It was one of those balmy spring days when you know the last of winter has really passed, and we were on a scout camping trip with the troop. Our scoutmaster Mr. Van had led us to nice clearing in the woods, and we set about the business of setting up. Tents were to be pegged down taut enough to bounce a quarter off of, latrines to be dug, fire pits to be dug and cooking tripods to be built. As usual, Dave, Everett, Bobby, and myself were setting up our own little area, when all of a sudden Bobby gave a shrill yelp and was holding his thumb. Blood welled out of a deep cut across his left thumb pad. He had been a bit careless with his scout knife. Being scouts of Mr. Van, all our knives were shaving sharp.
The yelp had gained the attention of Mr. Van, and he came striding over. A tall silver haired ex marine, Mr. Van didn't walk anywhere, he marched with that straight backed marine walk as if he were still on the drill fields of Paris Island.
"You have an injury, Mr. Ryerson?" he asked Bobby.
Slowly, with a great reluctance, Bobby let go of his thumb to reveal a clean incision across his thumb print, and blood ran freely. It was hard to tell if Bobby was more afraid of the cut or Mr. Van's reaction to his careless use of a very sharp scout knife. Mr. Van showed no emotion, just took a clean bandana and rolled it up into a tight roll, and applied
direct pressure to the wound while holding it up over Bobby's head.
"Mr. Tate, go and get the first aid kit, if you please." He told Dave. Dave ran off on his errand and was back in a flash with the troops first aid kit. Under Mr. Van's guidance, it had been outfitted for dealing with casualties from any source including landings on a hostile beach. Mr. Van lost no time in administering first aid with some butterflies and gauze pads in a professional looking wound packing. I guess with his experience in places like Gaudicanal and Saipan he had dealt with wounds before. When he was done, Bobby's thumb looked as if it had seen professional ER treatment. He looked down at a quaking Bobby.
"Your knife, Mr. Ryerson." was all he said, but it was enough.
The world seemed to halt, even the birds in the trees stopped their spring songs. A terrible thing was about to happen. A scout was being deprived of his knife, the very badge of what he was. It was as bad an army court martial in the old days, when an officers sword was taken from him and broken in shame. Slowly Bobby handed Mr. Van his knife. Mr. Van said nothing, his light gray blue eyes stoney and hard, looked at Bobby with no remorse. He took the offered scout knife and dropped it in his pocket.
"All right, everyone back to work, we have camp to set up. There will be no more accidents."
We all set about our chores, feeling bad for the condemned among us, but there was nothing to do about it. Mr. Van had spoken, and that was that. For the rest of the trip, poor Bobby had to get one of us to cut something for him. That evening, Everett almost loaned Bobby his knife, but a parade ground voice rang out.
"Mr. Snider, were you about to hand Mr. Ryerson your knife?"
Ev froze the way a mouse seeing a hawk perched on an overhanging limb watching him would.
"Uh, no sir. I was offering to cut for him." Ev replied in a hushed tone.
Ev cut Bobby a good hot dog stick, adding to the humiliation. It was a long campout for Bobby Ryerson. A piece of twine, he had to ask for a cut. Anything at all, he was helpless as a newbi tenderfoot scout without a tote-n-chip badge. That weekend, when everyone else was working on camp crafts and merit badges, Bobby was on fire watch.
But all things come to an end, as did the campout. Sunday, we hiked out, and the fathers were waiting with station wagons to ferry weary scouts home. As we were loading into Ev's fathers big Ford station wagon, Mr. Van came over to Bobby, and held out his knife to him.
"Did you learn anything from this experience, Mr. Ryerson.? " he asked Bobby.
Bobby looked up at Mr. Van, and answered in a hesitant tone of voice,
"Yes sir. Always cut away from myself, never toward. I knew that, I don't know why I did something so stupid. I won't make that mistake again, sir. "
Mr. Van gave Bobby his knife back, and then did something I never thought he'd do. I swear I thought I saw him give Bobby a wink. I don't know if a wink is in the marine corp manual that Mr. Van went by, but I saw him do it.
" It's not the mistake that's bad, son. We all make a mistake now and then. But if we learn from it, that's the important thing. Be careful Mr. Ryerson, some mistakes will not give us a second chance." Mr. Van said, and with a curt nob, he strode off with that strait back marine march.
