Troop 202

CHAPTER SEVEN

TROOP 202

I don't remember just who it was that got us started in the Cub Scouts, but I think it was mostly the "neat" uniforms that captured our imaginations. We met once a month in the back yard of a boy named R. E. Foutz. I never found out what "R. E." stood for, because he wouldn't tell us, and even his mother addressed him by that appellation. As our den mother she tried to exercise some control over us, and she supplied us with cookies and Kool-Aid at the end of each meeting. We should have expressed some appreciation for her patience and her refreshments but, unfortunately, appreciation is not a quality that is well developed in young boys. Now, looking back at those meetings, I am convinced that den mothers deserve a special kind of sainthood for tolerating a pack of boisterous, energetic kids.

Our enthusiasm for scouting was centered around the fun we had at the meetings, the uniforms, and the refreshments. After we memorized the pledge and practiced the official salute, we confined our scouting mostly to thumbing through the pages of the manual. We were happy with this arrangement, but evidently some adults thought we needed more contact with other cub packs, because a couple of men from one of the churches decided to take us to the annual campboree, which was to be held in Blacksburg.

It was barely past sunrise when we started packing our equipment and ourselves into two cars for our westward journey. However, packing up took longer that we had expected, and it was mid-morning by the time we arrived at a remote corner of the VPI grounds and began to pitch our tent, with our excitement building by the minute. After a brief welcoming ceremony and a pep talk on the character-building effects of scouting, we took a break to socialize with some of the other cubs and then devour our bag lunches.

After lunch, a bullhorn announced that it was time for the first competition. That announcement didn't frighten us, because we thought that we would be competing in athletic events, like foot racing, or shooting baskets, or pitching horse shoes. Unfortunately, this event dealt with scouting, and that was something we weren't too well prepared for.

The first game was "square knot relay". Each pack had a starting line and a bunch of short lengths of rope laid out a certain distance from the line. The first member of the team was to race to the ropes, tie a square knot in one, drop it, then race back to the line to tag the next member, who would then carry out the same task. We were graded on speed and accuracy. The team that tied the most square knots before the final whistle was blown would win. Before the race began, one of the men gave us a quick refresher course in square knot tying. We had been through that section of the cub manual, and I had practiced tying two ropes together following the diagram in the book.

Herbert was first on our team, and I was second. When he came racing back and slapped my hand, he didn't look too confident. I raced to the ropes, yanked one off the ground, and immediately became confused. I was used to tying two ropes together. Looping one rope around to tie to itself seemed somehow different, and the shouting and cheering didn't help. I quickly tied some kind of knot, dropped the rope, and sped back. Foo was next, and then Billy, but neither of them looked happy over their efforts.

When the race was over, our team had a pretty sizable stack of knots. But then the scorekeeper, with his whistle dangling from his neck and his clipboard in his hand, began to check them for accuracy. Our pile was near the end of the line. He picked them up, examined them, then sorted through them again; and then cast a strange look in our direction. It wasn't a look of disgust, or even disapproval, but more like curiosity; as if he wondered if we were possibly playing a prank on him. All of us looked away, as if we had suddenly found some interesting happening in another part of the campground.

After that we were given a quick refresher course in tying bowline knots, before the "bowline relay" began. We fared little better in that race. Later, a couple of Eagle Scouts treated us to a demonstration on starting a fire by the Indian, or friction, method. It didn't work, but they did succeed in generating some smoke, of which they seemed to be rather proud - overly so, in our opinion. But that was only a temporary reprieve from the competitions. Our morale was quickly being destroyed by this public demonstration of our ineptness in scouting skills. To make matters worse, a cub pack from Galax (an obscure village in the southwestern Virginia boondocks) began to taunt us. By the time the campboree was over, we were completely humiliated; and if it had not been for the presence of adults, we would have had a good old-fashioned fist fight with the guys from Galax.

That experience shook our confidence, but it didn't cool our ardor for scouting. When we outgrew the cub scouts, Belmont Presbyterian Church agreed to start a new scout troop. It was assigned the number 202. But before we could have a troop, we had to have a scoutmaster. None of our fathers fit the bill, because none of them had had scout experience, and most of them worked at physically demanding jobs that left little energy for dealing with a bunch of lively boys. But help came from an unlikely source. One of the newer members of the church, a Mr. Kelly, had spent some time as a scout, and was still enthusiastic about scouting. Although he and his wife had no children, and he didn't strike one as the type of person that would be capable of dealing with a gang of kids, he seemed to be eager to take on the job. He was a rather thin, wiry man with a kind of nervous energy, and apparently determined to succeed as a scoutmaster despite all the roadblocks that we threw in his path. We tried his patience in every way possible. His first name was Jack (not John), and his middle initial was S; so we referred to him (behind his back) as "Jackess Kelly" - not out of disrespect, but simply because it seemed funny at the time.

