I don't know where the knife magazines get their information, but in the years I was in the army, I very rarely saw anyone with a sheath knife outside of a combat zone. Of course I was an engineer, and most of our company was made up of carpenters, plumbers, welders, electricions, and earth moving equiptment operators.
But pocket knives where a different story. Soldiers down through the ages must all have had similar need. Living in Maryland, I'm close to civil war as well as Revelutionary war sites and museums. All of these have samples of old pocket knives recovered from battle and encampment sites, but very little in the way of sheath knives. Most of the recovered knives from the Revelution period seem to be medium size single blade jack type knives. Blades seen to run to sheepsfoot and hawkbill. At the musium over at Antietum there is some that look like single blade barlows. The civil war pocket knives seem to be more compact than the revelution era ones.
When I served in the army, it was actually against regulations to have a knife over a certain size, and up to the disretion of the company comander to allow for fixed blade carry. Like all of my fellow engineers we carried a regular pocket knife. My boy scout knife that dad had given me when I was 12 had been retired and left home, in favor of an all steel issue scout knife I could get for free at the supply room. And of course by the mid 60's Buck knives were being sold at the PX for very resonable prices. This is where I first learned how much I loved a stockman.
I had picked up a 301 stockman and carried it not only on duty, but fishing in the Guadaloupe river, and Canyon Lake to the north of Ft. Sam Houston and San Antonio. Texas was new country to me, and being from the east, I eagerly tried out the bass fishing on the big lakes and slow rivers of the lone star state. There was a army recreation area at Canyon lake, and a couple of us would get out of the barracks for the weekend for fishing and camping up at the lake.
The stockman did pretty good as a trout and bird knife. Traveling light as most soldiers learn to do, I did not have a sheath knife, nor did anyone else of our group. We just used our pocket knives for everything. Cutting twine to make a lean-to out of a pancho, and cleaning a nice bass to be baked in the campfire coals wrapped in foil, was all done with that Buck stockman.
Texas was also my first serious encounter with a sak. I walked into an Oshmans sporting goods store to check out the fishing gear, and ran smack into a sak display. In them I found a knife that for the same size and weight as my all steel service issue scout knife, I could have a second small blade, saw, and sissors, not mention tweezers that could actually pull out prickly pear spines. I ended up carrying a pair of pocket knives in a O.D. nylon web pouch, a sak huntsman, and my Buck stockman. Those knives did everything I needed to do with a pocket knife.
Paul Britton was another stockman user. Paul hailed from what he described as a hollow outside of Harlin Kentucky, and he was at home in the woods. His choice of pocket knife was a well used Case medium stockman with rounded bolsters, and very deep grey patined blades. Paul kept the sheepsfoot blade semi-sharp, and I'd watch him use it to open his cans of V-8 juice to make a Budweiser Mary, as well as cut a plug of the rock hard twist of chewwing tobacco his folks would sent him from back home. But he kept the main clip honed so sharp, that when he went to clean his fish, it opened up the thing like it had a zipper. One time we made a couple of clubs, and managed to kill an armidillo as we had heard they could be gotten easy, and from curiosity we wondered how it would taste. Paul dressed it out while a local gave him advise and instruction, and it really did kind of taste like chicken. But mostly it tasted from the Tabbasco sause.
Richard Semarroni was another of our squad that shared a love of the outdoors. Rich was from working class Italian roots in Oswego New York, and growing up on a large body of water like Lake Ontario we had alot in common. Fishing and boating had been part of both our childhoods. Rich's choice of cutlery was a small Boker two blade jacknife. Smooth worn wood handles and dark grey blades told of this knife being carried alot for many years. Rich was one of many that seemed to love the two blade pocket knife in the 3 inch closed range, and I have to admit from the way he used it, it worked out well. His father had given it to him many years before, and like most of us, he carried his knife in a small nylon belt pouch.
