It was the middle seventies at Fort Ord, CA. It was before we started wearing our shirts outside our pants and nothing was allowed to be on the belt...no cell phone holsters, no multi-tool packs and especially no knives. The first two were not hard to obey since neither had been invented yet...but the knives were another story. Everyone wanted a Buck (or cheap imitation) folding, lock blade knife. They were sharp and cool and too heavy to carry in your pants. The carry pouch was serious leather...I wanted one real bad. The price tag, even in the PX , was well past a 20 dollar bill...a young buck sergeant with four young 'uns didn't have a lot of extra cash for toys. So here is how I got my first Buck knife.
I was an instructor at the drivers' school and we were fed students from two companies in the 2nd battalion of the 4th training brigade, B company and C company. Instructors were tasked to pull Charge of Quarters duty in the companies...sort of an overnight baby-sitter. I was on the B company roster, my tight buddy, Willie was on the C company roster so some times we would pull duty on the same night. And every now and then on a weekend night. On this particular Friday, we both had duty so we would make our rounds together, walking through the barracks at intervals throughout the night, instead of going alone. It was our class's graduation night and they were out drinking and celebrating because the next morning they started shipping out to regular Army units, training over.
I gotta tell you a little about Willie. He was Puerto Rican with very prominant black features but very light skinned. He was weight lifter packed and wrestler tough and all that in a package that barely made the lower limit for height...5'1 or 2" or something like that. Probably 200 lbs. When he was mad at a black student, he acted like a white guy, when he was mad a white student, he acted like a black guy. It not only confused the students, it tickled the heck out of Willie. I asked him once if HE knew who he was and he evil eyed me and said he was whoever he wanted to be.
We were on our second go round, probably 2230 or so (for the Air Force, that's 1030 PM...for the Marines that's when Mickey's big hand is on the six and the little hand is between the 10 and the 11). There was a ruckus coming from upstairs in one of the barracks...they were the old WWII type, wooden, open bays, linoleum floors, 4x4 uprighrts every 10 feet or so. We drifted closer and one of the students came running out half dressed and yelled that the class leader was going wild, threatening everyone with a knife. We ran up the stairs to find the class leader ( a student who was appointed by some mysterious criteria the drill sergeants cooked up) in the middle of the bay waving his brand new, shiny Buck knife around...drunk on his butt. Now the class leader was a larger version of Willie...NFL big...at least 6'4" and every bit of 250, or more...and left no doubt as to his black heritage. I was thinking, "This may hurt before it is over".
I grabbed a pillow off of one of the bunks and approached the guy. But Willie had another idea. He started calling the class leader every nasty thing you could call a black man. Some stuff I never heard before. And the result was startling. The class leader stopped for a short second, staring at Willie...I imagine he was remembering every embarassment or perceived abuse Willie had dished out to him over the last 6 weeks. He roared...like some wild animal...and he lunged, leading with the knife. I was out of position to body block but I was trying to get into it before Willie was chopped up. But Willie knew exactly what he was doing. He did a little shuffle to the outside of the extended arm, got a two handed grip on the wrist, stepped back pulling the class leader off balance, then swung him around in a big circle. The class leader had to run to keep from falling face first and Willie kept him running for two full circuits then pulled him right into one of the 4x4 uprights. The whole barracks shook and shook again as the class leader crashed flat on his back. Willie threw me the knife, grabbed one ankle and dragged the fallen giant to the stairwell and down. I have this lasting memory of the sound of the class leader's head bouncing off of each stair...the concrete stairs on the porch sounded different. Willie drug him to the Ordely Room...I threw the pillow down on the floor, Willie threw the class leader on the pillow...and shortly Willie and I and our two runners resumed our cribbage game.
The next morning the First Sergeant chewed on Willie a little for not getting medical attention for the class leader, whose face was at least twice it's normal size with a nasty red line straight down the center of it...but the chewing was half hearted. We all went into the First Sergeant's office to sort things out. When I produced the Buck knife, the class leader said it wasn't his, he never saw it in his life. (Even though the PX sold them to anyone, students were strictly forbidden from owning them). He looked at me and said that it must be mine. Willie smiled and said, "Yeah, it must be." The First Sergeant looked at me expectantly...if we swore statements that the class leader was threatening and actually attacked an NCO...well there was no end to the paperwork and ramifications and if we didn't, the class leader would get on a plane and be gone that very day.
I just grinned and said, "Yeah, I guess it is...now." And that is how I got my first Buck knife, made in my hometown, El Cajon, CA.. I gave it to toothache many years later and I have no idea what happened to it after that.