
The LARP war game was in full swing; the main camp was being mortared by German re-enactment troops. Tashi was deep into a cast character as the chief surgeon in a MASH style medical unit at the camp with scores of wounded piled up in triage and couldn't break away.

Paul, who owned the Volvo and who was going to be the cast driver, was now on site. Anita and Rebecca's player characters along with Paul's were written out of the game long enough to do the final assembly. "Our characters were sent on a long picket patrol near the front!" Rebecca said.

Final construction was a process of taking the pre-built pieces and troubleshooting them so that they would fit the actual car. Again, the team started from the front and worked their way back. Some modification was needed since the real car was larger than the dummy car; fortunately, they had plenty of extra cardboard. No major additions to the original pieces were needed but additional scores and splices had to be made to increase the length in areas so that the major section pieces were long enough to be joined.

For example, the height of the central section box was reduced so that there was enough cardboard to join the front hood section. A quick field modification was the screws used to join the individual pieces of cardboard that over the actual car itself, the assemble team had to change them to the bolted side out, so as not to scratch the car; in addition some trusty duck tape was used to cover the heads of the bolts to prevent scratching the car's finish.

It really must be noted that this was clearly a three-person job. The very large cardboard pieces were very unwieldy and didn't allow one person to do the job alone. For example, at one point one person was inside the cardboard superstructure drilling holes and pushing through screws, while another person was on the outside fastening it with washers and nuts, as a third held it stable so it could all be joined, this was team effort at it's best!

Finally, after all the pieces were modified and joined, then the final cuts for the viewing slots and doors were cut out. Duck tape was used to close the driver's side door from the inside so there was a way for the driver to enter the car. When it was finally done it had been done it with minimal tools, and a lot of hard work and cooperation. Anita the commercial artist commented, "If I ever had to build a another, I would have liked a straight edge so that the cuts wouldn't have been done free-hand and looked more straight" She added, "I would have liked to have had the actual car to start with since a lot of time on the second day was needed to modify the pieces, but all in all it was a great experience." Satisfaction was looking at the GM's dropped jaws when it was done.

Showtime:
The unqualified best part was getting to see the player's faces as the armored car came lumbering down the hill to engage them on the battlefield. Anita had the best vantage point to see the player's faces, since she was "drafted at the last minute to sit in the Volvo's sun-roof as the gunner in the turret.

Tank Grrlz-- Diary of an Expert Holder
Rebecca Proch

Friday, 11 AM-ish
It started, as so many things do, very innocently.

Fresh from breakfast at a small-town diner that could've been a set from "Alice"-- I was kinda sad the waitress didn't invite me to kiss her grits-- Anita, Tashi and I return to the sprawling farmland property where 1936 Horror: Spain is about to run. We're all up a day early, idealistic goofballs that we are, thinking that we will help with the last of the setup for the game. Really, we're not even trying to score brownie points with the GMs. No, really!

An important fact that I should note before anything else is that Gordon, one of the GMs of this campaign, has in the past proudly announced that he has paperwork certifying him as brain damaged. He doesn't actually NEED the paperwork, in my fond estimation.

So we have all gotten rounded up, and Gordon announces that he needs us to spend the afternoon building an armored car. Or rather, a cardboard shell that will go over another player's car, making it look like a Spanish Civil War era armored car.

Okaaaaaay...well, I'm game. I'm a theater person as well as a gamer, it's not like I haven't built cool props out of duct tape and fervent prayers before. All three of us manage to nod calmly and look like we have a clue what the hell he's talking about, as Gordon scribbles a few sketches on a sheet of paper, shows us the pile of painted refrigerator boxes that serve as our main building resource, and bids us bon voyage to the field where we'll be building this monstrosity.

We are all trying to look confident, and assuring one another that we really, really are capable of pulling this off. Or else we're just determined to do it in record time so that we can still squeeze in a skinny-dip in the pond before the game.

Friday, 11:30 AM
So here we are, in the field, three theater veterans determined to prevail and wow the rest of the game with our engineering savvy, artistic skills, and MacGyver-ish way with found materials. (I can't help thinking of that scene in "Apollo 13" where the Houston techies get a pile of junk dumped in front of them and are told, "This is what the astronauts have up there. Build a filter adapter with it." Thank gods no one's ability to breathe depends on our success with this project...) There are only a few small problems here.

First problem. We have no blueprint of any sort for this project. OK, so, we'll wing it.

