In the time we were lucky to have Mr. Van as our scout master, we saw him use many knives in the course of our hikes, camping trips, and outdoors lessons. His beautiful old Remington scout knife that he won the fuzz stick competition with, was always on his belt hanging from the official scout knife belt hook. He'd carve fancy neckerchief rings with faces on them with his serpintine jacks, and once in a while he'd even have his stacked leather handle Case finn on his belt when camping.
But he had another we only saw once.
We had gathered in the basement meeting room of the church for our Friday night meeting, and Mr. Van was giving a lesson on knife sharpening for the younger scouts. Dave, Bobby, Everret and myself were the old hands by now, and were helping out. One young scout, Billy Yates, asked Mr. Van what his favorite knife was. Mr. Van patted his old scout knife he'd had since he was a farm boy in Frederick Maryland very long ago.
"But is it the most ever special Knife you have?" asked Billy.
"Yes, I think so, it's been with me for so long." Mr. Van replied.
"Is it the most special knife you'd take if you were going to be in a war?" Billy asked. He was an insistant little kid to put it mildly.
Then Mr. Van had a moment of hesitation. He looked like he was thinking of something far off for a few seconds, like maybe he was someplace else for just a moment. then he looked at young Billy Yates.
"No," he said in a quiet voice, "There's another one that is special in that way. I don't carry it though, it's time is past."
Me and the the other old hands exchanged glances, thinking in our year and a half with Mr. Van that Ev, Bobby, Dave and I had seen all his knives. A mystery seemed to be developing in our midst. Dave, the forward and sometimes brash one of us took the bit in his teeth.
"Mr. Van, show us your special knife. We'd love to see it."
Mr. Van looked at Dave, and we waited with held breath for the result. The old marine was not one to be pushed lightly. But to our surprise, he looked at Dave for a long moment and relented.
"Very well, Mr. Tate. Next meeting you and young Mr. Yates will see a special knife."
The week went by with the usual grind for a 13 year old. School was boring for the most part, homework to be done, chores to be taken care of. Then it was Friday night again. Ev, Dave, Bobby and me got to the meeting room early, as did some of the other scouts. As usual, you could set your watch by Mr. Van. At exactly 7pm on the dot, his footsteps sounded in the hall, and he came through the door. From his shoulder hung an old olive green canvas bag that he set on the desk at one end of the room. He called the meeting to order, and as usual he inspected the troop with care. All patches sewn on correctly, scout knives sharp and clean. Finally he went and sat down at the desk, and we gathered around it in a semi circle and watched carefully as he unbucked the worn canvas strap from the buckle on the bag's front flap.
He took out an oblong package wrapped in a green hand towel, and tied with a length of olive green cord. As he unrolled the towel, the knife came into sight. It was a well used MK2 fighting-utility knife.
The brown leather washer handle was darkened with age, and had some darker stains in the leather making a splotchy appearence. The sheath was also dark brown leather, with some darker stains here and there. The sheaths keeper strap made a soft snick sound as Mr. Van undid it and drew the knife from the sheath. There was that faint whisper of leather on steel as the blade slid clear of the sheath. The 7 inch clip pointed Bowie style blade had some of the parkerizing worn off, leaving it a soft grey. A light sheen showed the blade to have a light coating of oil on it, and a bright ribbon of sharpened edge ran the length of the blade. It was well kept, and ready for use again. For a moment Mr. Van held the knife lightly balanced in his hand, then with a little hesitation, he let us hold it and pass it around. If Arthur had materialized and handed us his Excalibur, I don't think the young scouts would have been any more in awe.
I glanced at Mr. Van during this, and thought it odd that he was showing some small signs of discomfort. Odd, because I don't think I had ever known a more self confident man in my life. But he was nervous as we passed his old MK2 around. I noticed that it was made by Camillus instead of Ka-bar, but many years later I found out that Camillus had actually made the bulk of MK2's. Ka-bar had made the original run, so the knife was forever known as a Ka-bar, whoever made it.
Finally the knife made it back to Mr. Van, and he took it and wiped it down for what seemed a long while. Longer than needed. He seemed relived to have it back, and he held it in his hand like he was deep in thought.
"So is it a special knife because you carried it in the war?" asked Billy Yates. "You carried your scout knife in the war, isn't it special?"
Billy could be an annoying kid, but Mr. Van didn't seem to mind for some reason. He sat back down at the desk and thought for a moment, then spoke in a quiet voice.
