Among the war stories he told was the tale of an Iraqi boy who medics in his unit treated after the cease-fire had been declared. While putting down an uprising in southern Iraq, a soldier of Saddam Hussein’s army had pounded a nail into the child’s skull.

"How could anyone do that do a kid?" he asked, his voice cracking and his eyes welling with tears.

When I first met Ken in 1978, he was a gawky 16-year-old with long, stringy, strawberry-blond hair. I was 22 and less than a year out of South Dakota State University where I had become involved in the hobby of war gaming through the university’s Army ROTC department.

The war games were played on tabletops using miniature figures and vehicles. The mock battles from the past and near future were governed by rules that specified how far units could move and shoot, how accurate they were and how much damage they caused. Dice were rolled to determine whether a shot hit a target and what happened to the unit struck by fire.

When I arrived in Bismarck, there was no organized war gaming. Hoping to generate enough interest to form a local club, I put a notice in the Bismarck Tribune about a game I’d scheduled for a Saturday afternoon in a public meeting room. Ken was one of the first people to show up. Little did I know that our mutual interest in the hobby would develop into friendship.

As a teenager, Ken was as opinionated as he was naïve. He marched to a different drummer, doing as he pleased without regard to what anyone thought about him. He never wore a coat, even on the coldest winter days. He was forever coming up with theories that he would defend vociferously, no matter how ridiculous they seemed to everyone else.

The art of arguing
Most of all, Ken could argue. I sometimes thought that he should have been an attorney because he constantly found loopholes to exploit in the war gaming rules I developed. However, as a result of his challenges, I became a better writer of rules. The first question I’d ask myself after creating what I considered an airtight rule was, "How will Ken interpret this?"

As a young man, Ken bore a striking resemblance to Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer, one of the Bismarck area’s most famous residents. (In fact, he once played the role of Custer in a play.) We used to tease him by saying that his military prowess on the war gaming table was on the same level as Custer’s.

Initially, war gaming to Ken wasn’t about clever strategy or sound tactics. It was about defying the odds. He could lose a battle in spectacular fashion, but as long as he won a single engagement in which he was heavily out-gunned and out-numbered, he’d be happy.

Better lucky than good
I recall a game where Ken’s forces were thoroughly defeated – except for one tank. Despite that, he wouldn’t concede the battle. Ken then proceeded to use his lone tank and some hot dice-rolling to knock out one enemy vehicle after another. Only after his tank had been overwhelmed, immobilized and shot full of holes was it finally destroyed. As usual, we cursed Ken’s luck while he laughed at us.

Although some of us considered ourselves the Pattons and Napoleons of the local war gaming scene, Ken would never let us forget about the numerous monkey wrenches he threw into our brilliant battle plans with his against-all-odds exploits. Whoever said that no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy had probably faced an opposing commander in Ken’s mold.

Sure, we could always point out that Ken’s defeats far outnumbered his victories, but he didn’t care. As long as he could thumb his nose at us at least once a game, that was all the fun he needed.

Oh yeah?
An issue often raised at our war games was whether the terrain for the tabletop battlefields accurately reflected the terrain on which the real battles were fought. Ken once took a trip to France, and when someone mentioned that the terrain for a French battle wasn’t realistic, Ken shot back, "Oh yeah? Have you ever been to France?"

This Ken-ism evolved into a running joke among club members whenever someone questioned an aspect of realism during a game.

"Oh yeah? Have you ever been to Egypt?"

"Have you ever driven a Tiger tank?"

"Have you ever been charged by Polish lancers?"

"Have you ever operated the sonar on a nuclear attack submarine?"

The variations on this theme never ended.

Another advantage of having Ken around was that he was always thinking of ways to improve our war games. A unit’s angle of facing was frequently the subject of arguments. Ken showed up to a game with a protractor that was equipped with a swiveling straightedge. This helped insure the accurate measurement of facings and greatly reduced arguments. His gadget was an immediate hit, and the invention was always referred to as "the Hendrickson Device."

Light armor
When we played games with tanks and other armored vehicles, Ken’s preference was for fast-moving lightly armored tanks and armored cars with small guns. He delighted in maneuvering his thin-skinned vehicles on to the vulnerable flanks and rears of heavier tanks, destroying them with his pop-gun-armed units. The smaller, the lighter and the less-heavily armed the vehicle, the more likely it would be dubbed "the perfect Ken unit."

Sometimes between our club’s regularly scheduled games, I’d get the itch to play a war game or the urge try out a concept for a new rule. Ken was always happy to oblige me. He’d come to our home for a quick battle on the big old kitchen table I reserved for that purpose. During those times, we’d joke around, have long discussions about politics, current events, our hopes, our dreams, our fears and the general state of the world.

Ken was also responsible for getting me – a die-hard miniatures war gamer – involved in computer gaming. The ability to play combat simulations over telephone lines using computers and modems meant that Ken and I often kept the phones to our homes tied up. Our World War I biplane dogfights and undersea submarine hunts often went on for hours.

Adulthood
I watched Ken grow from a brash teenager to a mature young man with adult responsibilities. He attended Bismarck State College, got married, had a son and held a job. He worked hard and sought to better his lot in life by getting a degree from the University of Mary so that he could teach math.

Our friendship extended outside our hobby. Ken attended my wedding. When my two children were born, he came to visit and to offer his congratulations. He helped my wife and me move out of a basement apartment and into a duplex. Whenever I asked him for a favor, he never refused. If there was any way he could lend a hand, he would.

