JUBILEE JAMBOREE a memoir

As a boy I was proud to be a boy scout, but recently I have changed my opinion about the institution. I think their policy to discriminate against gays is despicable and I no longer support scouting.

Dedicated to Barry Williams who was my tent mate in Colorado and died needlessly in Vietnam at the age of nineteen.

 

We were 56,377 strong by the time we got to Colorado Springs, Colorado, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I had some obstacles to overcome before I made the pilgrimage to the Colorado based Boy Scout Jamboree. This particular jamboree would be unique because we would be celebrating the 50th anniversary of the founding of the Boy Scouts of America. The most daunting obstacle my father set in my path before he would allow me to go was for me to become a 1st Class Scout. My father had not become an Eagle Scout, the highest honor in scouting, but he had come mighty close, and I had some big shoes to fill during my scouting career. I had completed all the challenges necessary to become 1st Class but one, the Morse Code.

 

Before reaching this point in my scouting life, there had been other trials to overcome; the first was my original initiation into the Cub Scouts, a necessary step to becoming a Boy Scout. The ceremony took place in a large auditorium. I didn’t know the other kids. Some of them were there to be initiated like me, and others were already full-fledged Cub Scouts. The process of initiation was not well thought out. Each want-to-be Cub Scout was put before the group and members clapped to accept them into the organization. When it came to my turn it didn’t seem that the Cubs were exuberant enough in their applause, and it took some coaxing from the leaders to get the group to the proper decibel level. In retrospect, this seemed like a set up, especially for a boy like me that did not know the other kids. Se la vie, at least I was now an official Cub Scout, even though my comrades needed to be cajoled into accepting me.

 

Next, I found myself charging down one of the empty corridors of the school with a pack of rampaging Cubs. One of the boys had a tetherball that he was swinging over his head by the rope, then came that all too familiar sound of breaking class as the ball crashed through one of the panels of a glass door. I had only been a Cub for less than ten minutes and already things had broken down into anarchy and lawlessness. We all ran off in twelve different directions and so ended my initiation into scouting.

 

My family lived far from where most of the other Cubs lived, and it became difficult for my mother to take me to the meetings. I honestly don’t recall much about the meetings, but I do remember at my last meeting I was given the designation as a “Lone Wolf.” What this actually meant was I was a Cub Scout without a troop, and for all practical purposes, my Cub Scouting career ended at that point. The adults involved handled it well because I left that final meeting feeling important and special. I was a “Lone Wolf.” For some reason, that moniker has stuck with me, and to this day, I feel somewhat like a lone wolf.

 

After a few years passed I was ready for the big time, Boy Scouts! I got involved in a troop that was relatively close by and there were boys in the troop that I already knew. The meetings were more or less free for alls with lots of arm wrestling and chasing each other around. This was perfect for me, I never much liked sitting in actual civilized meetings and I still don’t. Occasionally we would have outings such as overnight camping experiences. One of the coldest nights of my life was during one of these overnight outings. My sleeping bag was some kind of army surplus and must have been designed for a tropical environment. Sadly, we were sleeping in late fall conditions in a less than a tropical setting. I woke up in the middle of the night totally frozen stiff, and spent the rest of the night sleepless, shivering in my bag.

 

It was while I was in this troop that the opportunity to go on the jamboree came about. As I said earlier, my father would allow me to go as long as I became a 1st Class Scout, which meant showing proficiency in the now outdated discipline of Morse Code. To this day, I have always hated desk work and memorization type activities. The only reason I buckled down to learn the code was I wanted to go to the jamboree. I finally learned the alphabet in code and braced myself for the test. The test consisted of two adults drilling me on different aspects of the code. Regrettably, I didn’t spend time learning anything other than the alphabet. In fact, I wasn’t even conscious of other necessary elements to using the code, signing on signing off, for example. My father had a “hands off” philosophy for child rearing and didn’t spend any time investigating how proficient I was before the test. Luckily for me, the two scout leaders took pity on me and proclaimed that I passed with the understanding that I would continue to hone my skills. I was now a 1st Class Scout, and I was going to the jamboree!

 

Not all the boys could go, mainly for financial reasons. What ended up happening was they took boys from several of the surrounding troops that planned on going and put them into a newly formed troop. We met on a few occasions to get organized, get our new unique uniforms and get to know each other. This outfit was a lot more professional than my home troop. One of the boys was Berry Williams who eventually became my tent mate in Colorado. Berry was someone I respected, and he had a lot of leadership qualities. Those same attributes became contributing factors that led to Berry’s death only seven years later in Vietnam. I never learned the circumstances of his death. All I know it was a sorry waste of an exceptional human being and I still think of him often.

 

Finally, the day of our actual departure arrived. All my things were stuffed into a red duffel bag with my home address boldly painted on the front. We were going by train. Could you imagine a train that was filled with nothing but Boy Scouts from the engine to caboose? This was a recipe for mayhem of the highest order. Our gear was stowed anywhere we could find space. I was dead tired and did something I rarely ever did, and that was to fall asleep in my seat lying on a pile of bags. When I finally came to, there were the usual goings on around me. At one point, I looked down at my foot and noticed that someone had written, “Brown has BO” in ink on the bottom of my foot. I must have unquestionably been out cold.

