It's always been interesting to me the different approaches to carrying a pocket knife that people have. We've all known the old Uncle or someone who had just one pocket knife, and was happy with that. Then there were the ones who at any time had at least two, maybe even three pocket knives on them. My dad was the kind who had a Case peanut, and that was his knife, period. Then there was Mr. Van, who had two or three on him. In a weird way, as different as they were, they liked each other.
Mr. Van was what you could call a perfectionist. At scout meetings sometimes he would call out for a surprise inpection of our scout knives. Mr. Van was the perfect example of how you could take the man out of the Marines, but you could never get the Marines out of the man. He would call for a present arms, and all the scouts would line up with open scout knives to be examined. It was quite an asortment, PAL's, Ulsters, Camillus, Imperial, and even an occasional Kamp King if someone had been a bit short of funds.
Mr. Van was quite the fanatic about our pocket knives because he told us that it was the one tool we could always have with us, aside from our official scout waterproof match case. His feeling was that we may not have our official scout hatchet, or our official scout sheath knife with the stacked leather handle for good grip. But a pocket knife was always there.
Mr. Van slowly worked his way down the line. He would thoughtfully test the edge with a thumb, inspect the joint to see if it was well oiled with no debris in the slots. Pity the scout who had a dirty or dull knife. Like Bobby Ryerson.
It's strange how in every company, army platoon, classroom, there's always one poor guy who just can't get it right. Our scout troop had Bobby Ryerson. Mr. Van would get to him and look at the pine sap smeared on the dull blade, and then the stare would happen. Mr. Van had those eyes that you could never quite make up your mind if they were blue or grey. But when he was angry there was no doubt. Twin pale blue lasers would bore into your soul and boil your heart. He never said anything while staring, he did'nt have to.
It came to pass that Mr. Van would hold knife sharpening sessions there in the church basement meeting room. It was there we watched a master of minimalisim.
We would all be sitting in a circle and Mr. Van took a small broken off piece of sharpening stone out of his top right shirt pocket. it was a very small piece, and at first we wondered what he was going to sharpen his pocket knife with. Then he explained to us that the smaller the piece of equiptment, the more likely it would be with us. We all looked down at our official scout pocket sharpening stones in our hands, the one with the nice little leather case, about an inch and three quater wide by about three inches long, and felt a bit foolish for having a stone so big. That weekend alot of stones were going to get broken.
Then Mr. Van showed us how to use such a small stone, starting at the heel of the blade right at the kick, and honing in small circles moving up to the tip of the blade. Then we would turn the blade over and repeat the prosses. While we were doing this, he would go around the circle stopping in back of each scout to make sure they were holding at the right angle, not moving up the blade too fast, or too slow. If some corection was needed, Mr. Van would put his hands over the scouts hands and guide him to the right movements. Even Bobby Ryerson learned to sharpen a knife with Mr. Van's help.
Learning knife techniques from Mr. Van meant leaving hatchets and sometimes sheath knives behind. He would have us lay out our gear on a pancho and tell us what to jetison from our load. Mess kits were trimmed down to just a pot and canteen and spoon. Knives and forks were tossed from those neat knife-fork-spoon kits sold at the official scout place. Mr. Van told us that we had a pocket knife, so all else we needed was a spoon. Our gear got alot lighter under his guidance, and on hikes we started covering ground like nobodys buisness. Even toothbrush handles were cut off shorter, and tea bags had the paper tag cut off. Trim enough onces and you have pounds he told us. At Jambories we left other troops behind.
At campcrafts we learned to use those pocket knives for all our work. Tri-pods for hanging pots over the campfire were made by the notching method Mr.Van tought us. Making a V-groove all around the point we wanted to cut off something, it would then break easily over a knee. Mr. Van said if you make the stress line right, you can break any wood right were you want. He was the perfect teacher, patient when needed, strict if needed, but father confessor if needed. At night on campouts he would coach us on how to make napkin rings with fancy carving, or indian faces on neckkerchef rings. He was our teacher of many things.
But of all the things, Mr. Van was a born marksmen, and he had a talent for teaching it. There was this farm we called Gun farm, as the owners who let the scouts camp on his wooded land, had taken a back hoe and made a .22 rifle range for the scouts. it was a high point of the year when we had a campout at Gun Farm. All the scouts who had a .22 rifle (which was most) would bring it, and we would have a shoot.
It was at one of these shoots we saw just how good Mr. Van really was.
