I had a terrific set of army guys.
I would move the coffee table over, and cover the whole living room floor with three defensive belts, a defense in depth, manned by grey German army guys. They had defenses made of lincoln logs, wooden blocks and those brown sandbag machine gun nests. The Americans had to get ashore. Where the wood floor in the kitchen met the rug was the surf line. The Americans started out with 12 M-60 tanks. I knew they weren’t WWII tanks, but I used what I had. I used log palisade sections from the Ft. Apache set as rafts to get the tanks ashore. American casualties were heavy, with most of the tanks knocked out, especially getting through the second defensive line which had bunkers and an 88 mm antitank gun concealed behind green plastic trees. I had stretcher teams to take out the wounded. I’d get on the floor, with my head on the rug, so I could see the same line of sight the plastic guys could see. I only had two pale grey panzers, which I kept back to counterattack when the green guys finally started to break the second fortress belt. But I knew to send a swarm of bazooka guys in once the line was breached and we made short work of the panzers. The surviving Germans made a fighting retreat to a plastic, three story, Navarone style bunker on the stone floor in front of the fireplace. I had a reserve of goose stepping Germans back there. Before the made the final assault, I would go get dead kneeling and standing shooting rifle guys, and replace them where they fell with goose stepping guys. I would commit these last reserves to the defense. The Americans took out the guns on the fort with counterbattery fire, but then they had to clear out the dead enders with a final tank-infantry assault. Sometimes one tank, sometimes two, would have made it all the way across the grey living room rug. The Germans would not give up. It was room to room in that fort thing at the end, like Stalingrad.
The set up and battle took several hours.
I think I was nine, maybe ten.