Category: Allies
Soldiers have some of the coolest toys. However, you have
to suffer a great deal to really play with them.
A dear friend was once a grunt with the 173rd Airborne Brigade posted in Vicenza, Italy. The 173rd is a storied paratrooper unit whose origins date back to 1917. Its members are called the Sky Soldiers. I’ve heard the 173rd described as, “The most fit group of alcoholic sociopaths in the known universe.”
Any healthy society venerates its warriors. Failure to do so is a great way to become conquered. However, along the way, sometimes reality gets a bit blurred.
If you shape your opinions from movies and the media, you could be forgiven for believing that American soldiers are all like John Rambo — rock hard super troops with chiseled physiques and ice water for blood. That was not my experience.
For the most part, even our elite special operations forces are really just souped up kids. They are indeed fit and exquisitely well-trained. They also have some of the neatest toys. However, even the new O-6 full Colonels are typically not yet 40 years old. The actual trigger pullers are often just teenagers.
As an aside, my wife’s grandfather fought in North Africa, Sicily and Italy during World War II. He once told me that a soldier should never remain in combat for more than a year. He said that, after about 12 months under fire, a man gets mean and is no longer afraid of anything. You cannot threaten him with court martial, peer pressure, or any other such vapid corporeal stuff.
I would actually assert that 19-year-olds make the best soldiers. Anything younger and you lack the requisite self-confidence. Much older and you start to question things. If the Big Green Machine was populated by old guys like me, we would, to pirate a phrase from the classic sci-fi opus Aliens, “Just nuke the site from orbit … it’s the only way to be sure.” It is that extraordinary teenaged sweet spot about which we will concern ourselves today.
Communal Suffering
Soldiers are subjected to corporate hardship for a variety of sound reasons. One is that sleep deprivation and hunger are combat analogues. Going without food and sleep reliably ratchets up the stress without a great deal of unnecessary risk.
As a side benefit, it is those ghastly road marches and protracted deployments that give you bragging rights with your grandchildren decades later. If you use a little poetic license describing how horrible it all was, they’ll never know the difference.
My buddy’s platoon was deployed to the field for a month. During this time, they conducted patrol base operations and ran tactical missions like recons and raids. As they were living in the field, that meant MREs for food and no showers for a full 30 days.
I’ve done that before myself and didn’t much care for it. However, over time you reach a sort of dirt stasis. Old dirt has to fall off to make room for new dirt. Once you find that filth balance, you attain a sort of unhygienic Zen. Most folks are good with it. And then there was this one idiot guy …
The M107 water carrier consists of a 400-gallon aluminum water tank mounted on a military trailer.
Details
While my friend’s unit was living tactically, they still required support. The easiest way to keep these guys in fresh water was to give them a dedicated water buffalo. The military designation was the M107. This was a giant 400-gallon aluminum tank mounted on a military trailer all painted camouflage. Everybody everywhere called them water buffaloes.
The M107 is pretty simple. There’s a big hatch on top to make them easy to fill, and spigots on the side so several soldiers can get water at once. The design is pretty stupid-proof.
In this case, they parked the water buffalo in the middle of the patrol base and just cycled by as needed to recharge canteens and get water to shave, brush their teeth, and so forth. Four hundred gallons should be enough to last 30 guys for a good while. However, over time, they began to notice something weird about the taste.
He said at first, they all assumed it was just that obligatory dearth of hygiene. However, late one evening, my friend dropped by the water buffalo to top off his canteen. While there, he heard something sloshing around inside. Producing his red lens flashlight, he carefully climbed up on top of the water buffalo and cracked the hatch.
He was shocked to discover one of his fellow grunts happily bathing inside the thing. This flaming moron was scrubbing down with soap and a dishrag, effectively ridding himself of his accumulated grunge. My buddy shouted for assistance and unceremoniously dragged the slippery miscreant out of the tank.
The platoon leader placed the young man under arrest and remanded him to their higher headquarters. Part of that was due to the rank stupidity he had shown in bathing in the unit’s drinking water. More importantly, however, it was to prevent my buddy and his fellow paratroopers from, no kidding, murdering him.
When I think back to my time in uniform, I remember being dirty a lot.