It was on occasion where do to some mis-understanding, another scout troop was schedualed to camp at Gun Farm at the same time as us. Mr. Van told us we'd make the best of it, and all get along. We'd have some friendly competiton. Looking back now at life, I wonder how many wars have been started by friendly competition?
At the shooting range we had some contests going and all was okay. Then the other scout master started to ride Mr. Van a bit. Things like "I hear you'r supposed to be a hot shot" or " You're good at coaching boys, how do you do shooting against another man". Mr. Van started to get a dangerous look in his eye.
He did'nt say anything, but walked over to our assistant scout master and said "Give me a ciggerette."
Now this in itself was a yellow alert because Mr.Van did not smoke ciggerettes. He had an old Kaywoodie pipe he would stuff some grainger burley into and puff on, but he never smoked a ciggerette.
He took the unlit cig and stuck it behind his ear and then whittled a matchstick to a point on both ends. Walking downrange to the 25 yard target butt, he then wedged the matchstick into the top of the wood 2X4 target frame sticking strait up. He then lit the ciggerette and stuck it onto the matchstick so the lit end was sticking up into the air, smoking in the still summer air.
Then Mr. Van took out his own rifle.
We'd seen this rifle on many trips to Gun Farm, and were in awe of it. It was unlike anything we'd seen. We had bolt action Winchesters and Mossbergs. This was a small action Martini from Birmingham Small Arms, with a deep blued bull barrel and color case hardened receiver with streaks of purple and grey interplaying. The stock was a fine checkered English walnut. The target sights were a fine ivory bead front sight, and a fine adjustment peep rear. Mr. Van could make it talk.
Without a word Mr. Van loaded the Martini, and took aim. Downrange the cigerette gave off a fine thread of smoke, and we waited. Mr. Van took his time, and when the crack of the .22 sounded we all jumped a bit from the tension and suspense. The glowing end of the smoke on the matchstick disinstigrated, leaving the rest of the 3/4 of the ciggerete intact. Mr Van opened the action of the Martini and laid it on the shooting bench, and walked downrange with that straitbacked Marine walk. Taking the ciggerette he walked back to the firing line and held it out with a match to the other scout master.
"Your turn." was all he said.
The other scout master started to speak, shut his mouth, then said "Oh, forget it!" and marched off in humiliation from the cheers of Mr. Vans faithfull ringing in his ears.
That day on the range at a place called Gun Farm, Mr. Van became a living god to troop 469.
Mr. Van was what you could call a perfectionist. At scout meetings sometimes he would call out for a surprise inpection of our scout knives. Mr. Van was the perfect example of how you could take the man out of the Marines, but you could never get the Marines out of the man. He would call for a present arms, and all the scouts would line up with open scout knives to be examined. It was quite an asortment, PAL's, Ulsters, Camillus, Imperial, and even an occasional Kamp King if someone had been a bit short of funds.
Mr. Van was quite the fanatic about our pocket knives because he told us that it was the one tool we could always have with us, aside from our official scout waterproof match case. His feeling was that we may not have our official scout hatchet, or our official scout sheath knife with the stacked leather handle for good grip. But a pocket knife was always there.
Mr. Van slowly worked his way down the line. He would thoughtfully test the edge with a thumb, inspect the joint to see if it was well oiled with no debris in the slots. Pity the scout who had a dirty or dull knife. Like Bobby Ryerson.
It's strange how in every company, army platoon, classroom, there's always one poor guy who just can't get it right. Our scout troop had Bobby Ryerson. Mr. Van would get to him and look at the pine sap smeared on the dull blade, and then the stare would happen. Mr. Van had those eyes that you could never quite make up your mind if they were blue or grey. But when he was angry there was no doubt. Twin pale blue lasers would bore into your soul and boil your heart. He never said anything while staring, he did'nt have to.
It came to pass that Mr. Van would hold knife sharpening sessions there in the church basement meeting room. It was there we watched a master of minimalisim.
We would all be sitting in a circle and Mr. Van took a small broken off piece of sharpening stone out of his top right shirt pocket. it was a very small piece, and at first we wondered what he was going to sharpen his pocket knife with. Then he explained to us that the smaller the piece of equiptment, the more likely it would be with us. We all looked down at our official scout pocket sharpening stones in our hands, the one with the nice little leather case, about an inch and three quater wide by about three inches long, and felt a bit foolish for having a stone so big. That weekend alot of stones were going to get broken.