To carry a pocket knife in those days in the army you had two choices. Carry it buttoned up in your fatigue shirt pocket so's not to loose it, or make a web pouch for the belt. The fatigue pants had those side pockets that were lousey for dumpng things on the seat when you sat down. Like a big patch pocket sewn on the outside of the pants. So most of us went down to the shop and cut off some 1 1/2 inch green nylon webing and sewed a pouch that took almost the whole knife, and to retrieve the knife you squeezed the bottom of the pouch and the knife rose up in the sheath and you could pull it out.
Interstingly it was our pocket knives that led us to get on the bad side of one LT. John J. Cooper.
About once a month we went out on a FTX, or for you civilians, a field training exercise. Since we were a combat engineer unit, this was a graded event of our combat readyness. It was a real pain in the butt, as all the countryside was that Texas brush country that everything has thorns, spikes, or spines of some dangerous sort.
On one of our outings we were assingned to take a defensive position, and build a small bridge arcoss a creek, and defened the bridge against and agressor force. At any one time we were on 50% alert, meaning half of us worked while half secured the area. Me and Rich had been assigned a foxhole position that was filled with thorney undergrowth. To make things worse, there was hardly room between the thorn bushes for one large foxhole, so we decided on our own to make two small ones, on either side of the center of the thicket. We hollowed out a small space for our foxholes well into the thicket with our pocket knives.
All was well till late that night one of the sentries shot at a shadow and everyone thought we may be under agressor force attack. We manned our foxholes ready to defend the company area. Enter butter bar LT. John J. Cooper with 108 days service under his belt from OCS.
Rich was in his foxhole off to my left, and we could hear the LT. stumbling through the underbrush in the dark.
"Semarroni, Devlin, where are you" he called.
"Over here sir." asweared .Rich.
The Lt. stumbles right into a sticker bush. We could hear cursing and muffled sounds of pain.
"Semarroni, Devlin! Where are you!!??" he called again, sounding angry.
To this day I don't know exactly why I did it, but I called out to him, "Over here sir!"
The Lt, thinking he got turned, around tried to walk toward the sound of my voice and right into the big sticker thicket between Rich's foxhole and mine. More sounds of pain, then a loud crash of brush as it sounded like he fell. Then what sounded like a self muffled sceam.
"God Damm it, Semarroni, Devlin, where the hell are you!!??" he yelled too loud for the tactical situation.
"Over here sir!" yelled Rich.
More crashing of brush while the green butter bar Lt. walked into more thorns. Then he walked away cursing.
He never did sucseed in finding our two foxholes that night. Like most nights, that one came to an end, and in the grey light of early dawn we were relived to go get some chow. Me and Rich got our mess tins from the pup tent and got in line at the mess tent. Halfway through the line we heard a commotion behind us.
"Christ on a crutch, Cooper, what happened to you" I heard our CO ask behind us. The little voice inside started screaming at me "Don't turn around! Don't turn around!"
I turned around.
At first I was surprised by the damage, but then I had a hard time keeping a strait face. There stood Lt. Cooper looking like he'd gone 14 rounds inside a burlap sak with one of San Antonio's meanest back alley tom cats. Bloody scatches and thorn holes scabbed his face, and his uniform was torn in a few places. The effort of keeping a strait face was massive. Then he spied me and Rich.
"You two!" he pointed a finger at us, "You two, I want to see your foxhole. You're going to show me you're foxhole right now!. "
He seemed a bit anoyed to put it mildly.
Just then Sgt. Castillo came into the mess tent, and anounced that all officers were wanted in the C.P. (command post) tent imediatly.
We were saved by the bell and we ate fast to get back to our position to cover up one hole and dig out the other before Cooper got back. He examined our position, and never did quite figure out what the heck happened that night, but harbored a suspicion that we had put one over on him somehow. Later that day our first sargent asked us what happened, and Rich and I both looked innocent as choir boys while we told him the eltee had fallen in a thorn bush trying to find us durring a time when light and noise disapline were being observed. We never heard anything more, and the butter bar eltee earned the nickame Lt. Thornbush. Never to his face of course!
