There was nothing to set it apart from all the other knives in the box. It was not shinier, or sharper. The clerk took one out at random and set it in the display cabnet of the boy scout gear. It was a small sporting goods store in the town of Frederick Maryland, a rural farming area of rolling fields and woodlands.
It was not a huge number of days before the knife was purchased by a young scout. He had saved his money for this knife, and it was to be a treasured item. He enjoyed the scouts and exelled. He was one of those driven ones that come along now and then, who will settle for nothing but the best in themselves and others. His scoutmaster became his mentor, and tought the scout how to carve the fancy neckkerchef rings with indian faces on them. The scout learned to strop the Remington on leather to keep it hair popping sharp so as not to have to take it to stone too often. The eagle scout rank came in record time.
His performance in school was as high a standard. Graduating on the honor roll, his parents were shocked when he enlisted in the Marine Corps instead of going to college. He tried to explain the feelings of wanting to serve his country, to answear an inner call to duty, but was only halfway sucsesfull.
In the Marines he found the perfect place for his drive for perfection. Rank came fast, PFC, Lance Corporal, Sargent. In the corps he found something that was the outlet for his drive, marksmenship. The mental disapline of sight picture, breath control and trigger sqeeze, always challenging himself to do better. His officers groomed him for representing the Corps in competition. Then on a sunny Sunday morning in December came war on the wings of planes with a red rising sun on them.
In the next few years the Marine sargent saw action on small islands and atolls that most Americans never heard of. Names like Guadacanal, Tarawa, Saipan. Another rocker was added to his sleeve and he was a gunnery sarget. He led his men carefully, avoiding reckless action that would cost them lives, and his men in turn loved thier tall lean sargent. Through it all, he still carried the little Remington scout knife. It was used for a myrid of small chores, but most of all, the C-rations. He would later joke that if he could stack up all the c-ration cans it opened he could climb up to the top of the Empire State building. He kept a lanyard cord on the Remingtons shackle to his web belt to make sure it did'nt get lost, as he valued it highly. His men marveled at his calm, when waiting like all military men do on a regular basis, he would carve a barber pole out of a stick with his scout knife. But most of all they were in awe of his marksmenship. Unlike his men who carried the M-1 garand, the tall sargent had a 03 Springfield that he had come upon. One of his men would spot with a pair of binoculars when they got pinned down by a hidden machine gun, and the sargent would carefully pick his target. When he fired his men knew an enimy soldier was dead, and the gun silenced. He would use the screw driver on the scout knife to aid in stripping down his rifle for cleaning meticliously.
The war like all wars, came to an end, and now with the rank of E-8 on his sleeve he became an instructor at the Marine training center at Paris Island. Young recruits were tought the holy trinitiy of sight picture, breath control, and trigger sqeeze by a master. His recruits always did the best on the range scores. They'd better.
The day came when his time was up, and he left the corps. He had done his twenty, but wanted out, he'd had enough. At a crossroads, he returned home to the Maryland he had left so many years before. But now he found himself needing to do something. The kids were grown and gone and he and his wife were alone. His wife found him roaming the house bored, and she talked to some nieghbors. One day at the dinner table she brought up that the local church scout troop needed a new scout master. At first he was a bit incredulous. Then he became thoughtfull.
Like a grain planted in fertile soil, the idea took hold. He had led men in life and death circumstances, he could see no reason he could not give some kids some needed guidence. He decided to do it.
The evening came then at the local church, on the appointed Friday night, he made the commitment. In his new scout uniform he did not feel near as silly as he thought he would. Instead he found some of the old exitement returning like when he had a new class of recruits to teach. Then the moment was there. He walked into the basement meeting room and thirty pairs of young eyes fixed on him. They saw a tall lean grey mustached man, with a crisp uniform in textbook order. A Remington scout knife hung from the official brass belt hook. A pair of hard grey-blue eyes survied them, and they unconcously straitened up as they stood waiting.
"Okay boys," their church decon was telling them, "I want to introduce you to your new scout master, retired Master Sargent Van. "
"You can call me Mr. Van, men." the new scoutmaster told them. "And first off, there won't be any slackers in this troop."
His eyes scanned them, coming to rest on one scout who had a shoulder patch noticably crooked.
" Who are you, mister? " asked Mr. Van.
" Uh, Bobby. Bobby Ryerson."
The scoutmaster stared.
"Uh, Bobby Ryerson, sir."
Mr. Van walked over to Bobby Ryerson, and with great slow deliberation, opened his Remington scout knife and neatly cut the wide spaced stiches barely holding the shoulder patch in place, and handed the patch to Bobby.
" Okay Bobby Ryerson, I want those patches strait by next Friday." Came a simple statement of what was to be.
"Uh, yeah sure. "
The stare that we all came to know and fear fixed on poor Bobby Ryerson.
"Uh, yes sir." he stammered.
"Okay, now like I said, there won't be any slackers in this troop, and ..."
