As Freedom's campfire fades away&ldots; Art McQueen, Herald Post staff and former member, Troop 29, Heidelberg, Germany Pictures from the Final Weekend at Camp Freedom Entrance Way Final Fire Camp Fire Ring Taking Down Signs Like an old dog that you just can't keep alive anymore, I said a sad goodbye to a special place in my life, Camp Freedom, on Aug. 12. For 52 years, the camp northwest of Giessen, Germany, was a place where Boy Scouts went to learn, in a week or two, to swim, shoot, cook, canoe and get along.  Camp Freedom and I didn't start off as friends.  My first day at the camp, I was 12 years old; it was cold and wet, I couldn't start a fire - this was supposed to be summer camp, and it wasn't fair. My scoutmaster, Mr. Herge, had told my patrol to start a fire for our campsite.  It had been raining for weeks: the wood was wet, the ground was wet, my brother actually had his boot pulled off his foot by the mud, and the trash can lid that was our fire pit was collecting water.  We tried, but nothing worked.  Risking serious wrath, we poured a few ounces of the white gas for our lanterns and stoves on the wood when Mr. Herge wasn't looking.  Despite the accelerant, after a few seconds of warmth, the damp wood refused to continue burning. We were frustrated and shivering. Gazing at his very young, inexperienced Scout troop, Mr. Herge asked what was wrong.  Our only older scout told him the fire won't start. "So?" he said.  Didn't any of you read your handbooks?   We had, but had never seen anything like this in real life.  It was impossible, and we told him so. "I'll start this fire for you, but this will be the last time," he stated.  Numb and wet, we nodded, rain dripping off our poncho hoods. Mr. Herge circled us around the fire pit to pay attention, first telling us to hold a tarp over the area, something I immediately wished I had thought of. He began to meticulously prepare the site, clearing our previous attempts away and pouring out the rain that had collected.  While a few of us held the tarp, the others were ordered to gather wood, far more than I had thought necessary; then to strip off the bark. Mr. Herge pulled out his Scout pocket knife - the same one we all had - and began to make perfect fuzz sticks - small branches with the surface whittled back into a curl like wooden Christmas ornaments.  As we watched his surgical woodcarving in awe, he laid down the first three to form a small tripod, then more around it, interspersing small pine branches and even individual needles.  We gave up our pocket lint, which was placed in the middle of the pile, along with the cotton from the aspirin bottle in the medical kit, then impatiently waited for him to light the fire, only to be told there was much more work to be done. With expert strokes of a hatchet, large sticks were quartered and re-halved into kindling, larger sticks split in half and half again, setting smaller ones around and larger to the side for quick access.  The omnipresent rain that had soaked the sticks to the middle began again, sounding and feeling like we were being peed on from far above.  We despaired as 20 then 25 minutes went by, and he hadn't even tried to start the fire. We didn't understand how all this wet wood had any chance of burning.  It was my first day of camp, and I was ready to go home. "All right, who has matches?" Mr. Herge said.  Our eyes stayed fixed on the ground - we had already burned ours up trying to start the fire, or dropped them in the mud.  He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a package of C-ration matches.  He opened them. There were two left.   One requirement for Tenderfoot Scout at the time was to start a fire with no more than two matches, which I had done in the Scout hut with dry wood.  Here in the open, it was completely different. "Just what I need," Mr. Herge said, smiling and looking us in the eyes.  He folded back the olive drab cover and lit the first match.  Suddenly a supernaturally sharp gust of wind shattered the previously still air and blew out the match. A little freaked out, I thought there must be some curse on the camp. Mr. Herge shook it off, saying, "that is why you have two matches."  Lighting the last match close to the pile, he carefully inserted it into the tinder.  The brief flare of hope caused by the cotton flame was doused as the initial heat faded away, to leave slowly burning lint and a coal-like edge on the fuzz sticks. Delicately, he blew air into the center of the mass, adding oxygen to the heat and fuel. A thin wisp of smoke and steam slowly began to rise as Mr. Herge provided just the right amount of air to encourage and not blow out the tiny flames.  The tarp began to fill with the welcome smell of moist pine smoke. With his fire build capturing nearly every bit of radiant heat, the flames stayed mostly obscured, but eventually, crackling sounds and yellow tongues of heat began to rise above the wood. Quickly he began to lay ever larger pieces across the fire, to dry and burn in their turn, top pieces intended to shield the flames from rain. We removed the tarp and realized we had witnessed something magical, like peering over DaVinci's shoulder during the painting of the Mona Lisa - and soon we were basking in the warmth of this masterpiece of patience. The mood of the troop transformed, and soon we were cheerily jabbering about how fun it would be to ride in a canoe, or shoot an arrow in the coming days.  The rain continued, but we no longer recognized its power over us.  The wet woods now smelled like somewhere we wanted to be.  Encouraged by our leader's example, we shaved the bark off of small branches and roasted marshmallows over the now robust fire. Soon, a pair of young scouts from the adjacent camp followed the column of smoke to our camp.  "Can we borrow a coal from your fire?" one sheepishly asked, standing in the drizzle.   "No! No!" I thought. "This is our fire."   Before we could drive these damp and miserable strangers away, Mr. Herge grabbed the biggest stick from our fire, still flaming, and handed it to the other Scouts. "Hold your poncho over it until you get to your camp," he instructed gently, while we stared in shock. More groups came, and the scene was repeated, with the biggest sticks now missing from our fire.  We fumed silently and built the flames slowly back up, using all our precious gathered wood.  As I contemplated the unfairness of the situation, I was interrupted by the arrival of an even larger group. This time, the former strangers were bringing us armloads of collected wood.  They deposited them next to our fire with a cheery "Thanks!" and a tip of the hat to our leader. As Mr. Herge turned with a smile to start some coffee on the stove, I realized I had learned a second lesson for the day and resolved to start paying closer attention. Thousands and thousands of young men went to Camp Freedom over the years and learned hundreds of skills. They learned how to shoot a bow, catch a fish, preserve the environment, and how to save a life - or in my case, how better to live one.  Paying their own respects, a few dozen volunteers from all around Europe visited the camp to pack up the essentials and have a last bit of fellowship. At the ceremonial last camp fire, ashes from other campfires, some older than Camp Freedom, were mixed with ashes from every campsite to mix with each other, in a symbol of the continuity of Scouting ideals. Camp Freedom is still a beautiful place, green, hilly, full of a variety of plants, animals and minerals - and far enough from large cities to see the ecliptic at night.  It is eerily quiet - a creek 70 meters away can be clearly heard, unlike my experience with the military, where the droning of generators and the smell of diesel is ever present.  But it was the people, the volunteers and professionals that took their time to teach young boys to be good men that made Camp Freedom a special place in my and thousands of other boys' lives.  It will be missed. Editors Note:  The closure of the Giessen community and its support facilities necessitated the closure of Camp Freedom.  The new Boy Scout/Girl Scout camp will be in Oberdachstetten between Ansbach and Illesheim. Both organizations will have their headquarters at Franken Kaserne, and the camp will be on the base. According to Vincent Cozzone, council administrator, the camp will have a dining hall and will offer similar programs that were offered at Camp Freedom, and is expected to be ready for the 2008 camping season.