No, this ain't a broke back mountain, or humpback ridge, or anything like that. Its about the stockmen knives I've known in my life that were some hard working pieces of cutlery. It seems like many of the hard working men I've known in my life used a stockman.
From the earliest years I can remember knives, (pretty darn early) I remember of course my grandad and his stag Hen and Rooster. He loved that knife and used it as his working companion, hunting partner, and Sunday picnic after meeting knife. Uncle Mike, who had gone off and served in the Navy durring the war was proud of the Camillus stockman that he said the "gob'mint" gave him. He did indeed have a brown jigged plastic (delrin?) handle stockman with the etching "U.S. Government" on the master clip blade. He used that knife till the blades were about 50% gone, over the course of the next twenty or so years. He always claimed the grey patined blades held a darn good edge. He was sentimental over that knife. He told me it was always with him from 1942 till he got out of the navy in 1946. He even kept from loosing it when he was sunk in the English Channel. His PT boat ran into a German E boat, and as Uncle Mike said, the German boat kicked their a--es and sunk them off the channel islands. I guess that stockman would have some sentimental value after that.
When I enlisted in the army in 1960, I went for the engineers. There I fell in with the kind of people I grew up around. Carpenters, plumbers, welders, equiptment operators. Since we were'nt combat troops per se, we did not carry large combat knives like the issued Camillus Mk2. But we did have a ton of pocket knives on the job. The supply room had the TL-29's and the all stainless steel scout knife, but most of the guys had their own knife prefferences. I'll allways remember Paul Britton. Paul was a hillbilly kid out of Harlin County Kentucky, and we became fast friends. We went through engineer school at Ft. Leonard Wood together, and our paths crossed often over the next several years at engineer postings. We served for a time in Germany together, then as it always happens someone gets orders to someplace else.
Paul carried on old Case stockman, about 3 and 7/8ths slightly serpentine, with worn jigged scales. It was good strait carbon steel and Paul took good care of that knife. On a construction site you need a good sharp blade often, and Paul used his daily. If we were shooting a line with the transit for a pipeline or foundation, stakes had to be sharpened to drive into the ground and a line run between them. Alot of stakes were sharpened by that old Case of Pauls. Sometimes sitting on the back porch of the barracks we'd do some whittling, with some cold ones sitting in a waste bucket of ice. We'd compare edges, to see which one of us had the sharpest knife. By that time I was carrying a Buck stockman I had got at the PX and I could sharpen it well. But Paul was damm good. One peculier use Paul would put his knife to, cutting a plug. His family would sent him this chewing tobbaco from back home, and to my eyes looked like a twisted petrified hard piece of rope. It you put it in a sock and swung it, you could hurt someone with it. Paul would take out his Case, and cut off a plug and chew on it. He'd always offer me a chew, but I had my pipe and politly declined. Good friend that he was, he always would grin that country boy grin and ask me if I was sure. I was.
We ran into one another again in 1967, when my unit, the 39th Engineer battalion went to Viet Nam. Paul had just got in from Germany and went with us. I'm not sure just how many bridges over streams and rivers we built, along with officers billits and some school houses, and road improvements. There always seemed to be one more project they were in a hurry to get done.
There were the very occasional morter attacks, more like harrasment. We'd be working, and over the sound of some hammering, the whine of a skill saw, you'd hear that hollow gutter pipe hit with a stick sound. They always came in three's, I don't know why. We'd jump into a hole and afterward just go back to work knowing it was over for the day. One time they blew up a scap lumber pile, another some rolls of tar paper. Then about mid 1967 they started using rockets.
That scared us more because there would'nt be the long warning of the TUNK, TUNK, TUNK, sound of the morter. And they seemed to be more accurite. We'd hear a whoosh and something would blow up. We started having to take turns by platoon doing perimiter sweeps and patrols. One day I was working with my platoon while 1st platoon was out walking the perimiter. We heard a distant crackle of rifle fire and stopped to grab our gear. 1st platoon had been fired on and had two dead, one was Paul Britton. It was the first time in many many years I cried.
Since it was known that we'd been friends since Ft. Leonard Wood, it fell to me to gather his personal effects, and write a letter home to his folks. As a platoon sgt. it was not the first time I had to do that, but it was the most painfull. It was then I did something, that to this day, I'm not sure was right.
On my table was his Timex watch, his high school ring, some odds and ends incuding one of those twists of tobacco, and his Case knife. I picked up his pocket knife and held it in my hand, remembering all the good times we had in Missouri, Germany, and even Texas, where we'd both briefly been stationed. We'd fished, and camped, and drank all over the world, and now he was gone forever. Somehow I thought if I held onto that knife, I could keep a part of him with me. I put his knife in my top right shirt pocket and sent the rest of his effects home.
I carried that knife for years afterward. I used it on occasion, but mostly just carried it as a memento. These days it lives in the wooden cigar box with my other knives that are all from a loved one. Theres gandads Hen and Rooster, my dads Case peanut, Uncle Pat's white handle Imperial, Uncle Mike's old Camillus "gob'ment" stockman, Andy Wardens Buck Cadet, and Paul's Case stockman. They all take turns being carried and gently used for light cutting chores. Maybe I'm nuts, but when I carry one of them it seems like that person is going along with me for the day.
