This story was first printed in the Fort Bragg PARAGLIDE in 1987 then expanded for Voice from the pews.

The Camping Instructor

            “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a regular Huck Finn here, fellahs,” Lt. Synchovich, my platoon leader said, grinning like an opossum as I, a mere PFC [private first class] conducted a formal military block of instruction on catching, cleaning and cooking catfish.

            I was the most junior-ranking and newest member of the platoon.  Still, as we camped along the shores of the Northeast Cape Fear River near Kinston, N.C., I was the source of survival information.  These swamps and briary woods were my home turf.

            Our 81mm mortar platoon from the 82d Airborne Division and an attached Green Beret A-team were serving as the aggressors during JTX (Joint Training Exercise) “Solid Shield ’74.”

            By night, we raided simulated enemy targets, most of which were defended by Marines from Camp Lejeune.  By day, we attended or taught various classes, depending on each individual’s particular talents.  I chose to instruct my peers in the art of outdoor living – camping.

            Aside from fishing and cooking lessons, my classes ranged from building a smokeless fire to throwing a hatchet like Daniel Boone to constructing a “hooch,” capable of winning V.A. and F.H.A. approval. 

Camping

            My expertise in this field helped me in getting accepted by my contemporaries and enabled me to earn a few “cheese points” with my superiors.  Lt. Synchovich and SFC Jones, my platoon sergeant, were impressed with my apparent motivation during this three-week summer exercise.  To me though, it was just another chance to go camping.

 
            I don’t recall my very first camping trip, but my most memorable one took place during the Christmas break in 1964.  Daddy took me and my ugly, older brother, Rupert [He's the skinny one on the left in the picture above.], on a hunting trip for deer and wild boar in northern Florida.  Our days began several hours before dawn with a multi-mile hike to our deer stands.  It was a worthy test of ruggedness for Daddy’s wanna-be Marines.  Breakfast consisted of strong, black coffee and a cold biscuit.  Lunch wasn’t on the menu.  And supper was prepared after our long hike back at dusk.

Stories

            I loved it!  Every evening, I’d stare into the campfire and listen to the sounds of the forest night – frogs, crickets and hunting lies.  The stories Daddy and a few other adult campers at the same campground told us inspired me to learn more, to do more.  In four years’ time, I was going on camping trips alone.

            Well, I wasn’t really alone.  My two beagles, Judy and Smokey, and my tomcat, Tom, always accompanied me.  And though I was a brand new Christian, I knew the Lord was with me too.  It’s not so hard to be brave when you know He’s there.

            Armed with a pocket New Testament, .22 caliber rifle and various military surplus, to include a pup tent and sleeping bag, I marched off into a swamp/marsh about a half mile from our house.  I had just turned 13.

            During the next year, I went on at least a half dozen of these overnight excursions.  By then I considered myself to be a fully-qualified camper, ready to pass on my survival skills to my tenderfoot buddies.  The first “student” I thought about was my hunting buddy and best friend, Joe Redd.  We were odd-looking hunting and fishing partners, him being eleventeen feet tall and me being somewhat shorter.  But we had a lot in common too.  Joe’s sister, Retha, said we were both sinfully ugly, but I still believe his face requires more forgiveness than mine.  And as I said, we both loved to hunt and/or “play” in the river, as Mama called it.  For this reason, I was surprised when Joe said he would have nothing to do with camping. 

            “Why would I wanna sleep in the woods with the ticks and skeeters when I can sleep in my own bed?”  He asked, his deep, bellowing voice sounding something like a bulldog’s growl, only one reflecting a [Sneads Ferry, NC] “high tider” accent.