Ruminations
The unit scored a fresh water buffalo, and the guys all had the willies for a few days. My buddy had no idea what ultimately became of the mad bather. He never came back. I somehow doubt he had a long and productive career as a soldier.
I imagine, given his simply breathtaking proclivity toward poor judgment, that he eventually ended up incarcerated someplace. Wherever it is, I do hope they have nice showers.
Jug and Skeeter stylishly portraited by Mike “Doc” Barranti.
The phone rang and I answered with trepidation. You know the feeling. Something just doesn’t sound right with the ring, and you know it’s either bad news or someone you don’t particularly want to hear from. In this case, it was the latter. As soon as I heard the bumbling, “Hey, Skeet, ol’ buddy,” I knew exactly who it was.
You guys may recall Jug Johnson. Jug aspired to be a gun writer but struck it rich with mineral rights on a sliver of land he bought, complete with a run down, tar paper shack cabin.
Seems this sliver of land accessed a huge natural gas field, a super-giant of a reserve, which resulted in monthly royalty checks exceeding $200,000. Talk about dumb luck. And more proof that dimwits can get lucky while the rest of us continue working daily just to get by.
With the money, Jug bought a huge, articulated RV that was bigger than a Greyhound bus and leased 50,000 acres of prime hunting ground.
“Wanna’ go huntin’, Skeet?” he said. “Season opens in a coupla’ days?”
I had to admit, the offer, along with the opportunity of busting a deer with my 7.5” Ruger flattop was tempting.
“We can take the RV and set up camp with it. I’ll pick you up at your place in Horsethief, if you want?” he said.
Door-to-door service to one of the top mule deer spots in the state was enticing. I guess I could put up with Jug’s stupid questions and remarks for a few days.
Jug’s RV was a little on the large size to say the least.
The Trip
At quarter to five, I was dreaming of Pancho Villa and his crew of henchmen charging me in Columbus, New Mexico. I dreamt I was stationed there and heard bugles, signaling the charge.
I was manning the Hotchkiss M1909 Benet-Mercie machine gun and had just pulled the bolt back. The dream seemed so real, I could still hear the bugles after I woke up; only they were playing “La Cucaracha” now.
Then, I heard the sound of air brakes hissing as they lost pressure. Peering through my bedroom shades, I saw the biggest RV ever made and Jug Johnson behind the wheel. He ordered the RV with an air horn that blasted “La Cucaracha” when hitting the horn.
Walking down the three steps of the RV, the dimwitted Jug grinned through his prominent overbite, adjusting his too small cowboy hat and hitching his britches as he headed for the house. I greeted him at the front door after turning on my preloaded coffee percolator.
“Grab yourself a cup of coffee while I clean up, Jug.”
After I brushed my teeth, washed my face and ran a comb through my thinning hair, I met Jug in the kitchen. He was holding an ice cube on his tongue, sputtering more unintelligibly than usual, “Thang, that cothees HOT!”
Shaking my head, I grabbed a cup, laughing to myself, thinking maybe he wouldn’t ask me so many questions during the three-hour drive with a scalded tongue. I could only hope.
As Jug drove, I napped. Before you knew it, we were pulling up to the lease. While Jug leveled the RV and set up camp, I gathered firewood for the pit, along with water from the stream. We cooked beef steak, cut into cubes and strung on whittled sticks, while sipping some good sour mash whiskey. We turned in early, knowing we’d be up well before the sun.
Skeeter’s 7.5” flattop with shed antler.
The “infamous” blood trail.
The Hunt
We were up by 0400. drinking coffee and planning the hunt. Jug towed his new ATV on a trailer so we wouldn’t have to walk much getting to our vantage points. I was going to be nestled in a pinyon thicket where the bucks liked to bed down after eating soybean all night. On my way to my stand, I found a nice Muley shed antler. Maybe I’ll be lucky today, I thought to myself.
Jug was going to high ground, up in the cliffs, where he usually hunted, taking advantage of some new wildcat he designed with lots of reach. I forget the particulars, only that he had to replace his barrel after every 150 rounds, or so, on account of it burning the throat out.