It's a funny thing, but it seems like of all the people who were dear to me, a large number of them carried a stockman.
From the earliest years I can remember knives, (pretty darn early) I remember of course my grandad and his stag Hen and Rooster. He loved that knife and used it as his working companion, hunting partner, and Sunday picnic after meeting knife. Uncle Mike, who had gone off and served in the Navy durring the war was proud of the Camillus stockman that he said the "gob'mint" gave him. He did indeed have a brown jigged plastic (delrin?) handle stockman with the etching "U.S. Government" on the master clip blade. He used that knife till the blades were about 50% gone, over the course of the next twenty or so years. He always claimed the grey patined blades held a darn good edge. He was sentimental over that knife. He told me it was always with him from 1942 till he got out of the navy in 1946. He even kept from loosing it when he was sunk in the English Channel. His PT boat ran into a German E boat, and as Uncle Mike said, the German boat kicked their a--es and sunk them off the channel islands. I guess that stockman would have some sentimental value after that.
When I enlisted in the army in 1960, I went for the engineers. There I fell in with the kind of people I grew up around. Carpenters, plumbers, welders, equiptment operators. Since we were'nt combat troops per se, we did not carry large combat knives like the issued Camillus Mk2. But we did have a ton of pocket knives on the job. The supply room had the TL-29's and the all stainless steel scout knife, but most of the guys had their own knife prefferences. I'll allways remember Paul Britton. Paul was a hillbilly kid out of Harlin County Kentucky, and we became fast friends. We went through engineer school at Ft. Leonard Wood together, and our paths crossed often over the next several years at engineer postings. We served for a time in Germany together, then as it always happens someone gets orders to someplace else.
Paul carried on old Case stockman, about 3 and 7/8ths slightly serpentine, with worn jigged scales. It was good strait carbon steel and Paul took good care of that knife. On a construction site you need a good sharp blade often, and Paul used his daily. If we were shooting a line with the transit for a pipeline or foundation, stakes had to be sharpened to drive into the ground and a line run between them. Alot of stakes were sharpened by that old Case of Pauls. Sometimes sitting on the back porch of the barracks we'd do some whittling, with some cold ones sitting in a waste bucket of ice. We'd compare edges, to see which one of us had the sharpest knife. By that time I was carrying a Buck stockman I had got at the PX and I could sharpen it well. But Paul was damm good. One peculier use Paul would put his knife to, cutting a plug. His family would sent him this chewing tobbaco from back home, and to my eyes looked like a twisted petrified hard piece of rope. It you put it in a sock and swung it, you could hurt someone with it. Paul would take out his Case, and cut off a plug and chew on it. He'd always offer me a chew, but I had my pipe and politly declined. Good friend that he was, he always would grin that country boy grin and ask me if I was sure. I was.
We ran into one another again in 1967, when my unit, the 39th Engineer battalion went to Viet Nam. Paul had just got in from Germany and went with us. I'm not sure just how many bridges over streams and rivers we built, along with officers billits and some school houses, and road improvements. There always seemed to be one more project they were in a hurry to get done.
There were the very occasional morter attacks, more like harrasment. We'd be working, and over the sound of some hammering, the whine of a skill saw, you'd hear that hollow gutter pipe hit with a stick sound. They always came in three's, I don't know why. We'd jump into a hole and afterward just go back to work knowing it was over for the day. One time they blew up a scap lumber pile, another some rolls of tar paper. Then about mid 1967 they started using rockets.
That scared us more because there would'nt be the long warning of the TUNK, TUNK, TUNK, sound of the morter. And they seemed to be more accurite. We'd hear a whoosh and something would blow up. We started having to take turns by platoon doing perimiter sweeps and patrols. One day I was working with my platoon while 1st platoon was out walking the perimiter. We heard a distant crackle of rifle fire and stopped to grab our gear. 1st platoon had been fired on and had two dead, one was Paul Britton. It was the first time in many many years I cried.
Since it was known that we'd been friends since Ft. Leonard Wood, it fell to me to gather his personal effects, and write a letter home to his folks. As a platoon sgt. it was not the first time I had to do that, but it was the most painfull. It was then I did something, that to this day, I'm not sure was right.
On my table was his Timex watch, his high school ring, some odds and ends incuding one of those twists of tobacco, and his Case knife. I picked up his pocket knife and held it in my hand, remembering all the good times we had in Missouri, Germany, and even Texas, where we'd both briefly been stationed. We'd fished, and camped, and drank all over the world, and now he was gone forever. Somehow I thought if I held onto that knife, I could keep a part of him with me. I put his knife in my top right shirt pocket and sent the rest of his effects home.
I carried that knife for years afterward. I used it on occasion, but mostly just carried it as a memento. These days it lives in the wooden cigar box with my other knives that are all from a loved one. Theres gandads Hen and Rooster, my dads Case peanut, Uncle Pat's white handle Imperial, Uncle Mike's old Camillus "gob'ment" stockman, Andy Wardens Buck Cadet, and Paul's Case stockman. They all take turns being carried and gently used for light cutting chores. Maybe I'm nuts, but when I carry one of them it seems like that person is going along with me for the day.
It's a funny thing, but it seems like of all the people who were dear to me, a large number of them carried a stockman.