While Mr. Van spoke the scouts listened raptly to the man they now feared, but would come to worship as their demi-god.
It was not a huge number of days before the knife was purchased by a young scout. He had saved his money for this knife, and it was to be a treasured item. He enjoyed the scouts and exelled. He was one of those driven ones that come along now and then, who will settle for nothing but the best in themselves and others. His scoutmaster became his mentor, and tought the scout how to carve the fancy neckkerchef rings with indian faces on them. The scout learned to strop the Remington on leather to keep it hair popping sharp so as not to have to take it to stone too often. The eagle scout rank came in record time.
His performance in school was as high a standard. Graduating on the honor roll, his parents were shocked when he enlisted in the Marine Corps instead of going to college. He tried to explain the feelings of wanting to serve his country, to answear an inner call to duty, but was only halfway sucsesfull.
In the Marines he found the perfect place for his drive for perfection. Rank came fast, PFC, Lance Corporal, Sargent. In the corps he found something that was the outlet for his drive, marksmenship. The mental disapline of sight picture, breath control and trigger sqeeze, always challenging himself to do better. His officers groomed him for representing the Corps in competition. Then on a sunny Sunday morning in December came war on the wings of planes with a red rising sun on them.
In the next few years the Marine sargent saw action on small islands and atolls that most Americans never heard of. Names like Guadacanal, Tarawa, Saipan. Another rocker was added to his sleeve and he was a gunnery sarget. He led his men carefully, avoiding reckless action that would cost them lives, and his men in turn loved thier tall lean sargent. Through it all, he still carried the little Remington scout knife. It was used for a myrid of small chores, but most of all, the C-rations. He would later joke that if he could stack up all the c-ration cans it opened he could climb up to the top of the Empire State building. He kept a lanyard cord on the Remingtons shackle to his web belt to make sure it did'nt get lost, as he valued it highly. His men marveled at his calm, when waiting like all military men do on a regular basis, he would carve a barber pole out of a stick with his scout knife. But most of all they were in awe of his marksmenship. Unlike his men who carried the M-1 garand, the tall sargent had a 03 Springfield that he had come upon. One of his men would spot with a pair of binoculars when they got pinned down by a hidden machine gun, and the sargent would carefully pick his target. When he fired his men knew an enimy soldier was dead, and the gun silenced. He would use the screw driver on the scout knife to aid in stripping down his rifle for cleaning meticliously.
The war like all wars, came to an end, and now with the rank of E-8 on his sleeve he became an instructor at the Marine training center at Paris Island. Young recruits were tought the holy trinitiy of sight picture, breath control, and trigger sqeeze by a master. His recruits always did the best on the range scores. They'd better.
The day came when his time was up, and he left the corps. He had done his twenty, but wanted out, he'd had enough. At a crossroads, he returned home to the Maryland he had left so many years before. But now he found himself needing to do something. The kids were grown and gone and he and his wife were alone. His wife found him roaming the house bored, and she talked to some nieghbors. One day at the dinner table she brought up that the local church scout troop needed a new scout master. At first he was a bit incredulous. Then he became thoughtfull.
Like a grain planted in fertile soil, the idea took hold. He had led men in life and death circumstances, he could see no reason he could not give some kids some needed guidence. He decided to do it.
The evening came then at the local church, on the appointed Friday night, he made the commitment. In his new scout uniform he did not feel near as silly as he thought he would. Instead he found some of the old exitement returning like when he had a new class of recruits to teach. Then the moment was there. He walked into the basement meeting room and thirty pairs of young eyes fixed on him. They saw a tall lean grey mustached man, with a crisp uniform in textbook order. A Remington scout knife hung from the official brass belt hook. A pair of hard grey-blue eyes survied them, and they unconcously straitened up as they stood waiting.
"Okay boys," their church decon was telling them, "I want to introduce you to your new scout master, retired Master Sargent Van. "
"You can call me Mr. Van, men." the new scoutmaster told them. "And first off, there won't be any slackers in this troop."
His eyes scanned them, coming to rest on one scout who had a shoulder patch noticably crooked.
" Who are you, mister? " asked Mr. Van.
" Uh, Bobby. Bobby Ryerson."
The scoutmaster stared.
"Uh, Bobby Ryerson, sir."
Mr. Van walked over to Bobby Ryerson, and with great slow deliberation, opened his Remington scout knife and neatly cut the wide spaced stiches barely holding the shoulder patch in place, and handed the patch to Bobby.
" Okay Bobby Ryerson, I want those patches strait by next Friday." Came a simple statement of what was to be.
"Uh, yeah sure. "
The stare that we all came to know and fear fixed on poor Bobby Ryerson.
"Uh, yes sir." he stammered.
"Okay, now like I said, there won't be any slackers in this troop, and ..."
While Mr. Van spoke the scouts listened raptly to the man they now feared, but would come to worship as their demi-god.