Second problem. We do not actually have the car on which this beast is supposed to fit. Nor do we have measurements for it. All we know is that it's a Volvo. (Good choice; Volvos are about as boxy as Spanish Civil War era armored cars.) All right, we're still good. We'll just cut everything big, shape it on Anita's car, and fit it onto the car when the player whose car it is actually arrives. In theory this sounds simple.

Third problem. We have, for tools, exactly the following: An electric hand drill, a couple of rolls of duct tape, a box cutter with one blade, a couple of X-acto knives, a box of nuts and bolts, and a box of washers. We have no straight edge, no screwdriver, no ruler or tape measure, nada. Yet we remain optimistic; Tashi the irrepressibly good-natured rolls her eyes but is confident we can pull it off; Anita mutters about wishing she'd known she was going to be building a damn TANK so that she could've brought her tool kit, but cheerfully squares her shoulders. I also remain confident. This is because I can tell that THEY know what they're doing.

Fourth problem. We start measuring out pieces of cardboard to see what we can do with them, and Anita says, "Do we have a pencil...?"

It's going to be a very long day.

Friday, 1:30 PM
Having solved the most pressing problem by finding a pencil in Anita's glove compartment, we are making some decent progress. Preliminary pieces are being cut, scored, and fitted, and we're starting to get an idea how this thing is going to be put together.

Anita and Tashi are chugging away like twin dynamos on the design and engineering of this tank. Myself, I have three important responsibilities on this project. The first is to keep the tunes cranked in order to keep morale high. Right now we're grooving to some swing-- very 1930's. The second is to nod sagely anytime a new idea is proposed, and say, "That sounds good," as though I have any idea what I'm talking about. But it shows that I am on board with the team, and team spirit in my opinion is key to our success. The third is to hold stuff.

I am very good at holding stuff. You have no idea how good I am at holding stuff. I could win an Oscar (ok, one of those lame techie Oscars that gets given out the night before the real awards show at the dinner hosted by some B-list ingenue who doesn't even have to speak intelligible English to land the gig, but a naked bald gold guy all the same) for holding stuff. You name it, I can hold it-- bolts, strips of duct tape, the precious pencil. I even hold the knives as carefully as I learned in kindergarten, and I don't even run with them either. Most importantly, I can hold the pieces of the armored car together while Tashi and Anita labor to drill holes in the seams through which we will fasten the bolts.

But please don't get me wrong, I mean, Anita and Tashi are doing important jobs too. You know, the holder does tend to get the limelight and sometimes it seems like we holders of the world accomplish these things single-handedly, but I really should let you in on a little industry secret. Without Anita and Tashi, I'd really have just spent all day in that field with a handful of bolts in one hand and a painted refrigerator box in the other, and when Gordon came to inspect my progress, he really wouldn't have been very impressed. I mean, it's all conjecture of course, but I'm just saying, give credit where it's due, ok?

Friday, 2:45 PM
Time for a little Argentinean tango music-- nice way to get us all in the mindset for Spain. Tashi and I are boogying while we work. Either we're in touch with our inner Latinas or the emerging summer sun is making us a little loca. Working on this car has gifted us with psychic connection, as I open my mouth a split second too late to mirror Anita's exact quip-- "'So what did you do this weekend?' 'I built a tank!'"

Amazingly, the armored car is taking shape. The front-- the most important part-- actually looks pretty damn cool. We have most of the major pieces assembled, which when done is about all we can finish for the day until we have the actual car to fit the pieces to. The pond is calling to us. Or maybe that's just the bullfrogs.

Despite our remarkable (if I do say so myself) progress, I am already thinking that this is an experience I'm adding to the databank of "I will look back on this someday and laugh, I hope" stories.

Friday, 3:30 PM
We are as done as we can be for the day. All that remains is to pray that we can fit these pieces reasonably well to the actual car. If not, I suppose a few of us could always get underneath it and run it, Flintstone-style, across the field. On reflection, it would be rather amusing to announce to Gordon that that's how we've decided it has to be done, and see how pale he can actually get without passing out.

SKINNY DIP!! Yay us, job well done. We are at peace with our work.

Saturday, 11 AM
One of our comrades has fallen. Tashi is up to her ears in role-playing angst in the field hospital as the game kicks off for the morning, and Anita and I are recruited to drop out of game and fit the armored car shell onto Paul's Volvo, with Paul's assistance. The three of us believe we can whip the thing into shape in about an hour and return gracefully to game with nary a khaki out of place.

What fools these mortals be.

Saturday, 12 PM
One hour, and we're laughably far from the finish line. Nor do we have the portable CD player this time, so my usefulness has been somewhat diminished. However, there is now even more holding to do, so I'm still pulling my weight.

