Answers from the Community
- Trench lighter – I’ve got one from my father. It was often made from spent rounds with a few modifications to create a lighter. I had a .20 caliber case with an old threepenny coin soldered in the base, which was also a lighter.
- Army lighter that lights in the wind while covering the flame to avoid getting your face shot off.
- It is a lighter, but it might be a replica.
- It’s a miniature nuclear bomb hand grenade. DON’T pull the pin!
- Looks like a copy of an Austrian 1920s IMCO windproof lighter.
- Looks like a bobbin for an old treadle sewing machine.
- It’s a lighter – I’ve got one made of brass.
- Windless lighter – hard to find parts for it, but worth the effort to make it work. Awesome find!
- Miniature German hand grenade used by trained suicide ferrets in WWI. They ran up your pants leg and detonated at a critical junction, thus damaging many Privates’ privates.
- Military torchlight for when you can’t light campfires.
- I haven’t seen one of those in a long time.
- Trench lighter from WWII.
- Windproof lighter.
- I have one and it’s a lighter.
- It’s a coconut, duh.
- Prototype proto pipe.
- Steampunk suppository.
- Fire starter, flint.
- A vintage lightsaber.
- A vibrator from 1890.
The WW1 Trench Lighter: A Piece of History
The WW1 Trench Lighter stands as an iconic piece of history, highlighting the ingenuity born out of necessity during wartime. Soldiers in the trenches of World War I needed a reliable way to light their cigarettes or pipes amidst harsh conditions. Traditional lighters often failed in the wet and muddy environment of the trenches.
The Invention
Enter the Trench Lighter. This simple yet effective device, typically made of metal, featured a hinged mechanism that protected the flame from wind or rain. Soldiers could easily ignite it with one hand, keeping the other hand free.
Craftsmanship and Resourcefulness
These lighters were often crafted from spent bullet casings or other scrap materials found on the battlefield. This showcased the resourcefulness of soldiers. Beyond their primary function of providing light and fire, they became cherished keepsakes, serving as tangible reminders of wartime experiences.
Collector’s Item
Today, WW1 Trench Lighters are sought after by collectors and history enthusiasts, offering a tangible connection to the soldiers who once carried them.
The Trench Lighter’s Legacy
Also known as a “pipe lighter” or “pocket lighter,” the WW1 Trench Lighter holds a unique place in military history. Born from the needs of trench warfare, these lighters were not just functional tools but also symbolic artifacts of soldierly resilience and innovation.
Design and Durability
Typically crafted from brass, steel, or other durable metals, the Trench Lighter consisted of a tubular casing with a hinged lid protecting the flame. Inside, a flint and striking wheel mechanism produced a spark, igniting the fuel reservoir.
Adaptability
Designed to withstand the damp, muddy, and windy environment of the trenches, the hinged lid shielded the flame and prevented fuel loss, ensuring reliable ignition even in adverse weather.
Sentimental Value
Many soldiers crafted their own lighters using readily available materials, adding a personal touch. Engraved initials, regimental insignia, or other markings often adorned these lighters, transforming them into cherished mementos of camaraderie, hardship, and survival.
Enduring Legacy
Though the heyday of Trench Lighters ended with WWI, their legacy endures. Today, these vintage lighters are prized by collectors and history enthusiasts, offering a tangible link to the past.
She inquired, “What’s the price for the eggs?” The elderly seller responded, “0.25 cents per egg
The old egg seller, his eyes weary and hands trembIing, continued to sell his eggs at a loss. Each day, he watched the sun rise over the same cracked pavement, hoping for a miracle. But the world was indifferent. His small shop, once bustling with life, now echoed emptiness.
The townspeople hurried past him, their footsteps muffled by their own worries. They no longer stopped to chat or inquire about the weather. The old man’s heart sank as he counted the remaining eggs in his baskets. Six left. Just six. The same number that the woman had purchased weeks ago.
He remembered her vividly—the woman with the determined eyes and the crisp dollar bill. She had bargained with him, driving a hard bargain for those six eggs. “$1.25 or I will leave,” she had said, her voice firm. He had agreed, even though it was less than his asking price. Desperation had cIouded his judgment.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The old seller kept his promise, selling those six eggs for $1.25 each time. He watched the seasons change—the leaves turning from green to gold, then falling to the ground like forgotten dreams. His fingers traced the grooves on the wooden crate, worn smooth by years of use.
One bitter morning, he woke to find frost cIinging to the windowpane. The chill seeped through the cracks, settling in his bones. He brewed a weak cup of tea, the steam rising like memories. As he sat on the same wooden crate, he realized that he could no longer afford to keep his small shop open.
The townspeople had moved on, their lives intertwined with busier streets and brighter lights. The old man packed up his remaining eggs, their fragile shells cradled in his weathered hands. He whispered a silent farewell to the empty shop, its walls bearing witness to countless stories—the laughter of children, the haggling of customers, and the quiet moments when he had counted his blessings.
Outside, the world was gray—a canvas waiting for a final stroke. He walked the familiar path, the weight of those six eggs heavier than ever. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. He reached the edge of town, where the road met the horizon.
And there, under the vast expanse of sky, he made his decision. With tears in his eyes, he gently placed the eggs on the ground. One by one, he cracked them open, releasing their golden yoIks. The wind carried their essence away, a bittersweet offering to the universe.
The old egg seller stood there, his heart as fragile as the shells he had broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. And in that quiet moment, he whispered a prayer—for the woman who had bargained with him, for the townspeople who had forgotten, and for himself.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he turned away from the empty road. His footsteps faded, leaving behind a trail of memories. And somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, six golden yolks danced—a silent requiem for a forgotten dream.
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