Our meetings were held in the old wooden Sunday-School building behind the newer brick church. The upper floor of this old building had a very high ceiling, because it had once been the main sanctuary, with the Sunday-School classes held in the smaller rooms in the basement. Someone had installed a basketball hoop and backboard at one end of this large room. Although it was not big enough for a full size basketball court, it made an adequate half court, and we played many a game of "back behind the line" basketball there after the scout meetings. In fact, we fell into the habit of going through our scout drills in a perfunctory way so that we could get to the basketball game in a hurry. When Mr. Kelly realized what we were up to, he began to use the basketball as a reward, refusing to yield it up to us until we had made a creditable effort toward developing our scouting skills. Then, at last, we began to learn to march in step, to tie a variety of knots, and to earn the merit badges that were required for advancement.

The post-meeting basketball games were a big motivation, and they became a regular part of our meeting schedule. Eventually, however, the ball began to lose pressure, and one night it was so "dead" that it would hardly bounce. Fortunately, Mr. Kelly had a tire pump in his car, but we still needed an inflation needle. Mr. Kelly thought there was one in the scout supply room in the basement. When he went to look for it, three or four of us went along to help; although we didn't really do anything but stand in the middle of the room holding the ball while his head and shoulders disappeared in piles of baseball gloves, canvas tents, ropes, and other scouting paraphernalia. We had all eaten substantial suppers before the meeting, so it was not surprising that one of the scouts was unable to control his flatulence. Suddenly the very little room was filled with a very large odor. For a few seconds no one said a word. Then Mr. Kelly ceased his activity - then started again - then stopped again.

"Who's cutting cheese?" he demanded, without turning around.

None of us had ever heard that expression before. In that embarrassing situation it should have broken the ice, but we were afraid to laugh. My face already felt flushed, but it kept getting hotter as I tried to suppress the laughter. The other three looked as if they were about ready to explode, too. Bobby Smith motioned toward the door. Since Mr. Kelly had gone back to his searching, we tiptoed out into the hallway, nudged the door to, and gave ourselves up to giggling as quietly as we could. I laughed until I cried, and my sides ached. Then we slipped back into the room. In a few minutes Mr. Kelly emerged from the piles of scout supplies with a smile on his face and the needle in his hand. When he saw the tears running down my face, he looked concerned, started to make a remark, thought better of it, and thankfully said nothing.

Satisfying the requirements for promotion from Tenderfoot to Second Class Scout wasn't difficult, and then it was mostly a matter of earning a number of merit badges to become a First Class Scout. Since many of the merit badge skills required a less civilized environment than an urban residential area, we were happily surprised when the church offered to underwrite part of the cost of a week's stay at Camp Powhatan for the troop. My mother helped me pack up, going down the list of suggested items carefully and with a certain trepidation.

Sunday afternoon we piled into the bus and headed up North 11 toward Natural Bridge. There we left the main highway to the east, and drove into the mountains. The entire trip could not have taken more than two hours. Our troop was assigned to cottage twelve. The cottages were built up on stilt-like posts, presumably for protection from wild animals. The were boarded up about four feet from the floor, with the upper section just screened in, and a broad roof overhang to keep the rain from blowing in through the screening. The cottages were arranged in the form of a "U", with the open end of the U facing an administrative building, which also housed a kitchen and a huge dining room. In front of this building was a flagpole, with a solemnly wafting flag as a symbolic reminder that we were not there to play. The interior of the U was an open parade ground where we could practice marching drills, but outside the cottage area we could see nothing but trees.

At the evening meal we were given an orientation lecture. Afterwards, we went to our cottages, made our beds, and then went out to socialize with some of the other scouts. It was starting out as an exciting and adventurous week - with only one little fly in the ointment to dampen our enthusiasm. We found out that cottage eight was occupied by a troop from Galax, and recognized some of the "squirts" that had given us trouble at the cub-scout campboree in Blacksburg. Sure enough, one night after taps they came sneaking over to our cottage, in violation of camp rules, with the idea of playing some kind of prank on us. But Beverly, who had suspected such a move and who had learned to "be prepared", alerted us, and we yelled at them. Both cottages got some demerits for that episode, but they got the most.

The first evening at camp was memorable. As it grew dark, we were led along a path through the trees to a campfire site, where we sat around the fire singing camping songs. I can only recall two: "Tenting Tonight" and "I've Got Tuppence"; except, as I remember, we sang "two bucks" instead of "tuppence".

