With a scoutmaster like Mr. Van, our troop got to go to Gun Farm once a month, instead of just the once or twice a summer like the the other troops. Mr. Van lobbied for this with the church decons in the belief that marksmenship was a very important thing for a boy to know. Under his leadership we got to be pretty decent shots.
This was also the time my dad and I were just starting to have a sort of relationship, feeling each other out. He seemed to be making a real effort to be around more, instead of always flying off someplace for undetermined amounts of time. Looking back down the tunnel of years, I suppose I had something to do with that. It must have hurt my dad to hear me talking about Mr. Van so much with "Mr. Van said..." or "You should see the way Mr. Van does..." No matter the cause, dad started to take part in our scouting activities.
The very first time dad came along it was on one of our trips to Gun Farm. I still can see it in my minds eye, the first meeting of my dad and Mr. Van. Two more unlike people ever met. There was the ex-marine, well over 6 foot, silver hair with a perfectly trimmed military moustache. There was my dad, a small man 5 foot 7ish, looking a bit like Humphrey Bogart. Dark hair a bit grey at the temples brushed strait back from a high forhead. Dad was a bit reserved on the meeting, and they shook hands in a cordial way. Then it was time to load the station wagons with kids and gear. Morning was spent setting up camp, and Mr. Van told us that nobody was firing a shot till camp was complete. You never saw tents pitched, kindling gathered, latrine pit dug, and stones set in a fire ring so fast or well. A quick lunch that was hardly tasted, and then some very eager scouts carried their .22 rifles to the range down in the hollow.
Dad assisted Mr. Van in making sure all ammo was not handed out till rifles were inspected and scouts on the firing line. It was a good practice and we all got some further coaching from Mr. Van.
Toward the end of the afternoons shooting, Mr. Van uncased his now famous Martini small action .22 rifle and was shooting Necco waffers off the top of the target stand. Then he invited my dad to shoot his Martini. I only figured out much later that it was a sort of testing of my dad by Mr. Van. I had some very mixed feelings as I watched dad shooting. There was a line of waffers wedged into a seam where two boards met at the top of the wood target frame, and dad hit a couple, missed one, hit a couple more, missed another one. He handed the rifle back to Mr. Van and said it was nice, but he was'nt use to a gun like that. Mr. Van asked him what kind of gun he was used to, and without another word, dad reached back by his right hip and took out his old woodsman from under the khaky shirt he had on as light jacket over a t-shirt.
Now that was a different era, a different outlook on guns. It was common place back in the late 40's/early 50's to have a gun around camping or hiking. Back then it raised very few eye brows to be seen carrying a .22 pistol in ones belt. But it did cause some surprise on Mr. Vans part as he had no idea dad was carrying a gun. Dad never said anything as he took it out, but raised it and shot all the remaining several necco wafers without missing a single one. It was quite a display of off the cuff shooting and Mr. Van was taken by surprise. Looking back I wonder if what followed was a set up on dad's part, because dad never did anything off the cuff. He was the sort to plan every action. He was a superlative chess player, nobody beat him.
Mr. Van recovered from the surprise of having this small non-descript man pull out a pistol and clean off the waffers he had been making a show of shooting off the target frame. Then Mr. Van pulled his ace out of the hole.
Walking over to Mr. Stevens, he bummed a cigerette off him. We'd seen this manouver before and I felt a sudden sense of dread for my dad, who I was sure was going to be humiliated in front of the troop. Mr. Van lit the smoke and placed it sticking up from a nail in the side of target frame. He did the "shooting the smoking end off the cigerette" thing, and made a "after you" kind of motion to my dad.
Dad never flinched. He'd have been good at poker as he had a calm sort of manner that never gave anything away in what he was thinking. Dad stepped up to the firing line and turned 45 degrees to the right of the tartget. Holding the Colt with his left hand on the frame, he carefully settled the back of the grip right at the middle of the web of his right hand. Then with the gun in his right hand he moved his left hand cupped under the heel of the right hand. By this time I was paying attention because mostly dad shot one handed. It was extremly rare I'd see him use two hands. This day he did.
He raised the Colt slowly and stood there taking aim. Right arm strait out, left bent 45 degrees with the elbow strait down and the back of his left arm agaist his left ribs. He was going to try to hit a 3/8 inch target with a slightly less than a 1/4 inch bullit, at 50 feet. It would have been a good shot for a rifle, but with a pistol I could'nt see anything but defeat for my dad.
Dad stood like a statue for a time, and I saw him slowly exhale with his lips pursed like he was gently blowing out a candle. Then the woodsman went off. It was louder and with a sharper bang than our .22 rifles, and the cigerette on the nail exploded in a bit of flying tobacco and white paper that fluttered to the ground. Just the filter remained on the nail. In the silence that followed I heard Dave Tate mutter "Holy sh$t!"
