Chabo's Journal: Perhaps not a typical Boy Scout troop...

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on October 19, 2005.

In my home town, the churches sponsored Boy Scout troops, although membership in the church was not a requirement to join the troop. I had completed Cub Scouts and Weblos in their entirety, and at the age of 11 sought a Boy Scout troop to join.

As it happened, my church had just formed a troop. Sister Mary Abigail, the senior nun, had decided that it was time that our church got into the Scouting business, and a troop was born.

A note should be made about Sister Abigail at this point. I knew her, since she taught the disruptive elements of the church's youth, of which I was one. She was a small woman, a native Scot, bright-eyed and merry. Her order wore a dark blue uniform skirt and blouse and the small veil, so we knew that she had red hair, and in summer you could get an occasional glimise of a home-made tattoo on her upper left arm. None of us had the guts to ask her what it was.

Sister Abigail was the daughter of a Regimental Sergeant Major, the only girl amongst six siblings; the other five had done stints in the British Army or Marine Commandos. As a young nun in Africa she had been rescued from insurgeants by 'Mad Mike' Hoare's mercenary Commando, and had a photo of herself with several of the mercs prominently displayed in her offce.

She had laughing eyes, a spring in her step, and could knock you out of your desk with a single full-armed swing of a Webster dictonary. She was fast with a ruler, and had eyes in the back her head.

She was the first teacher I ever had who actively encouraged questions, and who cared more about what you understood than what your scores were.

So I joined the newly forming Troop 13; our Scoutmaster (hand-picked by Sister Abigail), was Mr. Rathbone, who had retired in 1970 after 33 years in the US Marine Corps. In the easy familarity of the day we called him 'Gunny', and he called us 'maggots' or 'boots'. He was a weather-worn whip of a man who spit tobacco juice as a primary means of commincation. He had faded tattoos on his arms, and a long scar across his brow that he once told my Dad he got 'in a knock-shop at Gitmo, geek with a razor.' He wore insignia-less khakis and a faded old campaign hat; when we were in the field he added a web belt with a .45 pistol and a Springfield M1903 bayonet. His wife was a slender, pretty Asian lady of unknown extraction, several years his junior, who didn't speak a lot of English, and who brought cookies and cakes to every one of our meetings, much to Gunny's disgust. She called him 'Sergeant Major', and rarely stopped smiling.

Six or seven times a summer Gunny Rathbone, aided by a couple of our fathers, would load up as many scouts as were avalible, and take off into the surrounding countryside for a weekend camp out.

Off-loading from the bus, we would load up, then stand in formation, ready to 'hop, drop, and roll' to demonstrate that our gear was loaded and taped in such fashion as to produce no sound. Moving out in staggered file, we would route march four or five miles to our night defensive position, where we would dig in.

We'd have classes on various Scouting subjects such as probeing for mines, dealing with booby traps, and evacuating wound by litters until full dark when light & noise dicipline was enforced. Come sun-up it was squad patrols, counter-sniper techniques, first aid, wilderness survival, and similar fare.

The best times were the meals, when we lesser beings would gather to one side while Gunny and whatever fathers were along would swap service stories. Much of the time we didnt understand all the terminology, but it was facinateing all the less.

During our weekly meetings we had pugil stick matches, and classes on such staples as crossing wire entanglements with sapling frames. Gunny Rathbone would sign off on various merit badges accordng to some shedule known only to him, and we advanced along the path towards Eagle Scout much as anyone else, at least on paper. It was much to my surprise that years later I actually saw the requirements for the Marksman merit badge and discovered that being able to explain the differences between 'grazing fire' 'final protective fire', and 'suppression' were not actually part of it.

We only went to one Jamboree, where Gunny Rathbone punched out a hippie-looking offical, and then a couple other guys who tryed to jump on him. I was extremely proud when my father pitched into the melee that ensued. The details regarding the origins of the entire brawl were unclear to us, but by inferences we deduced that the official had made a uncomplimentary remark about the military, based on the way we marched in. Personal camoflage, apparently, was not the norm at the time.

We were banned from participation in the events, but our skills were still tested when Gunny Rathbone split us into fire teams three nights in a row and sent us out to steal every other troop's Guideons. Every night. The hippe-looking offical ended up duct-taped to a flagpole one night, but we had no idea how that came about. In the end, they gave us a couple trophies on the condition we would leave everyone alone, and we spent the rest of the week harassing some peacenik gathering at the other end of the lake, and sneaking (without orders) into the Girl Scout camp. Like barbed wire and perimeter lighting could stop Troop 13.

Of course, most of us were too young to know what to do once we had infiltrated, but it was still pretty cool. None of the other Troops got in.

I was Senior Patrol Leader before I left. I think at some level we all knew that the Boy Scouts really didn't make you learn how to strip & assemble an M-1 Garand before you could make Second Class, and we certainly figured it out after the Jamboree, where they had whole Troops out of uniform and nobody else dug in.

But we had awesome times, and we learned an awful lot. What impressed me, looking back three decades later, is how much we learned without knowing that we were learning, things like how a motivated team is worth far more than a larger group of individuals. What pride is, and how it can push you over obstacles you didn't think you could overcome. That you never let circumstances drive you into helplessness. That everyone is capable, provideing that they are willing to push themselves. Most of all, to believe in ourselves.

Good night, Gunny Rathbone, wherever you are.