Gordon's idea was that the gunner for the tank would sit on the roof of the car with their legs dangling down the sunroof, and therefore the shell would be raised off the car by means of a wooden frame. Need I mention that like the basilisk and the unicorn, this frame was apparently a mythical creature, never destined to manifest except perhaps in Gordon's vivid imagination?

It ceases to matter when we explain this concept to Paul, who takes one dubious look at the roof of his car and says, "He wants them to WHAT? No f**king way."

I confess that Anita and I are relieved that Paul agrees with us that this plan is dangerous and impractical. So, the top of the shell will rest flat on the roof of the car, and the gunner will stand on the seat with head and shoulders out of the sunroof. This is still, we are pretty sure, illegal in all states except maybe Texas and not terribly safe, but certainly preferable. If Gordon protests, I figure I can always tell him about the Flinstones idea to make him feel better about the compromise.

Every creepy-crawly in the state of Pennsylvania has apparently decided to set up housekeeping on our tank pieces, and the benefit we receive from the fact that Paul has a screwdriver AND a tape measure in his car are rendered almost null by the fact that in order not to scratch his car, we have to fit the rest of the bolts in upside-down and therefore cannot use the electric drill. Now Paul or Anita must use the drill bit to puncture multiple layers of cardboard by hand. We are cranky, sweaty, stinky, and tired. I bet if we had music we'd be faring better.

Saturday, 2 PM
The attack on the fascists in which this armored car was supposed to be employed is scheduled to be happening right now. The Popular Army will just have to hold its caballos; we're still not done.

Fortunately for me, this assembly phase of the job is better suited to my skill set. I'm actually able to make intelligent contributions regarding where and how things need to be fastened together. But, steadfastly, I maintain my main duty as holder. That is truly where I shine.

Saturday, 3 PM
For the second (or is it third?) time, the attack has been pushed back to allow us to finish the stupid car. We're feeling the crunch. Myself, I'm having nightmare hallucinations that the sun will have set, and my new job will be to hold a makeshift torch to provide light while we put the finishing touches on for the now-midnight raid in which no one will actually be able to see the fruits of our labor.

We have long since run out of washers, and have taken to cutting up the plastic containers they came in to use for that purpose. Paul is rummaging around in his car for random hardware for the war effort as well.

Deb, the cast wrangler, and Stephanie, the chef, arrive as angels of mercy with gifts of lunch. And caffeine. I down a Coke in record time as we take a few minutes to gulp food and dish about the game. Oh yeah...there's a game going on, isn't there?

Saturday, 4 PM
The shell is fastened onto the car and pronounced by all three of us to be good enough for government work. I can't quite believe we have finished it! Paul takes a little test drive, and miracle of miracles, the thing actually moves! Lucy, Ethel, this crazy scheme just might work after all...

I get to be the lucky one to be driven back into camp top-speed, yelling like a madwoman to roust the troops for this long-delayed attack. (Apparently my character has come back from the mother of all picket duties.) Paul, as the owner of the car beneath the shell, has to play teamster and Anita gets roped into being the gunner.

The battle is intense, rife with special effects, roaring gunfire from blanks, and a great deal of running and yelling and cursing. In character, I run out perhaps a little farther than I should in order to make sure I get a good look at the armored car in action. The roar of awe from the players is so satisfactory that for a moment I forget I'm going to get even with Gordon for this someday.

Saturday, 11 PM
We're heading back into fascist territory for a last great stand against the Jerries. Splendid night battle scene, my character gets all but swiss cheesed and then miraculously brought back from the edge of death. Numerous characters lob grenades at the armored tank. I have to resist the urge to throw myself on it like a mother over her child.

Sunday, post-game Paul is ready to leave and the armored car shell sits in the middle of camp, as limp and saggy as Bob Dole pre-Viagra. People still want to take pictures with it. I'm torn between wanting it mounted in the Smithsonian and wanting to drive over it with a Mack truck. I compromise by leaving before I can find out what its fate really will be.

I kind of feel like a hardened battle veteran, and look forward to swapping rueful tank-building stories with Tashi, Anita, and Paul down the line.

All cantankerousness aside, I can't say that I regret the experience. I feel that I have taken away some important life lessons from it. First, necessity is the domineering and emotionally manipulative mother of invention. Second, duct tape makes a good substitute for band-aids in a pinch. Third, squashed caterpillar guts are really, really gross and should be avoided at all costs in order to not get cooties.

And finally, when arriving early to help with setup at a game Gordon is running, it is best to be heavily equipped with power tools.

The builders: Rebecca Proch, Anita Szostak, Cheryl "Tashi" Costa and Paul Dwyer