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- Oct 18, 2007
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A couple of people expressed interest in photos of my father's knife, and I figured, to make it interesting, I'd share a little about the man...
Growing up, my father and I did not get along. I only got to hear about the earlier parts of his life when he had at least a case in him.
My father was born in 1927 in German Silesia (now part of Poland). My grandfather owned a farm there and also bred prize Trakehner riding horses. This was not a good time to be born in Germany. Like most farmers, my family were opposed (as much as a farmer could do anything) against the Nazis. Nonetheless, my father was forced into Hitler Youth. The local nobility, hoping to preserve the memory of a more sane country, would hold classes for the children at night in their estate, to teach them how things used to be before the madman took over, because they knew that the nobility would be some of the first to go and that one day, someone would overthrow this a-hole and it would be up to the children to rebuild.
He was pressed into military service at 14, went through training, and shipped off to the Eastern Front. He told me very little about this time, but one of the stories that sticks in my head is how they would bribe people to volunteer for night patrols with chocolate and Russian vodka. Being essentially a kid, he understandably wound up volunteering for a lot of night patrols. During this time (and I didn't find out about this until after he passed away), his mother and sister were sent west to protect them against the advancing Soviets. The Nazis nationalized their farm, and, ruining my grandfather, an officer took the last of his Trakehners.
Eventually, the war came to an end and he was shipped off to a military prison in Czechoslovakia, where he saw many people shipped off to gulags in Siberia. His youth helped him and he was eventually released to East Germany. On his 19th birthday, he rode his horse to the local shop to buy a saddle and some Russian vodka with his b-day money. The owner quickly shooed him out and told him to ride away really quick. Some occupation MPs chased after him on a motorcycle and sidecar, shooting at him. He drove his horse into a river, got home, downed the entire bottle. Another time, he went over his girlfriend's house only to find a Russian private trying to rape her. He beat the crap out of the guy, got put on trial by a Tribunal, and was acquited with the understanding that he would come to the Tribunal with any other complains and the assurance that the Private would be punished severely. The last amazing story of this tale was when my father and some friends decided they were going to escape East Germany. They planned to escape through a hayfield at night, over a railroad bridge spanning a river, into West Germany. As they were nearing a bridge, a Russian officer caught them. Seeing that they were kids, he let them run halfway across the bridge before sounding the alarm and shooting.
So, anyway, here's my father's knife. A Hugo Koller jack knife from Solingen. Two interesting features are that it has a corkscrew and the main blade locks in place. The blade is released by pressing down on the pen blade. This knife is a slicing demon and I can very easily get this sharper than any other knife I own. The stag has been really worn down by hard use and age. The bolsters are battered and the blade pivot's been forcibly tightened at least once. There is nothing resembling a snap but it locks securely, and it's hell to open it. What an awesome knife. What an awesome man.
Growing up, my father and I did not get along. I only got to hear about the earlier parts of his life when he had at least a case in him.
My father was born in 1927 in German Silesia (now part of Poland). My grandfather owned a farm there and also bred prize Trakehner riding horses. This was not a good time to be born in Germany. Like most farmers, my family were opposed (as much as a farmer could do anything) against the Nazis. Nonetheless, my father was forced into Hitler Youth. The local nobility, hoping to preserve the memory of a more sane country, would hold classes for the children at night in their estate, to teach them how things used to be before the madman took over, because they knew that the nobility would be some of the first to go and that one day, someone would overthrow this a-hole and it would be up to the children to rebuild.
He was pressed into military service at 14, went through training, and shipped off to the Eastern Front. He told me very little about this time, but one of the stories that sticks in my head is how they would bribe people to volunteer for night patrols with chocolate and Russian vodka. Being essentially a kid, he understandably wound up volunteering for a lot of night patrols. During this time (and I didn't find out about this until after he passed away), his mother and sister were sent west to protect them against the advancing Soviets. The Nazis nationalized their farm, and, ruining my grandfather, an officer took the last of his Trakehners.
Eventually, the war came to an end and he was shipped off to a military prison in Czechoslovakia, where he saw many people shipped off to gulags in Siberia. His youth helped him and he was eventually released to East Germany. On his 19th birthday, he rode his horse to the local shop to buy a saddle and some Russian vodka with his b-day money. The owner quickly shooed him out and told him to ride away really quick. Some occupation MPs chased after him on a motorcycle and sidecar, shooting at him. He drove his horse into a river, got home, downed the entire bottle. Another time, he went over his girlfriend's house only to find a Russian private trying to rape her. He beat the crap out of the guy, got put on trial by a Tribunal, and was acquited with the understanding that he would come to the Tribunal with any other complains and the assurance that the Private would be punished severely. The last amazing story of this tale was when my father and some friends decided they were going to escape East Germany. They planned to escape through a hayfield at night, over a railroad bridge spanning a river, into West Germany. As they were nearing a bridge, a Russian officer caught them. Seeing that they were kids, he let them run halfway across the bridge before sounding the alarm and shooting.
So, anyway, here's my father's knife. A Hugo Koller jack knife from Solingen. Two interesting features are that it has a corkscrew and the main blade locks in place. The blade is released by pressing down on the pen blade. This knife is a slicing demon and I can very easily get this sharper than any other knife I own. The stag has been really worn down by hard use and age. The bolsters are battered and the blade pivot's been forcibly tightened at least once. There is nothing resembling a snap but it locks securely, and it's hell to open it. What an awesome knife. What an awesome man.
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