We were in our spots 45 minutes before daybreak. Around 0815, I heard a far-off shot sounding like a NASA rocket launching into space followed by a huge sonic boom.
It had to be Jug. In all honesty, it woke me from a light doze. I was looking around, gathering my senses, when I noticed a nice, chunky 4×4 muley sneaking through the pinyon. I patiently waited for him to close the distance, as he headed right for me.
He was totally unaware of my presence. Before sitting down, I had drawn my flattop and placed it next to me on my backpack for faster access and less movement.
I picked up the flattop and cocked the hammer, placing my left thumb in front of the hammer to prevent any negligent discharge. When the buck was 35 yards from me, I removed my thumb and lined up my sights.
When all seemed perfect, I started my trigger press. The exploding cartridge startled me, and the buck did a perfect “mule kick” indicating a heart shot and ran back downhill.
After a relaxing smoke, I holstered my gun and headed toward the buck. Before getting to him, I heard Jug coming in on his ATV. I guess he was good for something after all.
“Did ya get him, Skeet? I heard your shot,” he said.
“I think so. My sight picture felt good as the hammer broke and that 429421 HP should have taken care of him,” I replied.
We found my buck 45 yards from where I shot him.
“What about you, Jug? I heard you shoot. Did you get one too?” I said.
Jug looked dejected.
“I think I crippled one. That’s why I was coming over here. To see if you could help me find him?”
We loaded up my deer and headed over to where Jug shot his deer.
“I was sitting up there, by that big boulder and he was standing right around here,” he said.
We saw some hair, but no blood trail.
“Where’d you see him run off to? We’ll see if we can pick up any sign as we go,” I asked.
It reminded me of my border patrol days, tracking down illegals.
Jug’s Muley. Some guys are just lucky.
Jug said he saw the buck disappear into a dry creek bed. We followed the creek bed, but didn’t see anything for a half mile. Every hundred yards or so, we’d stop, stand up and glass, looking for any sign.
We turned around and headed in the other direction and went for about another half mile past where we started. We still didn’t see anything, so we turned around and headed back to camp.
We only went a few feet when Jug said, “I see blood, Skeet!” He was getting excited now. So, we followed the sign.
“Look here, Skeet. He must have stopped; there’s a lot of blood here.” Looking down, I saw several drops of blood and wondered how we ever missed it? We follow the trail for about ½ of a mile and it stops. We looked around to see if the buck jumped out of the creek bed, but didn’t see anything.
I told him, “Let’s turn around and see if we can’t figure something out, Jug.”
“Look Skeet, another blood trail, he must have doubled back on us!” he said.
We followed the two blood trails, one going east and the other going west, when it occurred to me what was happening. I started chuckling and Jug asked me what was so funny.
With tears in my eyes, I asked,” What’s in back of your ATV?”
“Huh? Why it’s your deer, Skeet.”
“Exactly, and what do you notice about the deer, Jug?”
Jug studied the deer like he was trying to order for an all-you-can-eat buffet.
“Why, he’s bled out a lot, Skeet.”
“Exactly! Now get out and look at the back of your ATV.”
Jug started laughing too, now.
“Skeet, we’ve been tracking your deer leaking blood out of the ATV.”
Ironically, as we headed back to camp, we recovered Jug’s deer. He was a real whopper too, but with no visible sign of a hit.
As far as I could tell that huge bullet of Jug’s was going so fast that it created a vacuum of sorts and sucked all the air out of its lungs, killing it instantly. I’d have never believed it, if I hadn’t seen it myself. I guess some guys really are just lucky.
Farm life lends itself to a different type of personal threat that needs an adequate defense strategy.
This is the reason you need a snake gun if you like in the Deep South. Agkistrodon piscivorus, the cottonmouth water moccasin, is a venomous serpent that gravitates toward bodies of water. (Photo provided by author.)
This deep into the Information Age, it’s getting tougher to justify firearm purchases from a practical perspective. Home, vehicle, and personal defense are perennially pertinent.
Hunting in much of the country is obviously also still a thing. However, with urban sprawl inexorably encroaching on many of America’s vast rural spaces, the probability that you might need a firearm to defend yourself or your space against predators is shrinking. However, that doesn’t mean the need no longer exists…
One Step Away from Tragedy…
My farm and my wife are the only two really good investments I have ever made. We live half an hour from the nearest proper town in rural Mississippi.
