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by Hap Rocketto

One of the great pleasures of the annual sojourn to Camp Perry is visiting both the National Rifle Association and the Civilian Marksmanship Program Trophy Rooms. It is a bit sad that more people do not visit these repositories of shooting history. Whenever I bring new shooters to Camp Perry, I make it a point to take them along with me. For my junior shooters, it is a required activity.

A representation of the lost Palma Trophy

These displays are impressive exhibits of art as well as the history of the sport. Glittering Victorian silver cups and ewers, such as awarded to the winners of the Wimbledon and Leech Cup Matches, sparkle next to Frederick Remington’s western frontier bronzes which in turn are nestled next to modern trophy firearms. These mute witnesses stretch back in time to the earliest days of organized shooting in the United States. Had they the power of speech the tales they might tell. In their presence, even without tongue, they seem to whisper the greatness of the men and women who have their names incised upon them. The only major trophy absent is the original Palma Trophy, which was lost during the years between the World Wars.

Early one indoor season, a member of the Corporal Digby Hand Schützenverein mused aloud that our club should donate a trophy, to be awarded by the NRA, at Camp Perry to the winner of some prestigious match. The idea struck us as inspired and it was the topic of hot discussion for much of the winter. After making some preliminary inquiries we found that our treasury’s pockets were just not deep enough to afford a trophy of sufficient grandeur. It was axiomatic that we also did not have the requisite funds to maintain the trophy and the plaques given annually to the winners. Digby Hand is not a wealthy club when one looks at our balance sheets so we put the discussion to rest, for a while. However, poor as we might be financially we could never overdraw our accounts of spirit and ingenuity, as you shall soon see.

One match night, teammate Charlie Adams was eyeing a rather Baroque octagon shaped silvered plastic plate that held the cold cuts for our post-shooting buffet. As we were cleaning up the scraps of lunchmeat, crumbs of bread, and smears of mustard Charlie discretely dropped the cheap plastic plate into a paper bag and took it home. About a month before we were to leave for Camp Perry he showed up at practice with a rather handsome looking silver salver adorned with the Digby Hand coat of arms. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be the old unassuming cold cut platter given both a new lease on life, as well as a higher station, by the creative talents of his artist wife, Carol.

Young Eric Majewski, one of our juniors and a carpentry student at the local vocational technical school, opined that he could turn out a nice display base. True to his word, within the week, we had an elegant wooden stand. Despite its plebian origins and practical purpose, the decorated plate assumed the air of a Tiffany object d’art when it was mounted on the dark wood. The glint of the sun on the flimsy silvered plastic was all the solar energy needed to germinate the seed of an idea lying in our fertile minds.

Four weeks later, and 700 miles west, Majewski, his father Greg, my brother Steve, Steve Schady and his boys Steve Junior and Tom, Ned Lombard and I sauntered through the door of the NRA Trophy Room at Camp Perry. Schady fills and I distracted the two blue-haired ladies who guarded the fortress with small talk and requests to see various items offered for sale from a glass display counter. While we diverted the women Ned and Steve took up position in the passageway between the sales area and the trophy display seemingly studying a photo of Perry days of yore. In truth, they were effectively blocking the view of the trophy room, should the distracted guardians glance that way.

The Schady brothers, in an effective imitation of a con man playing the shell game, quickly and quietly shuffled a few trophies about to make space for the trophy. This done the Majewskis whipped the plate and base out from underneath their shirts and set them up in the newly vacated space. In less time than it takes to switch magazines and scope your shots in rapid fire, the Digby Hand Trophy had been donated. It now stood proudly on display next to such venerated shooting relics as the Critchfield and Western Cartridge Company Trophies. Our philanthropic act complete we politely thanked the ladies and ‘The Gang of Eight’ gracefully withdrew from the scene of our anonymous munificence.

The next day and, in fact, every day thereafter, we dropped by the Trophy Room. Each day the two ladies dutifully dusted and arranged the smallbore trophies and the interloping Digby Hand Trophy sat proudly next to its better-known brethren. We quietly spread the word about the new trophy, not mentioning the circumstances of its donation, to the many fellow Digby Hand members whom were at the National Matches. The traffic through the Trophy Room increased almost geometrically as club members dropped by to view the new trophy. We even went back with a camera and took a snapshot of a few of us standing by the award.

Much to our disappointment the trophy did not show up on the stage for the big awards ceremony on Friday night. One of the club members queried George Harris, the Master of Ceremonies and Match Director, about the missing trophy. George’s reply was a cryptic, “Why don’t you ask the Rocketto brothers?”