            Despite his preference for the comforts of home, Joe eventually agreed to help me build a campsite.  We called it our fort.  The main building was actually a cabin built from 3 to 4-inch thick logs that were nailed to pine, hickory and holly trees, forming six walls that came to a height of eight feet [just tall enough for Joe to get inside].  The cracks between the logs were filled with mud mixed with straw, which had to be replaced after every good rain.  We never finished the roof but decided to cover it with several fragments of old canvas tarp.  The entire campsite covered a 40-50 square foot area and included a large fire pit as well as a look-out platform nailed in the crook of a tall poplar tree, just in case we ever needed to post a guard.  Our fort/campsite, by the way, was even further back in the swamp, so as to discourage unwelcome visitors. 

          Shortly after we finished the building project, Hurricane Camille came along and sacked two of the trees supporting the walls.  An entire summer’s work was wasted.  Our cabin looked like a log jam with one remaining wailing wall.  Rather than re-build the cabin, my pup tent would once again become my main shelter, and I’d use the logs from the cabin for firewood.  Even though my students would have to bring their own tent or sleep under the stars, by Christmas 1969, I was ready to begin classes.

 Instructor 

            My first official and most challenging pupil was my Sunday School classmate, Gary Lee Gandy.  Gary is usually an excitable fellah except when he’s sleeping, a time when he really lets himself go.  In fact, his first serious camping lesson was to remember to keep his hands inside his sleeping bag.

            Remember Tom, my tomcat?  As I said earlier, Tom developed a habit of following me into the woods.  Tom was conducting a reconnaissance patrol around our campsite shortly after midnight and discovered a hand protruding through the tent flap.  Obviously, someone had left it there by mistake, so he decided to move it.

            Tom’s gracious efforts didn’t go unnoticed by Gary Lee, to whom the mislaid hand belonged.  Gary let out a scream to wake the dead then danced off into the night, still in his sleeping bag and wearing my pup tent as a stocking cap.  But he finally settled down after ricocheting off two or three pine trees.

            Though it took some effort, once I got my first pupil sufficiently schooled, I decided to take on more student campers.  High school classmates, Mitchell Fisher, David Brown, James Basham and Daryl Grooms eagerly approached me about signing up for my camping classes. 

Camping 101

            “Can’t make it,” Mitchell said, teasingly.  “I’ve gotta read War and Peace this weekend.”

            But I knew how much he really wanted to go camping.  Like the others, he was simply afraid to admit his ignorance in the art of outdoor living.  When I offered to give their mothers pictures of them smoking in the boys’ room, they knew I only had their best intentions in mind and agreed to enroll in my camping course.  Schedules were altered and arrangements made.  It was time for Camping 101.

             “Okay, maggots,” I began, doing my best D.I. impression as the sun was setting behind our campsite in the midst of my favorite swamp.  “Today, we’re gonna learn how to select and cut firewood, how to dig a fire pit and how to build a smokeless fire!”

            “How ya gonna build a fire without smoke?!”  James asked, revealing his usual skepticism.  In the distance, a crow seemed to be mocking him or me or both of us.

            “That’s a good question,” I told him then answered his question with a question.  “Got any matches?”

            “I do,” David interrupted, removing a pack of matches from within the cellophane wrapper around his Winstons.  “Here ya go.”

            I removed a dented canteen from its faded USMC canvas cover, unscrewed the cap and, as they stood in amazement, poured water over the book of matches until they were thoroughly soaked.

            “How ya gonna light a fire with wet matches?!”  Daryl insisted.  The others nodded at him approvingly.           

            “Very simple,” I began to explain.  “I’m not gonna light a fire with wet matches.  And a fire that ain’t lit is a smokeless fire.  There now.  You’ve just learned your first…”

            I didn’t get a chance to finish my closing statements to my first class.  My students were so overwhelmed by my vast outdoor knowledge, they insisted on an impromptu class on navigating through a swamp at a double time pace.  Of course, I was more than happy to lead them.

            Four years later, when I gave this same class to a platoon of paratroopers, the Holy Spirit impressed upon me this time that before I explained the water-soaked matches, I should be careful to have a much more respectable lead.