If I can’t pee in my front yard without irritating the neighbors I really don’t want to live there. In short, I do like my space. Our backyard is a seven-acre lake I built a quarter century ago.
Back when we were homeschooling the kids, that lake was our swimming pool, fishing hole, science lab, and playground. Flipping the aluminum Grumman canoe over and using it like a submarine made for fun on an apocalyptic scale.
The only serious downside was all the blasted water moccasins. The scaly monsters breed like rats. Glancing out over breakfast and seeing one of them placidly trawling its way across the lake like some kind of Imperial German battlecruiser just made my skin crawl.
Even now the thought sends a bit of a shiver down my spine.I know that there are those among us who feel that venomous serpents are really our friends—like slithery fanged puppies.
They opine that we should just happily coexist with these vile deadly creatures. Screw that. I have treated venomous snake bites as a physician and seen what that stuff does to human flesh.
I have also personally had them stand their ground and choose fight over flight more than a few times. If nothing else, I just have little interest in stepping on one of the blasted things in the dark. I exterminate them on sight. I feel no guilt over that. We built the lake. They wouldn’t even be here were it not for us. That and Mississippi is certainly not suffering any particular shortage of the scaly beasts.
My seven-year-old scampered out onto the back patio barefoot in the early morning cool in search of mischief. I tagged along, because playing outside with your kids is the most fun a human male can have doing anything–no exceptions.
As my spawn leapt down the steps in unfettered glee, I saw him. The cottonmouth was pushing three feet long and was coiled up like a rope with its bilious white maw showing. That little pink foot was on a collision course for a whole pile of venomous pain. I snatched my son up by the arm in the nick of time, scaring the holy bejeebers out of both of us.
Author with his Tactical Solutions 22 LR out on patrol. (Photo provided by author.)
Posting my boy as a lookout, I jogged inside and grabbed the first gun I came to—a cut-down Remington 870 pump-action 12-gauge with four rounds of birdshot in the magazine and an empty chamber.
I racked the action and had the gun ready by the time I got back to the snake. Moving my kid aside, I drew down. For about half a minute, we had ourselves a moccasin standoff.
The serpent was coiled up on the topmost stone step of several that led down to the water’s edge. I wanted to kill the snake, but I didn’t want to blast my patio to pieces in the process.
After a bit the snake turned tail and struck out for the water. I drew a bead on the spot just past the steps intending to decapitate the monster when the moment was right.
When the big snake got to the end of the steps, he dove straight down into the water, depriving me of a clean shot. In frustration, I just ran down to the water’s edge and emptied the 12-bore into the rushes. I was rewarded by a spectacular shower of mud, water, and snake guts aplenty. Best. Day. Ever.
Particulars
Author hunting venomous snakes on his property with a hand 12 ga shotgun. (Photo provided by author.)
I have killed a total of 64 moccasins in the backyard thus far. I keep a tally. We used to have a problem with beavers murdering my wife’s dogwood trees.
We also have a cyclical problem with feral dogs. They run in packs and don’t wear collars. I typically wouldn’t care so much about that, but they have approached my wife on two occasions growling when she was outside in the yard by herself. Two legs or four, nothing growls at my wife without earning my attention.
I write for gun magazines. As a result, I have access to a wide variety of weapons to deal with these sundry rural challenges. Along the way, I have made some interesting discoveries. These revelations have informed the selection of firearms I maintain within arm’s reach.
Snake Guns
This cut-down, side-by-side 12-gauge was my primary snake gun for years. It is quite effective but has a limited range. (Photo provided by author.)
I originally used a variety of 12-gauge shotguns. The Mad Max side-by-side pistol in a homemade shoulder rig kept me company on my walks. A autoloading riot gun stood ready to cover the lake.
However, it is 68 meters from the patio to the far side of the pond. I have found from experience that this is too far to reliably snuff a water moccasin with a scattergun. My current snake gun is a sound-suppressed TacSol X-Ring .22 rifle with a Leupold optic.