But pocket knives where a different story. Soldiers down through the ages must all have had similar need. Living in Maryland, I'm close to civil war as well as Revelutionary war sites and museums. All of these have samples of old pocket knives recovered from battle and encampment sites, but very little in the way of sheath knives. Most of the recovered knives from the Revelution period seem to be medium size single blade jack type knives. Blades seen to run to sheepsfoot and hawkbill. At the musium over at Antietum there is some that look like single blade barlows. The civil war pocket knives seem to be more compact than the revelution era ones.
When I served in the army, it was actually against regulations to have a knife over a certain size, and up to the disretion of the company comander to allow for fixed blade carry. Like all of my fellow engineers we carried a regular pocket knife. My boy scout knife that dad had given me when I was 12 had been retired and left home, in favor of an all steel issue scout knife I could get for free at the supply room. And of course by the mid 60's Buck knives were being sold at the PX for very resonable prices. This is where I first learned how much I loved a stockman.
I had picked up a 301 stockman and carried it not only on duty, but fishing in the Guadaloupe river, and Canyon Lake to the north of Ft. Sam Houston and San Antonio. Texas was new country to me, and being from the east, I eagerly tried out the bass fishing on the big lakes and slow rivers of the lone star state. There was a army recreation area at Canyon lake, and a couple of us would get out of the barracks for the weekend for fishing and camping up at the lake.
The stockman did pretty good as a trout and bird knife. Traveling light as most soldiers learn to do, I did not have a sheath knife, nor did anyone else of our group. We just used our pocket knives for everything. Cutting twine to make a lean-to out of a pancho, and cleaning a nice bass to be baked in the campfire coals wrapped in foil, was all done with that Buck stockman.
Texas was also my first serious encounter with a sak. I walked into an Oshmans sporting goods store to check out the fishing gear, and ran smack into a sak display. In them I found a knife that for the same size and weight as my all steel service issue scout knife, I could have a second small blade, saw, and sissors, not mention tweezers that could actually pull out prickly pear spines. I ended up carrying a pair of pocket knives in a O.D. nylon web pouch, a sak huntsman, and my Buck stockman. Those knives did everything I needed to do with a pocket knife.
Paul Britton was another stockman user. Paul hailed from what he described as a hollow outside of Harlin Kentucky, and he was at home in the woods. His choice of pocket knife was a well used Case medium stockman with rounded bolsters, and very deep grey patined blades. Paul kept the sheepsfoot blade semi-sharp, and I'd watch him use it to open his cans of V-8 juice to make a Budweiser Mary, as well as cut a plug of the rock hard twist of chewwing tobacco his folks would sent him from back home. But he kept the main clip honed so sharp, that when he went to clean his fish, it opened up the thing like it had a zipper. One time we made a couple of clubs, and managed to kill an armidillo as we had heard they could be gotten easy, and from curiosity we wondered how it would taste. Paul dressed it out while a local gave him advise and instruction, and it really did kind of taste like chicken. But mostly it tasted from the Tabbasco sause.
Richard Semarroni was another of our squad that shared a love of the outdoors. Rich was from working class Italian roots in Oswego New York, and growing up on a large body of water like Lake Ontario we had alot in common. Fishing and boating had been part of both our childhoods. Rich's choice of cutlery was a small Boker two blade jacknife. Smooth worn wood handles and dark grey blades told of this knife being carried alot for many years. Rich was one of many that seemed to love the two blade pocket knife in the 3 inch closed range, and I have to admit from the way he used it, it worked out well. His father had given it to him many years before, and like most of us, he carried his knife in a small nylon belt pouch.