For more than 12 years, our war gaming club met every other Saturday. The club’s membership expanded and contracted over the years, but one person who was there from beginning to end was Ken. He rarely missed a game and was often involved in organizing and setting them up.

Earning respect
Ken’s knowledge of military history, strategy and tactics grew to the point where I’d take him on my side whenever I could. We still had heated arguments from time to time, but it was impossible to stay mad at Ken. He never held a grudge and never took himself too seriously.

I remember when Ken joined the National Guard. While we pretended to be soldiers, he became one. It seemed as if he’d taken the role of weekend warrior to another level. I couldn’t envision him ever going overseas, let alone being in combat.

In 1992, I left Bismarck for a job in Grand Forks. My contact with Ken gradually diminished over the years. He visited us in Grand Forks a couple times. On trips to Bismarck, I’d try to give him a call or get together with him. I knew from other friends that Ken had gotten divorced and was going through some tough times in his life.

The last time
I last saw Ken in the summer of 2002 when I had dinner with him and his son Trevor in Bismarck. He told me that he had a girlfriend and that they planned to get married. He seemed happy and pleased with his life, and I was happy for him.

When I learned that Ken’s National Guard unit, the 957^th Engineer Company, was being sent to Iraq in the spring of 2003, I thought that he’d probably be excited about it. After so many years of playing war games and practicing to be a soldier, he was finally going to be one. He would help to liberate the Iraqi people from a barbaric dictator and make the world safer from terrorism.

I’d think about Ken from time to time, wondering how he was doing in Iraq and imagining the stories he’d tell when he returned. The day Saddam Hussein was captured, I desperately wanted to talk to him about the event to find out what he thought about it.

Good odds
Ken’s safety was always on my mind whenever I heard news reports of American soldiers being killed or wounded in guerilla attacks in Iraq. I comforted myself by thinking that there were well over 100,000 U.S. troops in Iraq and that most of the violence occurred in one small area.

What were the chances of Ken being in that area? How slim was the possibility of him becoming a casualty? Certainly those were odds that Ken, of all people, could beat.

I looked forward to his safe return and the opportunity to one day sit down with him and hear what it was like to be a real American soldier in a combat zone. I knew it would only be a matter of time before he heard someone make what he considered a foolish remark about the war and he’d say, "Oh yeah? Have you ever been to Iraq?"

Bad news
On the afternoon of January 24, 2004, Bruce Romanick, a fellow war gamer from Bismarck, called to inform me that a roadside bomb near the Iraqi city of Fallujah had killed Ken and Keith Smette, another North Dakota Guardsman. I hung up the phone and cried. Then I told my wife and together we cried for the loss of our friend.

Although I had grown apart from Ken in the 12 years since I left Bismarck, knowing that someone who had been part of my life for 14 years was suddenly and forever gone was more painful than I’d ever imagined. I had played at war and knew people who had gone to war. They all came back wiser for the experience, but physically unharmed.

The Ken Hendrickson I knew is not coming back. He was my friend, my pal and my buddy. There was nobody else like Ken. I will never forget him or the sacrifice he made for his country.

Epilogue
Ken's funeral was held on February 2, 2004. Hundreds of people packed Trinity Lutheran Church, one of Bismarck's largest. In attendance were North Dakota Congressman Earl Pomeroy, Gov. John Hoeven and two generals. Gov. Hoeven delivered the eulogy. 

The news media covered the funeral. An hour before the funeral, members of Ken's family were on Prairie Public Radio relating their fond memories of a man they didn't want remembered as a war statistic. (The same story was played two days later on National Public Radio.)

Military rites were conducted in a small chapel at the Veterans Memorial Cemetery south of Mandan. Ken was posthumously awarded the Legion of Merit, the highest honor the state can give to a North Dakota National Guardsman. The Army also awarded him the Bronze Star. When taps played, nearly everyone broke down. 

Some of us who knew Ken well recognized the irony here: He was an avowed atheist. The Rev. Wes Aardahl made reference to Ken's doubting and questioning nature during his sermon. Those who didn't know about Ken's beliefs probably didn't understand the significance of the reverend's comments. 

On the ride to the cemetery, I smiled to myself and thought, "Ken, you did it again."

Even after he was gone, Ken was rolling box cars and thumbing his nose at us. 

Since Ken's death, I've come to realize that there were four different sides of him. There was the family man loved by his parents, wife and children. There was the man respected and adored by those who worked with him professionally. There was the older-than-average National Guardsman who was admired by younger soldiers for his knowledge and experience. And there was the fun-loving guy I knew through our mutual interest in the hobby of war gaming.

Few people knew all those Kens, but each of us who knew him have good reason to mourn the his passing. He endured some tough times, but refused let them get him down. He sought to improve his life through hard work and education. He was a good-natured and fun-loving person. He volunteered to serve his country and went to Iraq to help liberate a nation of brutally repressed people. He touched the lives of those who knew him and gave his life so that others might have the freedom he enjoyed as an American. He made a difference.

On January 24, 2004, Staff Sgt. Kenneth W. Hendrickson, Bismarck, ND, and Sgt. Keith Smette, Makoti, ND, were killed near Fallujah, Iraq, when the vehicle in which they were riding was hit by an improvised explosive device. Soldiers of their unit, the 957th Multi Role Bridge Company of the North Dakota National Guard, honored their two fallen comrades with a memorial service at Camp Ridgeway on January 29.