Being picked to attend an upcoming weekend Boy Scout leadership course was a thrill. It was billed as an event with opportunities for hikes and orienteering training and a chance to earn a merit badge or two. I had been looking forward to it for weeks. The Heart O’ Texas Scouting Council was sponsoring the event and had made arrangements to use a portion of Fort Hood’s recreation area next to Belton Lake. Friday afternoon to Sunday evening was to be full of adventure and learning opportunities.

            Scoutmaster Earl was in charge of troop 221. He nominated me to attend the event and I was the only one from our troop going. He saw to it that my registration fee was paid in full. My folks never took care of that sort of thing. I think Earl knew that I wouldn’t be able to go otherwise. He was generous and he probably paid the fee himself. I didn’t want to let him down, so I was determined to do well by earning all the awards I could.

            Earl was one of America’s last military draftees. He made no secret about not loving the Army life but he also took his obligations as a soldier seriously. Many GIs spent their off-duty time in the seedy bars on Killeen’s Avenue D. According to Earl, he had avoided Vietnam by sheer luck and he wanted to preserve his life in a way that reflected his good fortune. So he chose to lead a scout troop, and he dedicated himself to his scouts. In return, his scouts loved him.

            Under Earl’s leadership, troop 221 camped and hiked regularly. Our troop made good use of the wilderness-like camping area next to Belton Lake. Earl owned a really big pickup truck and he could carry all of our gear to the woods. Some of the older boys even got to ride in the cab.  Troop parents ferried us out to the edge of the camping destination. There was rarely a full scouting agenda on Earl’s outings. This was not the sort of troop that produced Eagle Scouts. We barely worked on Merit Badges. Fishing, swimming, cooking over a fire and hiking were our main activities.  But no matter where we went, he made sure that every campsite and hiking trail was improved when we left.  I was among the scouts who smoked cigarettes while out on a camping trip. Earl never caught me smoking, but he often remarked on the number of butts laying on the ground. He never confronted me about it. But he did make us pick them up. Trash patrol was a mandatory part of our camping trips. Our troop was often seen struggling under the burden of trash bags being carried out of the woods after a campout. Scoutmaster Earl, a name the scouts of troop 221 never used, was no authoritarian. He just wanted us to have fun and be safe in a general sort of way.

            Troop 221’s best ever camping trip was just two weeks before the leadership weekend and it was great. We tented near a small stream that ran through a lush green ravine. This little gorge was cut deep into the rock adjacent to a low-rising hill on one flank and a gently sloped plain that drained the land in the direction of this creek on the other. The place seemed otherworldly. The small stream must have cut the rock to create giant stone stair steps that gradually tumbled down to flow onto a broad bedrock shelf. Below the chasm a small waterfall spilled into Belton Lake. It was possible to walk near to the precipice and never see down into this garden-like wild place. Our troop found it only by accident. A Frisbee flew into the trees and the kid who went to retrieve the disc was the first to eye this incredible sight. We were all beckoned over and within a few minutes we were peering over the improbable edge with mouths agape. We begged Earl to let us explore.

            This unplanned reckless adventure was just the sort of thing Earl loved to do with us. Tall trees grew out of the cut and shaded the nearly two-hundred-yard long chasm. Earl led the way as we climbed down the fifteen feet into the miniature narrow canyon. We had no idea what might be down there, deep water, snakes, bears, we didn’t know. The rock walls were marked with evidence of rushing water, and in a few places water seeped down and fed the creek. There was leaf litter and grass caught on tree limbs and was clinging in the chest high crags that gave testimony to how water occasionally surged through.

            At the bottom, bedrock cradled the clear water that flowed swiftly over it. In some places the rock was eroded away to create deep pools. I approached one much too quickly and startled the creatures that lived there. My sudden appearance sent dozens of fish and a large black snake dashing out of sight into the rocky folds and crevices at the side. I begged the boys to sneak up to the remaining pools below us slowly and quietly so that we might all see the creatures that lived in them. But the excitement was too great, we splashed through in too much of a hurry to take it all in.

            In the narrowest part of the chasm we found the remains of a young deer that had been evidently caught and drowned by a flash flood down there. Its body was broken and folded around the trunk of a stout oak tree. Leathery hide complete with tufts of fur still encasing bone was all that remained. None of us gave a thought to the danger of the powerful thunderstorms that frequented central Texas that time of year. We were wild scouts and spent a whole afternoon in oblivious discovery.

***

            Scouting with Earl was all fun and dangerous adventure, but the Scoutmaster in charge of the leadership weekend was nothing like Earl. He barked orders constantly and insisted on straight rows of scouts lined up in height order. He marched us from registration to the bivouac area as though we were soldiers. He ran a safe and orderly camp. No one got out of line. It was not fun. One kid started referring to him as Scoutmaster Master Sargent. That name stuck, quietly.