I keep the gun cleared with a loaded 25-round magazine alongside for safety. It is a simple thing to charge the rifle as I jog out to the battlefield. T
his rifle is undeniably expensive. The MSRP for the gun alone is a whopping $1,671. However, it shoots like a laser and is completely hearing safe without muffs. I once used this weapon to shoot the head off of a moccasin while it was swimming across the lake at more than fifty meters.
With a decent sling, the X-Ring is easier to carry than my old 12-gauge pistol. It also gives me 25 rounds on tap. I’ve never come home with less than fifteen. It would also theoretically do a job on other threats should the need arise. I once saw a man kill a 6-point whitetail with a Ruger 10/22. I wouldn’t recommend that, but it can be done.
Counter-Dog Systems
Another option for a short-barrel shotgun. (Photo provided by author.)
I despise venomous snakes, but I like dogs. I have little interest in causing any lasting harm to our canine friends. However, I can’t have them harassing my bride, either. The answer to this quandary was found not so much in the gun box as on the reloading bench.
A Lee Load All 12-gauge Shotshell Reloading Press is a paltry $79 off of Amazon. It’s the best value in the American gun world. Shot and powder charges are determined by the use of plastic bushings, and you can mount it in a workshop or even a storage closet. Components are not expensive, and the thing is pretty stupid-proof. The finished product is factory neat.
The Lee Load All will set you back $79 on Amazon. It produces lovely reloaded shotshells. (Photo provided by author.)
I have used my inexpensive Lee Load All to make cheap short-loaded, low-recoil BB rounds for my stubby 12 bores. I have also used it to craft home-rolled flechette rounds using GI-surplus darts. The machine’s real forte, however, is counter-dog rounds. These are standard 12-gauge loads packed with 6mm plastic airsoft BBs.
Loading 12-gauge rounds with 6mm airsoft BBs creates some superlative non-lethal counter-dog shells. (Photo provided by author.)
You still need to use a wad, and those can be legitimately lethal at intimate ranges. However, out past seven meters or so, these loads will indeed just liberally dust a belligerent hound’s flanks.
This is adequate to dissuade any amorous designs they might harbor toward my own farm she-dog as well. I keep a box of these home-rolled anti-K9 shells handy next to the gun. I’ve used them maybe half a dozen times in the past twenty years and have yet to have a repeat customer. Avoid the eyes, and it’s no harm, no foul.
Serious Stuff
Any decent 5.56mm AR will handle basic farm security needs. This BRN-4 parts gun from Brownells is an accurate copy of the vaunted HK 416 at a fraction of the price of a German original. (Photo provided by author.)
Any decent 5.56mm AR variant will handle the weightier farm threats. The local cops are all my buddies, but they’re at least fifteen minutes distant on a good day. For that first quarter hour of a home invasion, I’ll be on my own. Fret not, I’m totally good with that.
This is the gun that gets grabbed if the dogs don’t get the point with the plastic stuff. It will also do for pigs when they come wandering through eating absolutely everything.
It was just such a smoke pole that solved our little beaver problem as well. There’s a reason the US Army has used the 5.56mm round for some six decades now. We forever prattle on about stopping power. I’ve seen a lot of people shot, some of whom were shot with rifles. None of them seemed happy.
Life Lessons
We all love optics on our practical guns. However, store your gun in an air-conditioned space and then drag it out into the jungle that is a Mississippi summer, and that optical sight is worse than useless.
The air down here in July is so thick and so wet you can rip off a chunk and gnaw on it. Any optical sight will instantly fog over the moment you take it outside.
As a remedy, I prepositioned an old blow dryer on an extension cord by the back door. I pause to blast the glass on my sights front and back with the hair dryer before leaving the house.
I do the same thing with my camera when I’m heading outside to shoot outdoor gun pictures. This takes about 15 seconds if done properly. Raising the temperature of the glass just a bit is adequate to prevent condensation. Everything in life is physics.
Similarly, it’s always a good idea to wipe your guns down when you bring them back in prior to putting them away. Repeated cycles will tend to promulgate rust and corrosion. I also rotate my ready ammo from time to time for the same reason.