To carry a pocket knife in those days in the army you had two choices. Carry it buttoned up in your fatigue shirt pocket so's not to loose it, or make a web pouch for the belt. The fatigue pants had those side pockets that were lousey for dumpng things on the seat when you sat down. Like a big patch pocket sewn on the outside of the pants. So most of us went down to the shop and cut off some 1 1/2 inch green nylon webing and sewed a pouch that took almost the whole knife, and to retrieve the knife you squeezed the bottom of the pouch and the knife rose up in the sheath and you could pull it out.
Interstingly it was our pocket knives that led us to get on the bad side of one LT. John J. Cooper.
About once a month we went out on a FTX, or for you civilians, a field training exercise. Since we were a combat engineer unit, this was a graded event of our combat readyness. It was a real pain in the butt, as all the countryside was that Texas brush country that everything has thorns, spikes, or spines of some dangerous sort.
On one of our outings we were assingned to take a defensive position, and build a small bridge arcoss a creek, and defened the bridge against and agressor force. At any one time we were on 50% alert, meaning half of us worked while half secured the area. Me and Rich had been assigned a foxhole position that was filled with thorney undergrowth. To make things worse, there was hardly room between the thorn bushes for one large foxhole, so we decided on our own to make two small ones, on either side of the center of the thicket. We hollowed out a small space for our foxholes well into the thicket with our pocket knives.
All was well till late that night one of the sentries shot at a shadow and everyone thought we may be under agressor force attack. We manned our foxholes ready to defend the company area. Enter butter bar LT. John J. Cooper with 108 days service under his belt from OCS.
Rich was in his foxhole off to my left, and we could hear the LT. stumbling through the underbrush in the dark.
"Semarroni, Devlin, where are you" he called.
"Over here sir." asweared .Rich.
The Lt. stumbles right into a sticker bush. We could hear cursing and muffled sounds of pain.
"Semarroni, Devlin! Where are you!!??" he called again, sounding angry.
To this day I don't know exactly why I did it, but I called out to him, "Over here sir!"
The Lt, thinking he got turned, around tried to walk toward the sound of my voice and right into the big sticker thicket between Rich's foxhole and mine. More sounds of pain, then a loud crash of brush as it sounded like he fell. Then what sounded like a self muffled sceam.
"God Damm it, Semarroni, Devlin, where the hell are you!!??" he yelled too loud for the tactical situation.
"Over here sir!" yelled Rich.
More crashing of brush while the green butter bar Lt. walked into more thorns. Then he walked away cursing.
He never did sucseed in finding our two foxholes that night. Like most nights, that one came to an end, and in the grey light of early dawn we were relived to go get some chow. Me and Rich got our mess tins from the pup tent and got in line at the mess tent. Halfway through the line we heard a commotion behind us.
"Christ on a crutch, Cooper, what happened to you" I heard our CO ask behind us. The little voice inside started screaming at me "Don't turn around! Don't turn around!"
I turned around.
At first I was surprised by the damage, but then I had a hard time keeping a strait face. There stood Lt. Cooper looking like he'd gone 14 rounds inside a burlap sak with one of San Antonio's meanest back alley tom cats. Bloody scatches and thorn holes scabbed his face, and his uniform was torn in a few places. The effort of keeping a strait face was massive. Then he spied me and Rich.
"You two!" he pointed a finger at us, "You two, I want to see your foxhole. You're going to show me you're foxhole right now!. "
He seemed a bit anoyed to put it mildly.
Just then Sgt. Castillo came into the mess tent, and anounced that all officers were wanted in the C.P. (command post) tent imediatly.
We were saved by the bell and we ate fast to get back to our position to cover up one hole and dig out the other before Cooper got back. He examined our position, and never did quite figure out what the heck happened that night, but harbored a suspicion that we had put one over on him somehow. Later that day our first sargent asked us what happened, and Rich and I both looked innocent as choir boys while we told him the eltee had fallen in a thorn bush trying to find us durring a time when light and noise disapline were being observed. We never heard anything more, and the butter bar eltee earned the nickame Lt. Thornbush. Never to his face of course!
ButterBars!! Teehee!!
Oh, and got out before I could do any real damage. 