At first it seemed strange sitting around a fire in mid-July; but we found out quickly that mountain nights are not the same as nights in a valley city. In the afternoon the temperature had topped out at around ninety degrees, but by sunset it had dropped a good ten degrees, and now it was probably no more than seventy, and still falling. When we left the campfire for our cottages, there was a definite chill in the night air, but the cottage felt pleasantly warm because the roof, that had been warmed by the sun, was still radiating heat into the one room building. When taps sounded, we turned off our lights and climbed into bed. I pulled my sheet up and tried to go to sleep, but the excitement of the day kept my mind racing and my adrenalin pumping. The cool night air began to filter in through the screening, and I unfolded my blanket and drew it over me. It grew colder and colder - and colder. I was chilled to the bone; and I wasn't the only one. Everyone was whispering complaints about the cold. Everyone, that is, except Beverly. He had been at camp the previous year and had learned to "be prepared". He lay there snoozing away under two blankets. Someone tried stealing the top one while he was asleep, but he soon awoke, instituted a search, and thereafter slept rolled up in his blankets. I finally hit on the idea of doubling my blanket by folding it over, then curled up as tightly as I could, and finally fell asleep.

The early summer dawn awakened us before reveille. We were ravenous, but before breakfast we were required to make our beds and clean up the cottage. Breakfast consisted of biscuits, bacon, cooked apples, and something that I had never eaten before: scrambled eggs. They didn't look especially appetizing at first, but I was too hungry to quibble, and before breakfast was over, I had eaten more than my share.

The camp didn't schedule many activities because we were expected to spend most of our time working on merit badge projects. However, after breakfast that first morning we were offered the opportunity to participate in a hike to "Belfast". No one would provide any details about this mysterious destination except to advise us to bring our bathing suits. That was good news, because up to that time, all of our questions about a place to swim had received evasive or ambiguous answers. Beverly chose not to go. We should have been warned by that clue, but we thought he was just being lazy, and we were eager to swim. Led by two of the camp counselors, we embarked on a marathon hike up a steep mountain trail at breakneck speed. We were soon puffing and panting for breath, and feeling foolish for being so easily tricked. Our destination turned out to be, not a swimming hole, but a large area on the side of the mountain, piled high with huge boulders - the result of some ancient rock slide. The hike was a kind of initiation joke for first-timers at the camp. After we rested our legs, we climbed around on the masses of granite for a while, and then handled the downhill return trip with ease.

The swimming pool, it turned out, was a couple of hundred yards from the main camp, in the opposite direction from the campfire site, and hidden from view by the trees. It was filled by redirecting some of the flow of a run that came spilling down the mountain. The water was cold, as one might expect, but in the mid-afternoon July sun it became not only bearable, but enjoyable. We spent as much time there as we were allowed, and before the week was over, I had earned my merit badge in swimming.

The hikes and the swimming periods always left us ravenous. The meals seemed to be adequate, but somehow we always managed to be hungry before the next one. But Beverly, who had learned to "be prepared", brought out a big box of cookies and candy. He shared them rather sparingly with us, but apparently some of the boys were not satisfied with his generosity and raided the box one afternoon when Beverly was out. Evidently Beverly's mom had learned to "be prepared" too, because the Wednesday mail brought another big white box addressed to Beverly.

Like Beverly, many of the other scouts were not first-timers. Some were veterans of previous summers; some stayed for two or more weeks - some for the entire season. They had a tendency to "show off" the scouting and mountain skills they had developed - which just provided extra motivation for the rest of us to improve. There was one skill, however, for which they had my greatest respect, but which I had no desire to emulate. One evening just after retreat we were standing on the parade ground, chatting with some boys from another troop, when a half dozen of these "veterans" came by in a hurry and yelled, "Let's go get some rattlesnakes!" We declined, suspecting another trick like the hike to "Belfast", or like snipe hunting. We were still standing there talking, less than a half-hour later, when the same gang returned - with their rattlesnakes! The boy in front was carrying three snakes, two in his right hand and one in his left. He held them at arm's length by the rattlers, with their heads dangling down but still writhing. All the other boys were also carrying snakes - some, one; others, two. They happily informed us that they could go out every evening the summer long and capture that many snakes. In a few days they were flaunting snakeskin belts.

We were gratified that we didn't have knot-tying contests; but there was one official contest between the troops. Each day, at an unannounced time, the cottages were subjected to an official inspection, and rated on a scale from one to twenty for neatness, cleanliness, and adherence to scout standards. The scores were announced each evening, as we all stood at attention, each troop lined up in front of its cottage. The troop with the highest score was rewarded with the honor of lowering the flag, folding it, and presenting it to the head counselor, while the bugler sounded retreat. Only four scouts were required to carry out this function, but the entire troop shared in the glory.