 

That night, the Pullman beds came down, and our troop master told us to hit the sack and get some sleep. Not more than ten minutes after the lights went out an epic pillow fight ensued. At one point, the train attendant was walking down the isle trying to calm things down. Two boys were tugging on a pillow from either side of the aisle from the two opposite top bunks. Just as the attendant was passing, the pillow ripped in half and exploded into a mass of stuffing. The poor old guy managed to keep his composure for the time being. Later, he would inform us that in the forty years he had been working on the line he had never seen a worse group. We were not sure if we should be ashamed or proud. I wonder if, in those forty years the attendant had ever been on a train loaded with nothing but Boy Scouts?

 

The next day things got tough. We were crossing the desert, and it was real hot. I am not sure if it was retribution for what had gone on that night, but for some reason or another, the air conditioning was not working. The window did not open, and in no time at all, it was 117 degrees inside our car. I remember sitting in my upper bunk trying to write a letter home with the sweat dripping off my nose in a continuous stream, smudging the ink on my letter. In the restroom, sat the attendant without a care or concern not seeming to have any empathy for our suffering. It wasn’t over yet; we had a long way to go before Colorado Springs.

 

For entertainment, I would walk the length of the train taking in all the sights and sounds generated by hundreds of effervescent Boy Scouts. Despite what the attendant had said, our car did not seem any better or worse than any other car. After all, it was not our idea to fill the train with nothing but scouts. They could have put a military contingent on board, possibly giving them a discount if they manage to maintain law and order.

 

We arrived in a small town in Nevada. The claim to fame for this place was a gigantic swimming pool with a large buoy in the middle chained to the bottom. The pool became a seething mass of Boy Scouts, all trying to claw their way to the top the buoy. It looked like an aquatic version of the famous train yard scene in “Gone With the Wind,” everywhere you looked there were desperate dramas of life and death being played out. All were driven to capture the Holy Grail of the pool, the top of the buoy at any cost. I am truly surprised that no one drowned that day, or if a few errant scouts did drown, I am surprised the leadership could do such an admirable job of keeping it covered up. These were definitely the times where lawyers and the art of suing your neighbor had not quite been perfected yet.

 

After the survivors had dried and dressed we headed out into the little town in mass all looking for one thing, squirt guns! The population of Boy Scouts far outnumbered the residents of this sleepy desert village. Everywhere you looked there were Boy Scouts roaming in an out of stores, and in no time at all literally every squirt gun in town was now proudly concealed in the uniform of a Boy Scout of America.

 

We were back on the train again heading east, waiting in anticipation for the first liquid salvo to stream across the isle into someone’s unsuspecting eye. Being young and impatient, it did not take long for the war to begin. Our beleaguered attendant was about to experience a whole new level of disorder. Once the water began to flow all hell broke loose in a deluge of continuous streams of accurately placed water. The attendant was at his wits end, and his spirit appeared to be broken. Finally, the troop leader arrived in a furious display of anger and frustration. Eventually, this proved to be a pattern with this gentleman. He would wait until things would become entirely out of hand and then he would jump in with both feet, and entertain us with a temper tantrum. Stomping down the isle, he grabbed the squirt guns out of our hands and began piling them up in the noisy compartment between the cars. After a few trips, it looked like he had pretty much decimated our arsenal of weapons. A few minutes passed, and it looked like he was not going to return, for a while at least. I took it upon myself to peek through the door to the compartment where the guns had been piled. There he was, our leader madly jumping up and down on the pile of squirt guns. I could see them cracking and breaking apart under his large foot and rotund body. As exemplified by the now broken and physiologically bruised train attendant, there would be other opportunities to take revenge on our leader for so cruelly destroying our guns, and spoiling our fun.

 

The next stop was the Great Salt Lake. Here we found the unique opportunity to float like a cork in a sea of concentrated salt water. The water stung our eyes as we bobbed and splashed one another. There were rafts anchored to the bottom that served as resting stations. The rafts were totally coated with thick layers of salt, which was irritating to the skin. Not at all “user-friendly,” the Great Salt Lake was overall a harsh and hostile environment, and more appropriate for another planet.

 

At last, we arrived at our destination, the plains of Colorado Springs, with the United States Air Force Academy close by and the magnificent Pike’s Peak in the background. Our troop was shuffled off to our assigned area where we began to set up camp. Berry and I began pitching our tent while the troop leaders worked on more serious conveniences, the latrine and water supply.

With close to 60,000 Boy Scouts all involved in making camp, the scene was an unbelievable mass of pulsating bodies as far as you could see, all in identical scout uniforms looking like a swarm of khaki ants. Our leader was in his usual state of frustrated anger, for whatever reason we didn’t know. Most likely it was because of something we were not doing to his satisfaction. We would all have to wait until he totally blew his top, so he would finally be able to communicate his desires in his typical fit of rage, which seemed to be the only condition in which he could express himself.