Shades of the Palma! The trophy had been lost, it disappeared while in the custody of the NRA, and they attempted to foist off their negligence on the donors. All that is left is the memory of our club’s generosity is a rather fuzzy picture of some smiling faces around a silver plate. Despite the loss of the trophy by a careless NRA, circumstances which makes us think twice about donating a replacement, we still visit the scene of our largesse and reminisce about days gone by. Next time you are at Perry why don’t you do the same?

Ned Lombard, Tom Schady, Hap Rocketto, and Steve Schady with the Digby Hand Trophy For Distinguished Service in the Perry NRA Award Room when it was in the Arcade.

by Hap Rocketto

It was towards the end of a quarter and I was conducting a review for my junior Physics class. There are two types of science; qualitative, which is the science taught to elementary school-naming the season or the planets and quantitative that which requires numbers and measurements. I was teaching a quantitative course and wanted to insure that they new the proper units.

I would call out a question like, “Name four units of linear measurement.” The class would chorus back, “Millimeter, centimeter, meter, and kilometer.” I went through area, volume, mass, force, pressure, work, heat, and power. The terms newton, joule, calorie, and watt echoed off of the cinder block walls and I was getting confident that they had it down, well, “Pride goeth before the fall” as the good book says.

From the dark recesses in the far left hand corner of the room, a location to where both light and education seemed incapable of penetrating, came a wet sucking popping sound. One of my reluctant scholars had stirred. The sound came as he pulled his face from the puddle of drool that had accumulated there as he lay slack jawed with ennui. A grunt punctuated the quiet room as he heaved his hand up into the air, an unaccustomed physical act on his part that signaled to me danger. The kid, Shawn by name, was both a culinary arts student and a member of my rifle team. He wasn’t bad; he was just undisciplined in a lovable Saint Bernard puppy kind of way. A situation that I happily found rifle shooting was putting to an end. However, he was still in a transitional state and there was no still telling what was going to issue from his mouth.

“What about Scoville Units?” he rather complacently asked, trying to trip me up with his nonchalance.

“Well, Shawn,” said I, “A Scoville Unit, as you so very well know, is a measurement of the heat of a chili pepper. It was named after pharmacist Wilber Scoville who developed a test to measure Capsaicin, the compound that gives chili its fire. His original test actually relied on tasting diluted mixtures of chili and water but a more sophisticated test, High-Performance Liquid Chromatography, has been developed that does everything chemically, in a quantitative way. The term Scoville Unit has been retained in his honor just as we honor Newton, Joule, and Watt, and other famous scientists by naming units or elements after them.”

“A sweet green bell pepper,” I droned on, “has a rating of about 100 Scoville Units while pure Capsaicin rates about 16 million units. A really hot Jalapeno runs about 2,500, while the hottest pepper known, the Habanero, rates 300,000 Scovilles.”

Seeing an opportunity to get a little extra education in, as well as some revenge for being set up, I commanded “Slothful Shawn” to research Tabasco brand pepper sauce and tell me how this hot sauce related to his hobby of rifle shooting. He didn’t seem too happy about the idea but he wasn’t going to do anything to upset me, it wasn’t in his nature. He groaned, pulled out a pen and scribbled the subject and due date on the back of his already crowded hand. A week later, on time, he showed up at rifle practice with a crumpled sheet of paper carelessly torn from a spiral bound notebook clutched in his hand to give his report. How he was able read it through the crossed out words, doodles, jelly smudges, coffee cup rings, and the other unidentified indelible stains I will never know.

On the due date he stood he stood awkwardly and uncomfortable in the dim light of the rifle range and woodenly read, “The McIlhenny family settled on Avery Island, Louisiana after the Civil War and began producing a pepper sauce made from locally grown peppers from seed brought from Central America, salt mined on the island, and imported French vinegar.” As he read from his tattered and grubby notes his stiff stammering and stuttering was a sure sign that my assignment had made its point. He had learned a lesson and I need never fear his interrupting my class again with an obtuse question.

“Walter Stauffer McIlhenny was born in Washington, D.C. on October 22, 1910 and entered the Marine Corps Reserve in late 1936 when he earned a commission as a second lieutenant. He shot on the Marine Reserve Rifle Team at Camp Perry and earned his Distinguished Marksman’s Badge. He was called to active duty to serve in World War II where he fought in the Pacific and was awarded the Navy Cross and the Silver Star for gallantry in action. After the war he returned to Avery Island where he stayed in the reserves, retiring as a general, and ran the McIlhenny Company that produces Tabasco Pepper Sauce. He died in 1985.”