            Evidently, Scoutmaster Master Sargent was a soldier with some authority back on Fort Hood. He had arranged for the dozen dark green army tents that were setup in neat rows. Inside there were folding cots for each scout, eight per tent. An army field kitchen and mess tent was fully equipped with food and six really unhappy looking soldiers. Uncle Sam seemed to be footing the bill for a large part of the weekend’s costs.

            We were organized by troop and by tent assignment. I didn’t know any of the other scouts. The other boys in my tent were from Temple, Texas and they all knew each other. They weren’t looking to make new friends. Without speaking to anyone, I rolled out my sleeping bag onto an army cot and left my other things in my rucksack on the ground, under the cot.

            Our first meal that evening was bologna and cheese sandwiches on white bread with corn chips and a can of Coca-Cola. Scoutmaster Master Sargent ate his sandwich like it was good. He barked a question to us. “You scouts like your Co-Cola?”

            “Yes, sir,” was our shared enthusiastic response.

            And then, the heavens opened with the most spectacular rainstorm. The wind raged and rain came pounding down in horizontal sideways sheets. Even under the mess tent, droplets of water gathered on our skin and hair. Our clothing became instantly damp and our shoes were soaked by the river running through the mess tent. I thought of the deer caught in the mini canyon only a few miles away and wondered how much water was rushing through there at that same moment.

            Our tents and mess hall tent were situated right next to a building that had an efficient army post sign in front of it that read, Function Hall. The field kitchen was set back a few yards away from the mess tent under the outstretched limbs of a giant live oak tree. We spent most of our weekend, such as it was, in either Function Hall or in the mess tent, because of the rain.

            And boy, can it ever rain deep in the heart of Texas. There was an unrelenting rainfall through all of Friday night. The darkness was punctuated by lightning and thunder that was, at any moment, both right overhead and far away.

            On Friday evening, we sat in Function Hall as Scoutmaster Master Sargent lectured us on leadership. Our yellow workbook was full of lines of text with blanks left for key words and concepts. It was programed learning material in its worst manifestation. The only thing duller than my pencil was the lecture. Remembering that I didn’t want to disappoint Earl, I did try to muster some enthusiasm for the project. But listening and writing words in the correct blank grew more and more tedious as the evening dragged on. I was terrible at spelling and my handwritten letters were an embarrassment. I longed to escape through sleep and I began to regret that I was even there. My chin occasionally bounced off my chest and once, I nearly fell out of my chair.

            Like me, my tent mates were transformed into zombie scouts by the leadership training course. We silently slogged through the mud and wet grass to our assigned tent and bunks by 9:30 that night.  My bedding clung to my skin as I laid down on my cot. The humid air made my sleeping bag damp and cold. I shivered through the night and the thunder and lightning startled me awake many times.

***

            Saturday dawned with low dark clouds slowly rolling overhead while dumping rain through the misty morning.  Miserable scouts lined up for breakfast just outside the mess tent. Our kitchen crew served us scrambled eggs with under cooked onions and burned bacon. The schedule promised a five-mile wilderness hike right after breakfast and I held out hope that it still might happen.  I ate my meal in hopeful silence.

            But, in the next moment, Scoutmaster Master Sargent appeared and barked an announcement to the hungry scouts assembled in the mess tent. “Weather conditions have ruled out our planned morning hike. Too dangerous. A good thing too.  Most of you girls would not have made it.”

            Girl scouts, humph. I was beginning to dislike Scoutmaster Master Sargent.

            It seemed as though the day was going to drag by under the relentless drone of Scoutmaster Master Sargent extolling the sublime virtues of leadership. I weighed my options. I could feign illness, but these guys could probably spot a malingering scout a mile away. I could sneak away and smoke my cigarettes in the woods, but they counted heads regularly and would likely find a smoking scout in no time. I could also spend some time in the toilet, they would doubtlessly tolerate a pooping scout, at least a couple of times. So, even though it might mean that I’d be a disappointment to Earl, I decided to do a combination of all three.

            Right after breakfast we were ordered to secure our bunks and report to Function Hall by eight o’clock. While tending to my wet stuff, I found that my stash of cigarettes was completely soaked in the puddle under my cot. I rolled up my sleeping bag and laid out my wet gear on my bunk in the hope it might dry. I walked to Function Hall slowly with the other moseying scouts silently grumbling over my wrecked Kools. I took my seat right before they called the group to order.

            Scoutmaster Master Sargent opened the morning’s program with apologies for the rain and all of the missed activities it caused. He offered some hope that the late afternoon hours might still provide us with some merit badge opportunities. However, he promised that the speakers lined up for the morning would regale us with interesting and engaging stories of leadership done right.

