This 1917 will never be changed.
I’ve got guns with warts on them. Nicks, a bit of rust, plating flaking off, signs of bad gunsmithing in the past or just plain honest wear — warts-all. And the funny thing is I won’t change a thing on any of them, ever. Let me explain.
My brother, Ren, died unexpectedly a few years ago. We grew up around guns and hunted and shot together. He was five years younger than me, but we were always close. I was the real gun-guy and I think Ren, while owning a modest collection of often eclectic bent, mostly enjoyed them because he knew how much I did.
He’d often call me excitedly about some weird or unusual find he had located, “It’s this strange thing, I think .32 caliber, but it might be 9mm, but the old lady said her husband died and he got it in the war, and she wanted to get rid of it so I bought it for $150. It’s got some kind of funny writing on it, maybe Russian? You think I did good?” And he usually didn’t do good. But he never lost his enthusiasm and I think he hoped one day I’d say, “My god Ren, do you realize what you’ve found!?” One day he came close.
After the excited call, he came over and plopped a bag on the table. “Found this and I’ll bet you’ll like it,” he said smiling. In the brown paper bag was a “bag-o-gun” as I call them. A 1917 S&W completely apart, down to every screw and pin. “Well, cool, huh?” he said. And at the time a 1917 was hard to get and it was cool, and I told him so. It was pretty rusty, but seemed all there. “Can you put it together,” he asked excitedly?
“Better yet,” I said, “I’ll help you to put it together.” An hour or two later we had a functioning 1917 and he was proud as anything knowing I liked the gun. “You know, it’s for you,” he said, holding it out. I smiled and closed my hand on his while he held it, “No, it’s for you, because I helped you put it together. One day I’ll show you how to refinish it and we’ll make it like new. Then it’ll be our gun.” He smiled at me and I knew he liked the idea. But we never got around to it as such things all too often go, and after he died I found the 1917 among some other guns he had. The gun lives in my safe now and I think you understand why it won’t ever be restored. It still has his hands on it.
I have others. The old Colt Single Action .44-40 is a genuine “stashed under the cabin floor” gun, found in an old cabin in Arizona. Grips don’t get that worn by sitting in a drawer somewhere and I only wish it could talk. I’ll bet you do too.
Genuine “Cabin” find Colt.
Suzi’s family 1911.
If you look closely at the old blued 1911 you’ll see where someone had taken a belt sander to the top-strap sometime in its past life. The reason the gun is special is because it belonged to Suzi’s grandfather who carried it on Navy ships during WWII, then was passed on to her step-father, who carried it in Vietnam on gunboats. At one time in its life, some armorer probably ground off some rust and got the gun going again. It stays the way it is.
The other 1911 was carried by an old gentleman during WWII in the South Pacific, and saw serious action in the island-hopping campaign. “Roy, it saved my life on more than one occasion and I have to tell you, that old .45 hardball round would punch right through a Japanese helmet. I know because I did it.” I got the original holster and two 20-round boxes of military ammo dated 1944 with it when he died. I’ll never change it.
A fighting gun from WWII.
The old nickel S&W .38 break-top is a family gun of ours. My dad bought it for $10 when I was about eight, and it was a thing of mystery and beauty the entire time I was growing up. I could “look at the gun” anytime I wanted to, I just had to ask. No end of bank-robbers and bad guys met their fate in my imagination, while I held that gun carefully on my lap.
I think it fostered my desire to be a cop later on. I can still feel the snappy recoil of those .38 S&W rounds in my eight-year old hands and I can’t pick the gun up today without doing some time traveling. It has my own eight-year old hands on it still, and it’s a eerie feeling to have my now 55-year old hands meet them. I almost feel like I’m shaking hands with that gun-crazy little boy all those years ago. I only wish I could have whispered back over the decades to him in a dream to assure him his passion would turn into a lifetime of enjoyment, opportunity and adventure.
The gun that made Roy become a cop.
Too many people have talked to these old guns, too many friends who are now gone have shot them with me, or simply enjoyed looking at them with me over a glass of good wine to change the patina now. It would be like taking the bark off an old oak tree — and that’s equally unthinkable for me now that I live with those fine, old, wise trees on our land.
Funny how it just depends on how you look at things. Sometimes, warts can be a good thing.
LOCALS in Louisiana were left stunned to find one of Putin’s prized T-90 tanks that was seized by Ukranian forces parked at a truck stop.