We finished loading up, and as we sat in the back seat, Bobby opened up his knife and to our surprise, the blood had been cleaned off, and the spear pointed blade stropped to razor sharpness. Mr. Van had cleaned up the knife and touched it up before giving it back to Bobby. We all just shook our heads.
Thinking back to that day, I think even Mr. Van got it half right. It's not that we make the mistake, or even that we learn from it.
But sometimes it's how the lesson was taught.
The yelp had gained the attention of Mr. Van, and he came striding over. A tall silver haired ex marine, Mr. Van didn't walk anywhere, he marched with that straight backed marine walk as if he were still on the drill fields of Paris Island.
"You have an injury, Mr. Ryerson?" he asked Bobby.
Slowly, with a great reluctance, Bobby let go of his thumb to reveal a clean incision across his thumb print, and blood ran freely. It was hard to tell if Bobby was more afraid of the cut or Mr. Van's reaction to his careless use of a very sharp scout knife. Mr. Van showed no emotion, just took a clean bandana and rolled it up into a tight roll, and applied
direct pressure to the wound while holding it up over Bobby's head.
"Mr. Tate, go and get the first aid kit, if you please." He told Dave. Dave ran off on his errand and was back in a flash with the troops first aid kit. Under Mr. Van's guidance, it had been outfitted for dealing with casualties from any source including landings on a hostile beach. Mr. Van lost no time in administering first aid with some butterflies and gauze pads in a professional looking wound packing. I guess with his experience in places like Gaudicanal and Saipan he had dealt with wounds before. When he was done, Bobby's thumb looked as if it had seen professional ER treatment. He looked down at a quaking Bobby.
"Your knife, Mr. Ryerson." was all he said, but it was enough.
The world seemed to halt, even the birds in the trees stopped their spring songs. A terrible thing was about to happen. A scout was being deprived of his knife, the very badge of what he was. It was as bad an army court martial in the old days, when an officers sword was taken from him and broken in shame. Slowly Bobby handed Mr. Van his knife. Mr. Van said nothing, his light gray blue eyes stoney and hard, looked at Bobby with no remorse. He took the offered scout knife and dropped it in his pocket.
"All right, everyone back to work, we have camp to set up. There will be no more accidents."
We all set about our chores, feeling bad for the condemned among us, but there was nothing to do about it. Mr. Van had spoken, and that was that. For the rest of the trip, poor Bobby had to get one of us to cut something for him. That evening, Everett almost loaned Bobby his knife, but a parade ground voice rang out.
"Mr. Snider, were you about to hand Mr. Ryerson your knife?"
Ev froze the way a mouse seeing a hawk perched on an overhanging limb watching him would.
"Uh, no sir. I was offering to cut for him." Ev replied in a hushed tone.
Ev cut Bobby a good hot dog stick, adding to the humiliation. It was a long campout for Bobby Ryerson. A piece of twine, he had to ask for a cut. Anything at all, he was helpless as a newbi tenderfoot scout without a tote-n-chip badge. That weekend, when everyone else was working on camp crafts and merit badges, Bobby was on fire watch.
But all things come to an end, as did the campout. Sunday, we hiked out, and the fathers were waiting with station wagons to ferry weary scouts home. As we were loading into Ev's fathers big Ford station wagon, Mr. Van came over to Bobby, and held out his knife to him.
"Did you learn anything from this experience, Mr. Ryerson.? " he asked Bobby.
Bobby looked up at Mr. Van, and answered in a hesitant tone of voice,
"Yes sir. Always cut away from myself, never toward. I knew that, I don't know why I did something so stupid. I won't make that mistake again, sir. "
Mr. Van gave Bobby his knife back, and then did something I never thought he'd do. I swear I thought I saw him give Bobby a wink. I don't know if a wink is in the marine corp manual that Mr. Van went by, but I saw him do it.
" It's not the mistake that's bad, son. We all make a mistake now and then. But if we learn from it, that's the important thing. Be careful Mr. Ryerson, some mistakes will not give us a second chance." Mr. Van said, and with a curt nob, he strode off with that strait back marine march.
We finished loading up, and as we sat in the back seat, Bobby opened up his knife and to our surprise, the blood had been cleaned off, and the spear pointed blade stropped to razor sharpness. Mr. Van had cleaned up the knife and touched it up before giving it back to Bobby. We all just shook our heads.
Thinking back to that day, I think even Mr. Van got it half right. It's not that we make the mistake, or even that we learn from it.
But sometimes it's how the lesson was taught.
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