Dad pushed up the saftey with his thumb and turned to Mr. Van, and then made the same "after you" motion that Mr. Van had made to him. It was then that I knew that dad had taken the one upmenship to a higher level. It was check. We all looked to Mr. Van to see what his reaction would be. What followed shocked me and many of the other scouts.
Mr. Van put his rifle down on its case on the grass, and walked over to my father. He held out his hand and told my father that was a great shot. Dad took Mr. Van's hand and they shook, and little did I know then that it was the start of a friendship that would last the rest of thier days.
That evening as the scouts made their dinners on the campfire, and were supervised by Mr. Stevens and a few other adults, I could see dad and Mr. Van walking through the woods in deep conversation. This in itself was odd because dad was not much of a social talker. Look up the word taciturn in the dictionary and my dad's picture may be there. But that evening I saw dad doing alot of talking and Mr. Van some of it, but quietly nodding alot of the time. At one point my bud Everett asked me what I thought they were talking about. I told him I had no idea. Then Dave Tate asked me why I never told him my dad could shoot like that, and I told him because I had no idea.
Mr. Van and dad were sitting by the fire, and I could see them making kabobs. Mr. Van was using his Remington stockman to cut up the pieces of steak, and beside him was dad cutting up some steak with his old peanut. Again I was struck by the odd Mutt and Jeff aspect of their appearence, as they exchanged pocket knives to examine each others choice of cutlery. Later I saw Mr. Van examining dad's Colt Woodsman. I could'nt get close enough to hear anything because Mr. Stevens put me and Ev to gathering more wood for the night. Later Mr. Hendrickson tought us the words to an old Swedish drinking song, then we turned in for the night. Before sleep overtook me I glanced out through the tent flap, and dad and Mr. Van were still talking by the fire smoking their pipes, and passing a small bottle between them.
The next day we cleaned up the camp, leaving no trace we'd been there. As I was shoveling the dirt back into the latrine pit I felt a sudden strong hand grab my shoulder. Mr. Van was looking down at me with a stern expression in those piercing blue eyes.
"You have some respect for your father! He'd do to go up a beach with!" was all he said.
In all my lifes memories, that weekend is one of the most vivid. I always think of it as the time dad pulled a check on Mr. Van with his little Colt woodsman, and gained a friend for life. It was also the weekend that Mr. Van became an instument that helped me and dad do a better job of having a father and son relationship.
----------------------------------------------------------
As requested by Kamagong.
This was also the time my dad and I were just starting to have a sort of relationship, feeling each other out. He seemed to be making a real effort to be around more, instead of always flying off someplace for undetermined amounts of time. Looking back down the tunnel of years, I suppose I had something to do with that. It must have hurt my dad to hear me talking about Mr. Van so much with "Mr. Van said..." or "You should see the way Mr. Van does..." No matter the cause, dad started to take part in our scouting activities.
The very first time dad came along it was on one of our trips to Gun Farm. I still can see it in my minds eye, the first meeting of my dad and Mr. Van. Two more unlike people ever met. There was the ex-marine, well over 6 foot, silver hair with a perfectly trimmed military moustache. There was my dad, a small man 5 foot 7ish, looking a bit like Humphrey Bogart. Dark hair a bit grey at the temples brushed strait back from a high forhead. Dad was a bit reserved on the meeting, and they shook hands in a cordial way. Then it was time to load the station wagons with kids and gear. Morning was spent setting up camp, and Mr. Van told us that nobody was firing a shot till camp was complete. You never saw tents pitched, kindling gathered, latrine pit dug, and stones set in a fire ring so fast or well. A quick lunch that was hardly tasted, and then some very eager scouts carried their .22 rifles to the range down in the hollow.
Dad assisted Mr. Van in making sure all ammo was not handed out till rifles were inspected and scouts on the firing line. It was a good practice and we all got some further coaching from Mr. Van.
Toward the end of the afternoons shooting, Mr. Van uncased his now famous Martini small action .22 rifle and was shooting Necco waffers off the top of the target stand. Then he invited my dad to shoot his Martini. I only figured out much later that it was a sort of testing of my dad by Mr. Van. I had some very mixed feelings as I watched dad shooting. There was a line of waffers wedged into a seam where two boards met at the top of the wood target frame, and dad hit a couple, missed one, hit a couple more, missed another one. He handed the rifle back to Mr. Van and said it was nice, but he was'nt use to a gun like that. Mr. Van asked him what kind of gun he was used to, and without another word, dad reached back by his right hip and took out his old woodsman from under the khaky shirt he had on as light jacket over a t-shirt.
