I slipped the red bandana over the collar of my green uniform shirt and headed for the regular Wednesday night meeting of Boy Scout Troop Four at the Second Congregational Church. It was 1948, only three years since our scout master Bill Caird, after campaigns in North Africa and Italy, had fought his way across Europe, collecting several purple hearts and a couple of bronze stars on the way.

Not that Bill had ever told us about any of that. We learned of his of courage, suffering and exploits from what his Army buddies had told our dads. What we got from Bill was a living, breathing embodiment of all of the virtues that scouting tries to inculcate in early adolescents. He had none of the weaknesses and all of the strengths we saw in other adults.

Thoughts of Bill returned for me the other night as I watched our president address 40,000 Scouts and leaders, most of them kids just as impressionable as we were, at the Boy Scout Jamboree. Disgusting it was, but “disgusting” doesn’t really capture the scene. Where has this gloating, bloated travesty of wayward political triumph come from?

If there are Bill Caird’s out there somewhere, we’ve never needed them more than we do today.

Wayne Muller

New London