Cub Scouts the Air Force Way

By an Anonymous USAF Brat

Back in the 1970s, Cub Scouts were a part of virtually every young boy’s existence. It was almost a rite of passage. Some continued through Webelos and on into Boy Scouts. As any Cub Scout, current or former, will tell you, one of the seminal events held every year was the Pinewood Derby.

The Pinewood Derby was intended as a chance for a young boy to spend time with his dad and learn a skill to be passed on to future generations: whittling. Whittling isn’t as useful now as it was at the turn of the 20th century, but there’s still something to learn from it. Having gone through it with my son some 20 years ago, I can tell you it’s changed … a lot. Some of those little vehicles are engineering marvels, obviously put together by a dad intent on winning.

So every year we all got a kit with a block of pine wood, four wheels, four nails and two crosspieces meant to hold the axles (nails) and wheels. The intent was to whittle the car into an aerodynamic-ish shape to lower wind resistance and hopefully have enough speed to win the race.

So, as with anything in my youth, large or small, the USAF played a role that left memories, painful memories, during this little adventure.

I picked up my kit at the den meeting and raced home to show Dad. Den meetings were during the week after school, so we didn’t start on the project until that Saturday.

Dad had gotten up and had a hearty Saturday breakfast. I think Mom made his favorite, SOS, with a side of bacon, strong black coffee, OJ and a glass of water. Well fortified, he looked at me and said, “Well, kid, you ready to start on your car?” I raced into the bedroom and grabbed my kit and my little two-blade pocket knife, eager to start and learn this skill of whittling from the hands of the master.

Mom told us to go outside to the carport so we wouldn’t get wood shavings all over the house. No sweat. So Dad comes out in his Saturday uniform of the day: barracks utility trousers cut off above the knee, a white T-shirt, flip-flops, an Air Commando boonie hat and a lit Lucky Strike dangling out of the side of his mouth. He’s holding a 7-inch-long, razor-sharp combat knife.

So Dad sits down in a rattan papasan chair in the carport, crosses his right leg over his left and picks up the pine wood block. I’m standing at his right rear flank to get a good view of the technique he is about to display. So he starts.

Schtick. One swipe of that combat knife peels off a piece of pine so thin it looks like a planer shaving, complete with the curl.

“Now, son …” Schtick. Another shaving. “… you always cut away from yourself …” Schtick. Another shaving and a puff of smoke from the Lucky Strike. “… that way you …” Schtick. “don’t cu …”

He never finished the word “cut.” Why, you may ask? (Go ahead, ask.) Well, he had just driven that razor-sharp blade smoothly into his right thigh.

Now, to give credit where credit is due, it was a very thin piece of flesh that was shaved, but not completely detached. It was about an inch wide and thin enough to curl like a planer shaving.

The knife remained buried in his right thigh, and as I looked on, you could see the white subcutaneous fat, instantly covered with bright red blood spots as the freshly shorn vessels began to bleed.

With the knife remaining in place, another puff of Lucky Strike smoke went into the air. Dad turned to me and calmly said, “Go get your mother.”

I turned and took off into the kitchen, screaming, “Mom, Dad needs you!” As I slammed the door shut on my way in, I heard the beginnings of some artfully put together compound-complex profanity the likes of which I hadn’t heard from kids experimenting with swear words at recess. It was masterful and non-repeating.

Mom ran out, laughed, called Dad an idiot and proceeded to get him into the house to bandage him up. A little monkey blood, a firm pressure bandage and an ACE wrap took care of the problem. No way he was going to the base hospital for that one.

Twenty years later, my son and I picked up his Pinewood Derby kit. He was excited and talking about it on the way home. I casually mentioned, “Do you want to go show it to Oma and Opa?”

“Oh, yeah, Dad, can we? It’s so cool!”

As we walked in, my son ran and gave his Oma and Opa a hug. He then showed Dad the box with the Pinewood Derby car kit and pulled out the wood block. I couldn’t resist and piped up, “Hey, why don’t you ask your Opa to show you how to whittle?”

Mom just busted out laughing.

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As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.