Ruminations
Despite all of our civilized trappings, there are still places in America where you might genuinely need a utility firearm. Folks in urban spaces will most likely not encounter an enraged grizzly bear. However, denizens of Kodiak Island don’t have much of a carjacking problem, either. Different spaces, different missions.
We rightfully grouse about America’s onerous gun control laws, but ours is the purest form of freedom to be found anyplace on Planet Earth. We are blessed to live in a place that, with a few exceptions, allows us access to the tools we need to keep ourselves and our loved ones safe and secure come what may. The specific particulars are also, coincidentally, simply great fun.
General Delivery
Horsethief, NM
(Sunday Night)
Alex Bartimo, Editor
Shooting Times
Box 1790
Peoria IL 61656
Dear Bart:
This isn’t actually from Horsethief. I’m camped in the big timber about halfway up the side of San Miguel mountain. Saint Mike, we call it. You may not be able to read my poor handwriting because of the the watermarks on the paper. I know I should be weeping about missing the deadline on this month’s gun review, but I’m sorry to say these splotches weren’t made by tears.
Rain and snow did that.
I’m trapped here, and it’s my own fault. Down at the house in Horsethief, I contracted cabin fever. No pals had visited in more than a month. I don’t take a newspaper (you can get bad news anywhere). I’d read every book on the place at least twice, and Horsethief has no library or newsstand. We get one television station from Albuquerque via a repeater in the mountains, and it runs Bozo the Clown, As The World Flips, intriguing situation comedies about the family problems of New York taxi drivers, and wilderness stories about mountain men who feed themselves and their pet mountain lions with mushrooms and rosehips gathered in the dew.
My set is still like new-it never gets turned on.
The fact of the matter is, I was bored stiff when I got this foreign .380 you wanted shot and decided to make it my excuse to come up to this big stretch of forest belonging to a friend of mine. I was going to stay a couple of days, shoot, and drowse in the sunshine.
Didn’t work out that way.
I like to carry extras, so I packed my old pickup with sleeping bag and big tarp, groceries for two or three days-including canned corned beef hash, chili con carne, coffee, bacon, eggs, and a sack of fresh biscuits. And one jug of Henry McKenna redeye to ward off the weeps around the evening fire. Luckily, I also brought a Coleman camp stove and lantern because I planned on cooking on an open fire.
I stowed the camera equipment, figuring on getting pictures of .380 on tree stump and (using a selftimer) heroic poses of my classic profile looking off into the horizon.
The trip up was nice. Plenty of sunshine. Few melting snowbanks left from winter. Jeep road a little tough on pickup, but made it to campsite okay. Strung lariat rope between two trees and wired end of tarp to it. Made lean-to. Took rocks from clear, cold stream and built fireplace. Gathered enough dead wood to last two days. Unrolled sleeping bag, laid holstered Ruger .44 beside it. Was home.
Built fire, had hash and biscuits, raunchy coffee. Took tot of McKenna while looking at stars. Wondered what city folks were doing. Turned in early.
Up before first light. Drizzling rain. Get GI poncho from truck’s toolbox. Trouble getting fire going with wet wood. Pour on Coleman fuel. Burn fingers…..Biscuits, bacon and coffee.
Sitting in lean-to, I examine new .380. Most unusual. Called the Mama Mia. Made in Costa Rica by Hijos de Basura, S.A. and imported by Larson E. Rippoff Inc. Homossa Springs, Florida. Price: $469.98. About five inches long. Ten-shot staggered magazine extends one-half inch below butt. Double action with pull of approximately 20 pounds; single-action pull about 25 pounds.
Shiny plastic grips. Shiny plastic trigger guard (combat style). Shiny plastic sight rib and sights. Rear sight adjustable for windage. One click equals 12 inches at 25 yards.
Extra 48-shot magazine is curved. Might not do much for feeding but looks jazzy, making pistol five inches long and 1 ¼ feet deep. Optional flash hider and grenade launcher supplied with my review gun. Extras cost only $189.98.
Many cast parts in pistol. Nothing wrong with well-cast parts, but these of somewhat lesser quality than lead soldiers I made as a boy.
Can’t shoot, must wait out rain. Wait all day. Except for small supply under tarp, wood is soaked. Crank up Coleman stove. Chili and biscuits. Wish had brought tortillas and refried beans. Hit sack early. Sleeping bag feels damp.