Mr. Kelly dutifully rehearsed us in these procedures, in full expectation that we would win the competition on at least one of the five days that we competed. We practiced marching to the flagpole and folding the flag mechanically and indifferently, because he made us do it. We thought our chances of beating out the more experienced scouts were about as good as the proverbial "snowball in Hades". His expectations of us, who had such little confidence in ourselves, was almost touching; and, I thought, pretty naive. Nevertheless, we tried hard on Monday and earned a score of fourteen, a little above average and better than we had expected.

We were encouraged, and tried even harder on Tuesday. When the inspector arrived, a bit earlier than we had expected, we thought the cottage looked great, even though we had hurried and had not made a final check. The inspector appeared impressed, too, as he carefully inspected the bunks and our neatly stacked supplies. He was about to write down our score, when he suddenly stopped and stared at the floor. Then he stooped down, reached under the edge of the first bunk, and retrieved an open scout knife from the floor. He then proceeded to give us a lecture on the dangers of leaving open knives lying around. That night we were humiliated with a score of nine, to the great amusement of the troop from Galax.

Wednesday and Thursday, we scored higher, but were beaten out by scores of sixteen and seventeen. Our only consolation was that the Galax troop had not won, either. Friday was our last chance; but when the inspector left our cottage with a noncommittal, almost bored, look, we gave up hope. Our mood grew even darker when the scores were being read off and the Galax troop in cottage eight received a score of seventeen, almost certainly a winner. The expected smart-alec grins spread over their faces. We waited, dejected, while the scores for cottages nine, ten, and eleven were read - all well below seventeen.

Then: "Cottage twelve, troop 202 from Roanoke - nineteen!"

A murmur of surprise, probably even shock, ran through the camp. I held my breath as the scores for cottages thirteen and fourteen were read, but they didn't even come close. I felt like jumping two feet off the ground, but we were standing at attention. We had not only won; we had achieved the highest score for the week. But even better than that - we had snatched victory away from Galax!

After we stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds, Mr. Kelly hastily appointed our flag-lowering team: Billy, Herbert, Foo, and me. Suddenly my elation turned to terror. We had practiced marching together and the proper procedure for folding the flag, but now my mind was blank. From their faces, it appeared that the other three were having the same problem. The whole camp waited patiently while we checked our uniforms and made our way to the end of the parade ground. There we faced toward the flag and began our march down the center of the field as the bugler sounded retreat. It seemed unreal, like a dream, with all eyes on us - Foo and I marching together, with Billy and Herbert behind us. I kept looking down to make sure I was in step with Foo. That threw us off, so I skip-stepped a half beat to bring us back in phase with each other. Unfortunately, Foo had the same idea and skip-stepped at the same time, so we were still off. My face was getting hot, and I felt like a fool; but then Foo skip-stepped once more and brought us back in step.

Finally we reached the flagpole and were faced with the dilemma of which of the ropes to pull. We figured it out by trial and error and managed to get the flag down without letting it touch the ground. We began to fold it and everything seemed to be going all right until we got to the last fold. Then the result just didn't look right, so we unwrapped the last two folds, tried again, and then the flag looked more or less acceptable, and we finally presented it to the head counselor with a snappy salute; to the relief of everyone - especially the bugler, who appeared to be approaching exhaustio

As we marched back to our troop, I glanced around expecting to see the other scouts smirking at our ineptness; but every face appeared completely solemn. Perhaps they didn't notice our little mistakes; or possibly they were still too stunned by our score to pay attention to what we were doing.

That night, around the campfire, the Galax crew seemed pretty subdued, so we tried not to rub in our victory - too much. It was our last night together, and a time to appreciate what we had learned and the new friends we had made. But I was just looking forward to going home. Only one day away was enough to make me homesick.

The next day when the bus arrived, I was one of the first ones on board. As soon as we got under way, someone struck up "I've Got Two Bucks", which led to our singing through our entire repertoire of camp songs. Eventually we fell silent; some of us snoozing, others lost in thought, reviewing the week or looking forward to being at home. But when we neared our destination and saw our parents waiting, we broke into "I've got two bucks" louder than ever, and we were all in full voice as the bus pulled to a stop.

Home seemed wonderful, with a kitchen full of savory smells and my own bedroom with its soft bed. But right then, the part of home that I appreciated most was the bathroom. I despised outdoor latrines.

I lay in bed that night and thought over our adventures at camp. I had earned a number of merit badges, and by the end of the week I was hiking up the mountain trails at full speed without panting. And there was the glorious triumph of the inspection award. Then it occurred to me that ol' "Jackess" Kelly's confidence in us had been vindicated, and maybe he knew us better than we knew ourselves.

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