Then Mr. Van showed us how to use such a small stone, starting at the heel of the blade right at the kick, and honing in small circles moving up to the tip of the blade. Then we would turn the blade over and repeat the prosses. While we were doing this, he would go around the circle stopping in back of each scout to make sure they were holding at the right angle, not moving up the blade too fast, or too slow. If some corection was needed, Mr. Van would put his hands over the scouts hands and guide him to the right movements. Even Bobby Ryerson learned to sharpen a knife with Mr. Van's help.
Learning knife techniques from Mr. Van meant leaving hatchets and sometimes sheath knives behind. He would have us lay out our gear on a pancho and tell us what to jetison from our load. Mess kits were trimmed down to just a pot and canteen and spoon. Knives and forks were tossed from those neat knife-fork-spoon kits sold at the official scout place. Mr. Van told us that we had a pocket knife, so all else we needed was a spoon. Our gear got alot lighter under his guidance, and on hikes we started covering ground like nobodys buisness. Even toothbrush handles were cut off shorter, and tea bags had the paper tag cut off. Trim enough onces and you have pounds he told us. At Jambories we left other troops behind.
At campcrafts we learned to use those pocket knives for all our work. Tri-pods for hanging pots over the campfire were made by the notching method Mr.Van tought us. Making a V-groove all around the point we wanted to cut off something, it would then break easily over a knee. Mr. Van said if you make the stress line right, you can break any wood right were you want. He was the perfect teacher, patient when needed, strict if needed, but father confessor if needed. At night on campouts he would coach us on how to make napkin rings with fancy carving, or indian faces on neckkerchef rings. He was our teacher of many things.
But of all the things, Mr. Van was a born marksmen, and he had a talent for teaching it. There was this farm we called Gun farm, as the owners who let the scouts camp on his wooded land, had taken a back hoe and made a .22 rifle range for the scouts. it was a high point of the year when we had a campout at Gun Farm. All the scouts who had a .22 rifle (which was most) would bring it, and we would have a shoot.
It was at one of these shoots we saw just how good Mr. Van really was.
It was on occasion where do to some mis-understanding, another scout troop was schedualed to camp at Gun Farm at the same time as us. Mr. Van told us we'd make the best of it, and all get along. We'd have some friendly competiton. Looking back now at life, I wonder how many wars have been started by friendly competition?
At the shooting range we had some contests going and all was okay. Then the other scout master started to ride Mr. Van a bit. Things like "I hear you'r supposed to be a hot shot" or " You're good at coaching boys, how do you do shooting against another man". Mr. Van started to get a dangerous look in his eye.
He did'nt say anything, but walked over to our assistant scout master and said "Give me a ciggerette."
Now this in itself was a yellow alert because Mr.Van did not smoke ciggerettes. He had an old Kaywoodie pipe he would stuff some grainger burley into and puff on, but he never smoked a ciggerette.
He took the unlit cig and stuck it behind his ear and then whittled a matchstick to a point on both ends. Walking downrange to the 25 yard target butt, he then wedged the matchstick into the top of the wood 2X4 target frame sticking strait up. He then lit the ciggerette and stuck it onto the matchstick so the lit end was sticking up into the air, smoking in the still summer air.
Then Mr. Van took out his own rifle.
We'd seen this rifle on many trips to Gun Farm, and were in awe of it. It was unlike anything we'd seen. We had bolt action Winchesters and Mossbergs. This was a small action Martini from Birmingham Small Arms, with a deep blued bull barrel and color case hardened receiver with streaks of purple and grey interplaying. The stock was a fine checkered English walnut. The target sights were a fine ivory bead front sight, and a fine adjustment peep rear. Mr. Van could make it talk.
Without a word Mr. Van loaded the Martini, and took aim. Downrange the cigerette gave off a fine thread of smoke, and we waited. Mr. Van took his time, and when the crack of the .22 sounded we all jumped a bit from the tension and suspense. The glowing end of the smoke on the matchstick disinstigrated, leaving the rest of the 3/4 of the ciggerete intact. Mr Van opened the action of the Martini and laid it on the shooting bench, and walked downrange with that straitbacked Marine walk. Taking the ciggerette he walked back to the firing line and held it out with a match to the other scout master.
"Your turn." was all he said.
The other scout master started to speak, shut his mouth, then said "Oh, forget it!" and marched off in humiliation from the cheers of Mr. Vans faithfull ringing in his ears.
That day on the range at a place called Gun Farm, Mr. Van became a living god to troop 469.