The monstrous military vehicle was dumped in a parking lot off the Interstate 10 highway after being shipped over to the United States.
Employees at Peto’s Travel Center and Casino in Roanoke were stunned when they saw the terrifying tank plonked outside.
A shipping label on the side of the barrel of the main gun suggests it may have been shipped over from Gdynia, Poland.
Open source intelligence trackers claim the T-90A tank was captured by Ukrainian forces last September amid Russia’s disastrous invasion.
The formidable Russian motor was left unattended at the truck stop for several days, leaving passing drivers baffled.
The state-of-the-art tank was being hauled across the state of Louisiana when the transmission on the truck suddenly went out.
The driver had to go to Houston to replace his mode of transport and asked staff at Peto’s if he could leave the tank there until he returned, according to The Drive.
Assistant manager Valerie Mott said: “I’ve been here seven years. I’ve never seen [a tank] here before.”
She said the truck stop was under the watchful eye of security guards 24 hours a day in case any military fanatics got too giddy.
The tank seems to have sustained some damage to its front and rear fenders, as well as lacking some Western fire control components that they are usually equipped with.
A shipping label suggests it may have been transported from Poland by an organization known as the “multinational assessment field team.”
It is thought the armored vehicle may be headed to the US Army Aberdeen Test Center (ATC) in Maryland for weapons testing or training exercises.
The tank, believed to have been constructed in 2004, is thought to have been captured in Kharviv last September from Putin‘s soldiers by Ukraine’s 92nd Separate Mechanized Brigade.
The Russian troops who ditched their motor were with the 27th Separate Guards Motorized Rifle Brigade, 1st Guards Tank Army.
The tank is expected to be examined by the US military to gain insight into the equipment Russia relies on in battle.
Experts can assess its capabilities and vulnerabilities through reverse engineering.
It is believed that Ukrainian forces may have already stripped some key components after seizing the T-90.
Its sheer presence sparked a panic in Louisiana, as people feared it may have been tampered with while sitting idly for several days.
The trucking company transporting the tank nor military officials have yet to publicly address the incident.
The bizarre guest in the Peto’s parking lot has left many Americans with more questions than answers.
Images of the tank were shared on Reddit by a motorist who lives nearby after he spotted it while driving past.
The post read: “I’m some guy in the south who happens to like tanks from playing War Thunder and stumbled upon this beauty.”
His computer game dreams seemed to have come to life after he extraordinarily found the tank as it made its baffling journey.
Ukraine previously claimed that a T-90 tank they had captured was stuffed with technology made by French firm Thales.
There has been an arms embargo for European firms supplying Russia with equipment since the annexation of Crimea in 2014.
But reports say €346 million worth of military gear was sold to Russia by continental manufacturers after that.
The modern Walther PPK/S (left) is an evolutionary development of this pre-war Walther PPK in .32 ACP.
I had signed into Fort Rucker, Ala., a few days prior to my actual report date. It left a long weekend to kill before settling into the grind at our new Army post. As the beach was a mere hour and a half south, we decided to go sample the sugar white sand of Panama City.
On the drive back north, we stopped at the shopping mall in Dothan to stretch our legs and grab a bite. My son was a toddler. As a result, either my wife or I had to be physically managing him all the time lest he wander into traffic. This meant we went to the restroom in shifts.
When it was my turn, there was one other guy in the john. I don’t make a habit of studying guys in the restroom, so I just knew he was an older gentleman. As he left the institutional mall bathroom, a group of a dozen or so boisterous young men piled in.
They were loud and obnoxious as young men in herds typically tend to be. They were cursing and slamming into things. They went from one end of the restroom to the other, kicking in the stall doors to ensure no one was lurking therein. Then they got to me.
I was still facing the urinal doing my business when one of the young men came up behind me and popped me with a quick rabbit punch between the shoulder blades. I leaned forward but caught myself reflexively before becoming one with the urinal. I then put myself together and turned around to face the assembled crowd.
At the time, I was young, fit and hard — a trained soldier. However, they outnumbered me a dozen to one. They now stood silent in a semicircle, facing me, their arms collectively crossed. We exchanged stares, and they said not a word.
It was then I realized I might be about to die in a restroom in the Dothan, Ala. shopping mall. I might have taken a couple of them on a good day, but these were rangy 17-year-olds wearing gang colors. There was no way I was going to best them all collectively.