 

We had a mess tent set up for meals, and in truth, I can’t remember how the food was. I presume it must have been fairly decent, or I most likely would have remembered. Scouts from other areas would visit us in our mess area, and we would swap badges and scarf ties. I remember getting a scarf tie from a boy from Arizona that was made from a cactus skeleton and had a stone called an Apache Tear placed in the front. At the time, I didn’t know why an Apache should be crying, only later did I discover the sorted history of what happened to their culture. That was one part of scouting tradition that was lacking. A great deal of scouting is based on Native American cultural lore and survival skills, but the true history of what was done to that culture was never discussed. I can happily report this squeaky clean view that was taught to us has been updated in more recent years to reflect the reality of what went on.

 

One of the most enjoyable activities was exploring the city in which I now lived. Scouts from all over the United States, as well as the rest of the world, lived in this well-organized town. It had a fire department, medical facilities, large food preparation areas, water reservoir, an amphitheater for 70 thousand people, and all types of activity areas. My favorite activity was the rifle range where we were giving expert training by military personal.

 

Occasionally dust devils would tear across the plains and through our city. Usually, this was an entertaining interlude during our busy day; however, sometimes the dust devils were quite large and caused some real problems. When a large one approached, one could see it coming from a long way off, and everyone would keep a close eye on it hoping it would bypass their camping area. Often there would be debris flying high above the ground.

 

A powerful dust devil would create a swath across the ground picking up everything in its path: clothes, sleeping bags, air mattresses, magazines, and even tents. The danger was getting hit by hard objects, such as tent pegs and poles. There were some injuries that we heard about through the “grapevine.” Most of these injuries were the result of scouts who were less well endowed in terms of intelligence. They would purposely try to get into the cone of a dust devil and get hit by some sharp object. There was no IQ test to get into scouting: morons may apply.

 

The only other bad rumor that was going around the jamboree concerned an electrocution. I am not sure if this was an urban legend or not. There was no mention of it in the literature that we received after the jamboree ended, but I guess it was not the kind of story the promoters would want to get around. It was said that one of the attending scouts was killed at one of the refreshment stands when he somehow got tangled up with some electrical wiring. One fatality for a city of 60 thousand in a week’s time seems plausible, but I can’t prove if it happened one way or another.

 

For a few days, our scout leader was seldom seen. Occasionally we would see him make a mad dash from his tent to the latrine, which was basically a small tent perched over a hole in the ground. Apparently he had a severe case of diarrhea, which he blamed on our camp water supply, he felt it was contaminated. I heard a discussion he had about dumping the water out of the large canvas bag where it was stored, and refilling the bag with fresh water. Sorry to say, I got the bright idea to dip a bucket into the bag instead of using the spigot to fill the bucket, which took a long time. I was armed with the insider information about the old water being dumped out, so it seemed all right just to dip in there. Sadly, the diarrhea-impaired leader saw me scoop the bucket in the bag and once again blew his top. I didn’t even bother to try to explain that I only did it because I knew they were going to dump the water out. His fit of anger was short-lived, due to the fact he had to make a fast retreat back to his home away from home in the latrine. No one else was suffering from diarrhea, and no one had much sympathy for him because he was such an a*****e, diarrhea or not.

 

On one memorable day, President Eisenhower showed up to tour our city of boys. He was standing in the back seat of a large black convertible. His car drove down the various parallel roads of our city, and each street was lined with waving boy scouts. I was so excited to see him.  After his car passed I ran through various campsites so I could wave to him again when he passed.

 

The last momentous extravaganza of the jamboree was going to be a television special with Tennessee Ernie Ford, a good-old-boy singer entertainer that was exceedingly popular at the time. The audience was going to be us, 56,377 boy scouts plus others, making a grand total of 70,000 people. We would all be sitting on the hillside overlooking the large stage. It had been a week of constant activity, and we were all tired and ready for the trip back home. The weather was threatening, and our troop of boys was not thrilled about sitting on the ground in the rain watching some hillbilly named Tennessee Ernie Ford. The troop leader, who had somewhat recovered from his long ride on the toilet seat, was adamant that we attend the show. I think the leadership farther up the chain of command was putting pressure on the troop leaders to have their boys show up rain or not, so Tennessee Ernie would not look bad on national television.

 

All the many thousands of us started marching toward the immense amphitheater encased in our brown ponchos. It looked more like a retreating army of soldiers than a multitude of Boy Scouts. Our heads were covered with ponchos to keep the drizzle out. Just as all the thousands of scouts had settled in, the sun began to set, and there was a spectacular display of reddening clouds with the sun sinking behind. We were so far from the stage that Ernie and the rest of the entertainers looked more like miniaturized cartoon characters. I don’t remember any part of the actual show, but at least I could say I was there conscious or not.

 

The next day it was time to head back to “Californee” and our own beds and daily routines. Just like my lack of recollection of the television special I attended, my trip home was blurred beyond recognition in my memory. I think we were all tired out by this stage of our adventure. Even our previously obnoxious troop leader seemed to have mellowed to some extent, most likely because of the amebic dysentery that had been ravaging his digestive tract for the last several days. The jamboree was the highlight of my scouting career. All in all being a Boy Scout was a worthwhile experience.