"Yes, it's special, but in a different way. Lots of good memories with the scout knife, things like being around the campfire with friends, opening our rations, doing odd pocket knife chores when I was a kid. Using it after the war. But this," and he held up the old MK2, "is a different thing. It's from a darker time, and not all memories a man has are good ones".
He paused, and went on in that quiet voice that was unlike him.
"Just before we pulled out of San Diego, they gave me this knife as part of our issue gear. When we got to Guadalcanal, it saw alot of use, cutting palm fronds for hiding our foxholes, cutting limbs for makeshift stretchers. But it still wasn't special. Much later, as we moved inland, it got real special. The Japanese didn't want to give an inch of ground. We had to take every damm inch of that island from them. One night, it was raining hard, so dark you had trouble seeing your hand in front of your face. All of a sudden grenades started coming in. It was a night attack by the Japs. Lots of confussion, couldn't see a thing. My rifle was useless, so I had my .45 out. Things were so close. Then the slide locked back on my .45, no time to reload, and then there was this guy with a bayonet on a rifle right there. "
He paused for a moment, and his light grey blue eyes had gone chill looking, and he was someplace else for those seconds. He was holding the knife in his hand, looking down at it.
"That night it was bayonet, knife, rock, and rifle butt. When dawn came, we were still there, but with lots of dead on the ground. Ours and thiers. I was covered with blood, splashed all over. That knife saved my life that night. Later, at a place called Saipan, it served again. "
In the quiet of Mr. Van's pause, Dave asked in a hesitant tone, "Uh, Mr. Van, those dark stains on the knife and sheath... "
"Those are blood stains, Mr. Tate. It was a bad night. It's one thing to strike your enemy when he's a little figure 150 yards out, but on a dark night when he's close enough to smell his last meal on his breath, things can get messy."
Mr. Van stood up, and slid the knife back in it's sheath. Again that faint whisper of steel and leather. He put the knife back in its wrapping and slid it into the green canvas bag.
"Okay," he told us in his normal marine voice, "tonight's knot tying. Lets get started on the bowline. Older scouts help the younger scouts."
That was the one and only time Mr. Van ever spoke about the war to us kids. It was also the only time we ever saw the MK2. I guess it was put away with the dark memories that went with it. From then on, I understood how things can hold memories for us. Inanimate objects can live for us by holding those memories in thier leather, steel and wood. A gun can remind us of a great hunt with a trophy bagged, or a knife, of camping trips with family or friends. Or memories we'd rather not have, but are part of our life, and make up who we are.
But he had another we only saw once.
We had gathered in the basement meeting room of the church for our Friday night meeting, and Mr. Van was giving a lesson on knife sharpening for the younger scouts. Dave, Bobby, Everret and myself were the old hands by now, and were helping out. One young scout, Billy Yates, asked Mr. Van what his favorite knife was. Mr. Van patted his old scout knife he'd had since he was a farm boy in Frederick Maryland very long ago.
"But is it the most ever special Knife you have?" asked Billy.
"Yes, I think so, it's been with me for so long." Mr. Van replied.
"Is it the most special knife you'd take if you were going to be in a war?" Billy asked. He was an insistant little kid to put it mildly.
Then Mr. Van had a moment of hesitation. He looked like he was thinking of something far off for a few seconds, like maybe he was someplace else for just a moment. then he looked at young Billy Yates.
"No," he said in a quiet voice, "There's another one that is special in that way. I don't carry it though, it's time is past."
Me and the the other old hands exchanged glances, thinking in our year and a half with Mr. Van that Ev, Bobby, Dave and I had seen all his knives. A mystery seemed to be developing in our midst. Dave, the forward and sometimes brash one of us took the bit in his teeth.
"Mr. Van, show us your special knife. We'd love to see it."
Mr. Van looked at Dave, and we waited with held breath for the result. The old marine was not one to be pushed lightly. But to our surprise, he looked at Dave for a long moment and relented.
"Very well, Mr. Tate. Next meeting you and young Mr. Yates will see a special knife."
The week went by with the usual grind for a 13 year old. School was boring for the most part, homework to be done, chores to be taken care of. Then it was Friday night again. Ev, Dave, Bobby and me got to the meeting room early, as did some of the other scouts. As usual, you could set your watch by Mr. Van. At exactly 7pm on the dot, his footsteps sounded in the hall, and he came through the door. From his shoulder hung an old olive green canvas bag that he set on the desk at one end of the room. He called the meeting to order, and as usual he inspected the troop with care. All patches sewn on correctly, scout knives sharp and clean. Finally he went and sat down at the desk, and we gathered around it in a semi circle and watched carefully as he unbucked the worn canvas strap from the buckle on the bag's front flap.