            The morning’s first speaker was the pastor from a local Baptist church and a self-proclaimed supporter of scouting. Sporting a golfer’s tan and a confident stride he filled the room with his presence. He spoke with a rich baritone voice that I could not ignore. This man was certain that scouting is the best way to build a boy into a man and a reverent scout is a joy to the Lord. He knew what he thought and spoke with absolute confidence in the rightness of his position. He was unconcerned with happenstance, complexity and subtlety. For me, there is something beguiling about this way of talking. I’ve often wished that I thought and spoke this way. But, even then at merely 14 years old, I found the world way too complicated for that kind of simplicity.

***

            I endured all of the leadership stories and anecdotes that I possibly could until a little after ten o’clock when I decided to make a break for it. I headed to the toilet but ducked out of a side door into the steady rain and headed toward the field kitchen. There, I found the six soldiers that had “volunteered” to serve as our kitchen crew standing under the giant oak tree, smoking Kools.

            I had been around young soldiers all of my life and I found it easy to engage them. They were eager to talk, mostly about home and their desire to leave the Army behind someday soon. As the rain slowed to a gentle drizzle, I dared to ask one of them for a cigarette.

            That first guy declined, saying he only had one left and he wanted to save it for later. But another soldier readily offered one with a lighthearted laugh. He seemed to think it was funny to smoke cigarettes with a Boy Scout. Handing it over, he laughed as he said, “I’m probably going to hell for this.”

            His Zippo lighter sparked a flame to life and he lit my cigarette.

            Just as I raised it to my lips for the first puff, I saw Scoutmaster Master Sargent from the corner of my eye. I shifted my body by about a quarter turn away from his approach, hoping that he would see a soldier and not a scout as he walked by. But I was already a busted scout.

            As he passed by my right shoulder he pivoted twice to his left and came to a halt right in front of me. Towering over me and glaring right into my eyes he said, “Get your ass back in the building…NOW!”

            How I resented this man.

            Without a word, I lowered my eyes, finished my puff and flicked my hardly smoked Kool into the grass. I could hear its dying hiss as I hurried back to Function Hall. Behind me, Scoutmaster Master Sargent unleashed an ass chewing the likes of which I’d never heard. I ducked back into Function Hall and took my seat with my head held low, my heart pounding and my cheeks burning red.

            I retrieved my workbook from the floor and asked the scout next to me what page we were on. Finding the right spot, I tried to engage and pay attention but mostly, I worried about what might be communicated back to Earl when the weekend was over.

            As my heart rate slowed and my face returned to its normal shade, I resolved to try to make the most of the rest of the weekend, no matter what. I listened carefully and scribbled madly into my workbook trying my best to catch up.

            I was just beginning to understand the topic when there came a blinding flash with a monstrous roar of thunder. The lights went out and a few terrified scouts let out screams. Then there was a brief moment of quiet. From somewhere behind me I heard Scoutmaster Master Sargent exclaim, “That was really close.” A few nervous scouts let out giggles.

            I looked at my watch, it was 10:20.

            From outside came the sound of many feet running fast and men yelling in high pitched excited voices. The outdoors sound of confused excitement continued for a few minutes. Some adult yelled for every scout to stay seated and ordered a head count.

“Count ‘em twice!”

            Two different voices yelled out, “SIXTY-FOUR” at nearly the same moment. This was the right number.

I saw Scoutmaster Master Sargent relax just a little. And then our eyes met. Something like relief was there.

But Scoutmaster Master Sargent yelled, “Count them again!”

            A moment later, again, two voices called out, “SIXTY-FOUR!”

            Next, the pastor spoke to us, but I could hardly recognize him as the same man we heard from earlier in the morning. With an ashen face and shaky hands, he addressed us with a much diminished voice. “Scouts, there has been a terrible tragedy. Please bow your heads and join me in prayer.”

            As he prayed he revealed to us what was going on.

            The soldiers who cooked for us had all been struck by lightning. Three of them were dead. The others were just clinging to life.

The sound of emergency vehicles cried out in the distance and quickly drew closer.

            MY GOD, I was just with those guys.

            I felt weak and my head seemed to spin. But for about six minutes and the intervention of Scoutmaster Master Sargent, I’d be dead.

            And the man I’ve derided for half of this story missed that same appointment by, I don’t know, maybe two minutes. Thank you, Scoutmaster Master Sargent, you probably saved my life.

Jay Reuker is an Army Brat and recent memoirist. He is also soon to retire from a 37-year long career as a high school teacher. His nonfiction is published in The Untold Narratives, the Potato Soup Journal, Quibble Lit and the Quillkeeper’s Press Harvest Anthology.