Shawn had done a fair job of research and even passed Physics on his way to graduation and membership on the All State High School Rifle Team. A few years later he returned to the school as a teacher, having earned an MBA as well as a Distinguished Badge along the way. As a fellow faculty member it is interesting to note that the saucy lad, now well seasoned, will not tolerate behavior or academic sloppiness similar to that he exhibited as a student in my class. Perhaps more than one lesson was learned that day?

by Hap Rocketto

As a pair of retired gentlemen my brother and I occasionally enjoy a convivial day together in which we spend the morning shooting, enjoy a good lunch, and then spend the balance of the afternoon enveloped in comfortable chairs reading. Imagine, if you will, peeking into a London men’s club of the late Victorian or Edwardian Era, overstuffed chairs, portly middle aged men, and snifters of brandy-minus the cigar smoke-and you will have a good mental picture of the scene. At the end of the day he will remain in his bachelor digs, wrapped up in what ever tome he has pulled from his voluminous book shelves, while I toddle on home to wife and hearth.

One such day he was idly examining the shelves when he suddenly exclaimed, “Hap, I can’t find my Browning.” My heart immediately jumped up into my throat for Steve has a history of having his firearms go missing. He once offered his National Match M1 to an acquaintance who was in the hunt for Distinguished and, forgetting to make a note of who had the rifle, he can no longer remember who has it. One would think that the borrower might notice the rifle in his gun safe and return it but that day has yet to arrive.

On another occasion, when he was running the Connecticut High Power Team, one of the shooters had an M14 break. Steve quickly made a swap to keep the young gunner in the game and, you guessed it, forgetting to record the name of the shooter quickly lost track of the rifle. It wasn’t until the end of the season when the rifles were being inventoried, that it was discovered that a rifle was ‘missing.’ In this case the custodian was still shooting the rifle and it was quickly accounted for.

I am not without sin as I had a similar happening. Upon retiring from the Connecticut National Guard I made it a point to see that all of my shooting gear was turned in and I collected all of my hand receipts, which I kept-just in case. Several years later my phone rang and Bill Lange, now the NCOIC of the team, was on the other end asking me about returning a certain M14 signed out in my name. I said it was impossible but he produced a hand receipt with my signature. Just like Steve I had swapped off a good rifle for a bad one and in the excitement had forgotten to adjust the paperwork. In a flash I remembered the incident. I called the Guardsman, who dug the rifle out of his safe, and returned to me so I might return it to Bill.

Although Steve is comfortable financially he has a personal parsimonious streak. While generous with his friends and relatives he has great internal battles when it comes to spending on himself. For a long time he wanted a Browning High Power pistol and it took him several years to convince himself that he should indulge himself and then an equal amount of time to find one he liked. It has grown to be his favorite pistol and I was the last one to use it that morning when we were shooting pins. It was my responsibility to put it back into the case and I had apparently failed in my duties.

He continued to intently scan the bookshelves seeming unconcerned about the possible loss of yet another gun. Perhaps he was oblivious to the situation, after all he is the model of the stereotypical absent minded professor. However, I was very aware. Quickly I ran from the house and searched both of our cars and turned up nothing. Fortunately he lives but a mile or so from our gun club so I screeched off down the road. Arriving at the range in a cloud of tire smoke I scoured the place and came up empty. Approaching panic I called Tony Goulart, who was shooting with us that morning, and asked if he picked up the pistol in error and had it tucked in his case. After what seemed like an hour’s wait, but was probably just a minute or two, Tony reported that he did not have the gun.

My stomach was turning flip flops and I felt the wonderful lunch we had shared rising acidly in my gorge. How was I to tell Steve that I had lost his pride and joy? I pulled into the driveway hoping against hope that some club Good Samaritan had come by, picked up the Browning, and was holding it safely while attempting to find the owner. Never the less I still had to break the bad news to Steve and was dreading it.

I trudged back into the house, head bent low in shame, and accidently kicked over the Pachmeyer gun case sitting by the corner of the coach. It fell on its side and the cover sprang open. I bent down to close it and saw the Browning clamped tightly in the rack! My jaw dropped and my relief was palpable.

Calmed I looked up to see Steve contentedly folded up in his recliner reading as if nothing had happened. Now I was miffed. “Steve!” I snapped out. I had to do it again because he was so wrapped up in his reading that he didn’t hear me the first time.

“Huh! What’s up?” he languorously replied.

“I thought you said that you couldn’t find your Browning? I have been going crazy running all over the place looking for it and here you sit reading, all calm as a summer’s morning!” I vented.

Not at all upset over my rant he held aloft a well thumbed volume, “Oh, but I did find it after you ran out. It was next to my Kipling and Conan Doyle anthologies. You can’t imagine how disconcerted I was for I really wanted to re-read How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix. “By the way”, he added, “do you know that Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s most famous poem is Sonnets from the Portuguese and my Browning High Power was manufactured in Portugal?”

Robert Browning wrote that , “…a man’s reach should exceed his grasp.” That mine didn’t was all that saved my brother from being throttled.