Now that was a different era, a different outlook on guns. It was common place back in the late 40's/early 50's to have a gun around camping or hiking. Back then it raised very few eye brows to be seen carrying a .22 pistol in ones belt. But it did cause some surprise on Mr. Vans part as he had no idea dad was carrying a gun. Dad never said anything as he took it out, but raised it and shot all the remaining several necco wafers without missing a single one. It was quite a display of off the cuff shooting and Mr. Van was taken by surprise. Looking back I wonder if what followed was a set up on dad's part, because dad never did anything off the cuff. He was the sort to plan every action. He was a superlative chess player, nobody beat him.
Mr. Van recovered from the surprise of having this small non-descript man pull out a pistol and clean off the waffers he had been making a show of shooting off the target frame. Then Mr. Van pulled his ace out of the hole.
Walking over to Mr. Stevens, he bummed a cigerette off him. We'd seen this manouver before and I felt a sudden sense of dread for my dad, who I was sure was going to be humiliated in front of the troop. Mr. Van lit the smoke and placed it sticking up from a nail in the side of target frame. He did the "shooting the smoking end off the cigerette" thing, and made a "after you" kind of motion to my dad.
Dad never flinched. He'd have been good at poker as he had a calm sort of manner that never gave anything away in what he was thinking. Dad stepped up to the firing line and turned 45 degrees to the right of the tartget. Holding the Colt with his left hand on the frame, he carefully settled the back of the grip right at the middle of the web of his right hand. Then with the gun in his right hand he moved his left hand cupped under the heel of the right hand. By this time I was paying attention because mostly dad shot one handed. It was extremly rare I'd see him use two hands. This day he did.
He raised the Colt slowly and stood there taking aim. Right arm strait out, left bent 45 degrees with the elbow strait down and the back of his left arm agaist his left ribs. He was going to try to hit a 3/8 inch target with a slightly less than a 1/4 inch bullit, at 50 feet. It would have been a good shot for a rifle, but with a pistol I could'nt see anything but defeat for my dad.
Dad stood like a statue for a time, and I saw him slowly exhale with his lips pursed like he was gently blowing out a candle. Then the woodsman went off. It was louder and with a sharper bang than our .22 rifles, and the cigerette on the nail exploded in a bit of flying tobacco and white paper that fluttered to the ground. Just the filter remained on the nail. In the silence that followed I heard Dave Tate mutter "Holy sh$t!"
Dad pushed up the saftey with his thumb and turned to Mr. Van, and then made the same "after you" motion that Mr. Van had made to him. It was then that I knew that dad had taken the one upmenship to a higher level. It was check. We all looked to Mr. Van to see what his reaction would be. What followed shocked me and many of the other scouts.
Mr. Van put his rifle down on its case on the grass, and walked over to my father. He held out his hand and told my father that was a great shot. Dad took Mr. Van's hand and they shook, and little did I know then that it was the start of a friendship that would last the rest of thier days.
That evening as the scouts made their dinners on the campfire, and were supervised by Mr. Stevens and a few other adults, I could see dad and Mr. Van walking through the woods in deep conversation. This in itself was odd because dad was not much of a social talker. Look up the word taciturn in the dictionary and my dad's picture may be there. But that evening I saw dad doing alot of talking and Mr. Van some of it, but quietly nodding alot of the time. At one point my bud Everett asked me what I thought they were talking about. I told him I had no idea. Then Dave Tate asked me why I never told him my dad could shoot like that, and I told him because I had no idea.
Mr. Van and dad were sitting by the fire, and I could see them making kabobs. Mr. Van was using his Remington stockman to cut up the pieces of steak, and beside him was dad cutting up some steak with his old peanut. Again I was struck by the odd Mutt and Jeff aspect of their appearence, as they exchanged pocket knives to examine each others choice of cutlery. Later I saw Mr. Van examining dad's Colt Woodsman. I could'nt get close enough to hear anything because Mr. Stevens put me and Ev to gathering more wood for the night. Later Mr. Hendrickson tought us the words to an old Swedish drinking song, then we turned in for the night. Before sleep overtook me I glanced out through the tent flap, and dad and Mr. Van were still talking by the fire smoking their pipes, and passing a small bottle between them.
The next day we cleaned up the camp, leaving no trace we'd been there. As I was shoveling the dirt back into the latrine pit I felt a sudden strong hand grab my shoulder. Mr. Van was looking down at me with a stern expression in those piercing blue eyes.
"You have some respect for your father! He'd do to go up a beach with!" was all he said.
In all my lifes memories, that weekend is one of the most vivid. I always think of it as the time dad pulled a check on Mr. Van with his little Colt woodsman, and gained a friend for life. It was also the weekend that Mr. Van became an instument that helped me and dad do a better job of having a father and son relationship.
----------------------------------------------------------
As requested by Kamagong.
