World War I—in the mud, gore, and gas attacks of the trenches. He wouldn’t talk much about it, although he did collaborate, one year, as adviser for an original school play that had some dramatic, poignant war scenes. I don’t know what rank he held in the Army—he had left that behind—but he was an excellent scoutmaster, using his free time and a blend of genial kindness and strict discipline to train us.
I was in eighth grade, as I remember it, when I started out as a Tenderfoot. Here was a ladder to be climbed. I worked my way up, passing each test, learning what needed to be learned, to arrive at First Class rank. Mr. Shaw made sure that the induction ceremony for First Class, held in the living room of his home, was solemn. A board held twelve candles, which the candidate was to light, one by one, as he recited the twelve Scout Laws.
This was a supreme moment for me, and I was approaching the final law. Then, suddenly, the room went dark. When I could see again, I was on a couch, looking at the ceiling and at Scoutmaster Shaw. He had seen the instant when I had started to faint. The room was warm; I had skipped dinner to be ready on time; and I was looking down at all those lighted candles. He moved so quickly that he caught me, before I would have gone, face down, on top of them.
Mr. Shaw did not continue with the scout troop, but Mr. Chandler, a teacher in our school, took it up. As we Scouts moved up in high school and there were other interests, many of the older boys dropped out. My brother, Archie, was getting more into sports and such. In his same grade, though, was Dave, who kept on with Scouting. Dave set his sights on being the first in our troop to reach the rank of Eagle Scout, and I wanted to follow him. Eagle meant earning twenty-one merit badges, of which, as I recall, Camping was one that was required.
Although I lived in the dorm with few resources, fortunately for me Dave’s family was there in Pyongyang, and quite close by. His dad had found a good location for camping on the level ground beyond the Pothong River. Dave and I hiked out there. He had a pup tent that we set up. I think we even made a campfire, before we pushed ourselves into the pup tent for the night.
It was fascinating and a bit scary to be out there in dark solitude, just the two of us. We could hear an occasional sound from the village across the fields—a child’s crying, some thumping sounds and a dog barking. Then it was quiet.
After a bit, abruptly, we sensed something moving quite close by. I clutched the tent flap, holding it tightly closed. The sound came close, and for a long moment there was a snuffling right at the edge of our tent. More sniffing, moving around to the other side, and then it went away.
“One of those village curs,” Dave said. “They’re always hungry. Good I didn’t have any food out there in my back pack.”
“Yeah,” I answered, glad to have the assurance and to have silence again.
Dave achieved Eagle Scout rank that spring, before he graduated and left for college. I finished it in the fall. The Eagle Scout badge was like a medal, with the eagle suspended from a ribbon. A Scout could go on, after gaining the twenty-one merit badges for Eagle, and earn five more for a Bronze Palm, to pin on the Eagle ribbon. I did that—to enjoy the satisfaction of accomplishing something more and, I admit, to surpass Dave’s mark.
Far back along the way since then, I lost that trophy. With so many moves and so many homes through the years, a number of valuables disappeared—among them, my Phi Beta Kappa key and the Eagle Scout badge.
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