He took out an oblong package wrapped in a green hand towel, and tied with a length of olive green cord. As he unrolled the towel, the knife came into sight. It was a well used MK2 fighting-utility knife.
The brown leather washer handle was darkened with age, and had some darker stains in the leather making a splotchy appearence. The sheath was also dark brown leather, with some darker stains here and there. The sheaths keeper strap made a soft snick sound as Mr. Van undid it and drew the knife from the sheath. There was that faint whisper of leather on steel as the blade slid clear of the sheath. The 7 inch clip pointed Bowie style blade had some of the parkerizing worn off, leaving it a soft grey. A light sheen showed the blade to have a light coating of oil on it, and a bright ribbon of sharpened edge ran the length of the blade. It was well kept, and ready for use again. For a moment Mr. Van held the knife lightly balanced in his hand, then with a little hesitation, he let us hold it and pass it around. If Arthur had materialized and handed us his Excalibur, I don't think the young scouts would have been any more in awe.
I glanced at Mr. Van during this, and thought it odd that he was showing some small signs of discomfort. Odd, because I don't think I had ever known a more self confident man in my life. But he was nervous as we passed his old MK2 around. I noticed that it was made by Camillus instead of Ka-bar, but many years later I found out that Camillus had actually made the bulk of MK2's. Ka-bar had made the original run, so the knife was forever known as a Ka-bar, whoever made it.
Finally the knife made it back to Mr. Van, and he took it and wiped it down for what seemed a long while. Longer than needed. He seemed relived to have it back, and he held it in his hand like he was deep in thought.
"So is it a special knife because you carried it in the war?" asked Billy Yates. "You carried your scout knife in the war, isn't it special?"
Billy could be an annoying kid, but Mr. Van didn't seem to mind for some reason. He sat back down at the desk and thought for a moment, then spoke in a quiet voice.
"Yes, it's special, but in a different way. Lots of good memories with the scout knife, things like being around the campfire with friends, opening our rations, doing odd pocket knife chores when I was a kid. Using it after the war. But this," and he held up the old MK2, "is a different thing. It's from a darker time, and not all memories a man has are good ones".
He paused, and went on in that quiet voice that was unlike him.
"Just before we pulled out of San Diego, they gave me this knife as part of our issue gear. When we got to Guadalcanal, it saw alot of use, cutting palm fronds for hiding our foxholes, cutting limbs for makeshift stretchers. But it still wasn't special. Much later, as we moved inland, it got real special. The Japanese didn't want to give an inch of ground. We had to take every damm inch of that island from them. One night, it was raining hard, so dark you had trouble seeing your hand in front of your face. All of a sudden grenades started coming in. It was a night attack by the Japs. Lots of confussion, couldn't see a thing. My rifle was useless, so I had my .45 out. Things were so close. Then the slide locked back on my .45, no time to reload, and then there was this guy with a bayonet on a rifle right there. "
He paused for a moment, and his light grey blue eyes had gone chill looking, and he was someplace else for those seconds. He was holding the knife in his hand, looking down at it.
"That night it was bayonet, knife, rock, and rifle butt. When dawn came, we were still there, but with lots of dead on the ground. Ours and thiers. I was covered with blood, splashed all over. That knife saved my life that night. Later, at a place called Saipan, it served again. "
In the quiet of Mr. Van's pause, Dave asked in a hesitant tone, "Uh, Mr. Van, those dark stains on the knife and sheath... "
"Those are blood stains, Mr. Tate. It was a bad night. It's one thing to strike your enemy when he's a little figure 150 yards out, but on a dark night when he's close enough to smell his last meal on his breath, things can get messy."
Mr. Van stood up, and slid the knife back in it's sheath. Again that faint whisper of steel and leather. He put the knife back in its wrapping and slid it into the green canvas bag.
"Okay," he told us in his normal marine voice, "tonight's knot tying. Lets get started on the bowline. Older scouts help the younger scouts."
That was the one and only time Mr. Van ever spoke about the war to us kids. It was also the only time we ever saw the MK2. I guess it was put away with the dark memories that went with it. From then on, I understood how things can hold memories for us. Inanimate objects can live for us by holding those memories in thier leather, steel and wood. A gun can remind us of a great hunt with a trophy bagged, or a knife, of camping trips with family or friends. Or memories we'd rather not have, but are part of our life, and make up who we are.
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