Third day now. Raining harder. Decide to go home. Dismantle camp, pack truck. Trouble starting engine. Drive 10 feet from camp on muddy trail, skid, nose into boulder. Rear wheels spin. No four-wheel drive. No tire chains. Stuck. Rebuild camp. All wood wet. Hunker around Coleman stove. Things have to get better. Feast on bacon, eggs, soggy biscuits. Long pull at Henry McKenna, then dream in wet sleeping bag. Fourth day. Bear sign around truck. Glad I hadn’t woke up. Might have made mistake and shot bear with .380. Wish I was in Horsethief, watching taxi driver program. Still no interest in mountain man and lion.
Go to stream for coffee water and wash. Bank full, running fast, water chocolate brown. Wash in muddy water and get gallon jug of emergency water from truck. Use sparingly. Going nuts.
Sun peeps through in afternoon. Rain stops, but pickup still stuck. Grab opportunity to shoot the Mama Mia. Staple dry targets from toolbox to big conifer pine. Have W.W. R-P, and Federal factory loads. Load 10 round magazine. Brace against tree now. Squeeze off first round at target. Low/left in 7 ring. Empty case smokestacks. Feed next round into chamber manually. Not on paper. Now shooting low/right 6s. Go through 20 shots, all hand operated. Group is high, right, low, left, 16 inches (diameter of tree).
Forty-eight-round magazine loaded and put in place. Will not feed first round. Note for first time that loading ramp is very steep-about 45 degree-and narrow. Get screwdriver kit from toolbox and dismantle pistol.
Many tool marks inside shiny exterior. Horseshoe rasp, maybe. Springs all piano wire type. Apparently from very small piano. After some difficulty, reassemble and try 48-round magazine again. No dice. Big magazine apparently meant to be handy place to carry ammunition.
Shoot single shot for a while. Groups don’t improve. Curious square holes cut by bullets. Perhaps due to quadrangular rifling in bore. Try all brands of ammunition. Results the same.
See squirrel munching acorn in nearby tree. Very fat. Squirrel out of season, but I get an evil idea. Rations low. Squirrel rolled in biscuit crumbs and fried in bacon drippings would be great morale builder.
Sight seven inches high and left on squirrel with Mama Mia. And miss. Squirrel munches acorn. Hold upper right quadrant or rodent. Does not disturb dining squirrel. Working slide by hand, fire five quick shots. Squirrel looks on with interest. Think of going for .44 Magnum, but don’t believe squirrel tail and ears would make good supper.
Fifth day. Grub low. Biscuits turning green. Hunting squirrels, porcupines, and even bears with .44 Magnum. Mighty hunter in magazine articles; dripping dud in wet forest.
Sixth day. Definitely in deep trouble. Old bones won’t stand up to 40-mile walkout. Wife home from Flower Arrangers Convention in Santa Fe by now. Will find me gone and cats unfed. Will be mildly irritated. Probably throw things. But she will call friends in State Police and Forest Service. They will check out jails, hospitals, then Kelly Canyon, Desert Saloon, El Paso. Then they will settle down to look for me. Shouldn’t be longer than one more day….
Down to dregs of coffee by seventh morning. Broken clouds. Mama Mia WD-fortied and put away. Reading labels on empty hash cans. Stomach growling.
Suddenly hear chopper working way up canyon. Use Coleman fuel. Make smoky fire. Helicopter hovers, lands in mud near pickup. Pilot is Dick Shaw, a State Police friend.
Embarrassing situation. Shaw disgusted. Dismounts from machine, walks toward pot of weak coffee, gets dirty cup, and drinks. Sees I’m cold, wet. Gives me a cigarette.
“How’d you get yourself in this fix, Skeeter?”
Mutter something about big job I had to do-caught by weather. Shaw not at all sympathetic. Says he will radio for four-wheeler with chains and winch to come get me. Will probably cost at least $100. I say okay.
Shaw blasts off. I start breaking camp again. Must go home and face music. Will mail this letter tomorrow.
Might be just as well if this was one gun review that didn’t get printed.
Su amigo,
Skeeter