It is my sixteenth birthday and I could not be more excited to open my presents. I opened the keys to a new car, a new phone, and a new Xbox. I then came to a large box that was taped with very heavy duty tape, even an upgrade of duct tape. It was strong enough, to the point that I could not even open it up with my fingers. My dad saw me struggling, so he throws me a small rectangle shaped box, and says, “Here kiddo, use this.”

I ripped open the small box with such excitement. What fell out was not a very expensive gift, but it meant more to me than any other gift he could have gotten me. It was my great grandfather’s pocket knife that he had made in the midst of World War II. This pocket knife has been passed down from generation to generation in my family, and is one of the most special objects to my entire family. My great grandfather handcrafted this pocket knife while he was serving in World War II, and then gave it to my grandpa as a gift on his 16th birthday, my grandpa then handed it down to my father on his 16th birthday, and now the tradition was continued as it was just now passed down to me.

I was left speechless as my mom and dad just sat in their chairs with huge grins on their face, as tears watered up in my mother’s eyes. I still remember hearing that chilling and inspiring story from my great grandfather, the year before he passed away. He gathered all of his great grandchildren around the fire, and began his story.

“I was in Poland, it was the summer of 1942. I had been serving in the military for the United States of America for a good two years already. It was during a down time in the war, not to much was happening. I needed a tool that I could keep on me at all times and that will come to use when I need it. I knew what the answer was, a pocket knife. There were no places such as “Cabela’s” in Poland where I could just go buy a pocket knife, so I knew that if I wanted one, I would have to make it.

I had to start off my creation by searching for the strongest of wood for the base of the pocket knife, but I knew that the area was not entirely safe, so I had to be careful. I went searching for fallen down trees in the woods, but all that I could find was little skinny trees that would be of no use to me. After a couple hours of searching the woods, I had finally found the stump of a tree that had been cut down (probably for firewood) that would be a perfect starting block to my knife. I immediately cut off a piece of the trunk and brought it back to my barracks.

When I got back to the barracks with the wood, my bunkmates questioned what I was doing, so I told them that I was making a pocket knife. In response, they called me insane, told me that I would never finish it in time, and that the steel would be almost impossible to get. I argued with them and accepted the challenge.

I found a rusty screwdriver under my bunk bed, for which I used to carve the shape of a long narrow oval to use as a starting base. The corner of the flathead screwdriver sliced into the moist, dark brown wood as easy as a pair scissors cuts paper. I dug the cut shape out of the tree trunk with my screwdriver and it was the perfect size, the perfect shape, and the perfect everything. Now, all that I had to do was cut a slit down the inside of the wood, so that the steel blade could fit in. I will never forget the astonished look on my bunkmates faces when they saw how good of a base it was.

I knew that I had just finished the easy part and the hard part was next, finding the steel. I would stay up at night pondering over how I could not only obtain the steel, but be able to make it into a blade. After a few sleepless nights, I had thought of nothing, so I just decided to go searching high and low for it. I searched the woods, I searched the towns, I searched houses even, but where I found it was the most disturbing place I could have imagined. I had found a what seemed to be, a steel, makeshift throwing blade, in the side of a murdered German soldier in the middle of the woods. It was disgusting, but I knew that I had to take it if I wanted to finish my knife, so i took the blade out of the ribcage of the soldier as I cringed my teeth as close my eyes. The sound of the blade leaving the flesh was sickening and twisted my stomach.

I brought the blade back to my barrack and began work on it immediately. I lucked out, the steel was a perfect fit, other than a few edges that needed to be sharpened and cut to size. I was so proud of my accomplishment that I had to rub it in the face of my bunkmates. They could not believe it, they were utterly astonished.

I never really used my knife during the war, other than opening packages from family, but I brought it back home. That was one of the most proud moments of my life.”

Looking back on it now, I am so grateful to be given this amazing gift. I know my great grandfather is watching and smiling from heaven. I flip open the blade and look at it to see my reflection, but what I saw was different. What I saw was my great grandfather face with his military hat on, and a smile on his face, letting me know that he is proud that he is now sharing his hard work and perseverance with me. A tear runs down my face and drops onto the reflective blade, and at that moment, I felt like the luckiest great grandson in the world.