I slipped my hand into my right front pocket, slipped the latch on the butterfly knife that was my constant companion and said a little prayer. Without a word, I walked toward the largest of the lot, turning sideways to squeeze between him and his nearest companion. Throughout the episode, they all remained inexplicably fixated on the urinal. I’m fairly certain it was the prayer that got me out of that restroom alive.
Once outside, I found my precious wife innocently beaming. The elderly gentleman who had been in the restroom originally was apparently considerably more street-savvy than was I. He had posted himself outside the restroom and was telling others to find another venue. He said there was a gang meeting going on inside.
I gathered my family and left. However, I found I did not much care for the feeling of helplessness I had experienced during this sordid little episode. I drove directly from the shopping mall to the nearby county seat to apply for my very first concealed carry permit.
The FIE Titan .25 ACP that was Will’s first concealed carry weapon really is a silly little gun.
Will’s first serious concealed carry pistol was a stainless steel PPK/S in .380 ACP.
Though a bit heavy, the trim little Walther carried well and packed some proper horsepower.
Back in the early ’90s in Alabama, the application for a concealed carry permit was but a single page. The permit was good for a year and cost $15. You filled it out at the local sheriff’s office.
I documented the demographic data and got to the part about supplying three references. As these were the days before cell phones and I had not come prepared with my address book, I struggled to come up with addresses and phone numbers for three people who were not family members. When the sweet lady behind the counter saw I was struggling, she said, “Son, don’t fret about that stuff. We ain’t calling any of those people anyway.”
The plan was to leave the application with the sheriff. They would run a background check overnight while it was slow, and then I could pick up the permit the following day. When I arrived the next morning, the same lady apologized and said they had been too busy to run the checks the night before. As it was a half-hour drive from home, and I would soon be really short on discretionary time, I was clearly disappointed. She said, “Aww, hell, you look like an honest guy,” and signed my form.
I was both surprised and grateful. When she noted my confusion, she asked me if I had ever been frisked by the police. I replied I had not. She went on to explain I could have carried a concealed weapon every day from first grade to the present and no one ever would have known. She said the fact I was standing there meant I needed it and criminals didn’t make a habit of asking the police for permission to carry a gun. Hers was the most profound wisdom I have ever heard from a government servant.
Now that I had the paper, I needed a gun. Mine was a hunting family. I had a bunch of long guns to include an AR-15 and a Chicom Type 56 AK. However, I had not grown up with handguns. The only pistol I owned was an FIE Titan in .25 ACP.
My precious wife bought me the tiny little gun for my birthday the previous year for $50. I liked it because it was a pistol. She liked it because it was cute. This diminutive .25-caliber heater was all the gun we could afford at the time.
The Titan was technically the Tanfoglio GT27. This single-action, blowback-operated semi-automatic pistol fed from a seven-round magazine and weighed three quarters of a pound loaded. The lightweight cast frame was formed from some weird cheap alloy called Zamak. Production began in 1962.
The GT27 fell prey to the import restrictions imposed by the 1968 Gun Control Act. The GCA was intended to restrict availability of cheap “Saturday Night Specials.” I was living proof sometimes cheap “Saturday Night Specials” were all a working man could afford. As a result, the American companies Excam and FIE (Firearms Import and Export) brought the parts in from Italy and assembled them domestically as a workaround.
I carried the little gun loose in my right front pocket where my butterfly knife used to ride. I kept the chamber empty and practiced charging the weapon as part of its retrieval. I couldn’t afford a better pistol, but I stoked it with Glaser Safety Slugs.
Safety Slugs were serious defensive medicine back then. Basically, a formed bullet jacket packed with fine lead shot and topped with a polymer tip, these flimsy little 1/4″ bullets likely would not have penetrated much past a T-shirt. Regardless, I was finally packing heat.
Like roughly one-tenth of the American adult population, a nice, concealed carry handgun is an integral part of Will’s daily loadout.
Left to right: 9mm Parabellum, .380 ACP and .25 ACP. Modern hollowpoints are quite capable.
I saved up my pennies and bought a stainless steel Walther PPK/S in .380 ACP. I packed it in a small-of-the-back leather holster I borrowed from a friend. I recall the first time I went to the local Walmart with that thing underneath a T-shirt feeling like I was glowing orange. After a while, I came to appreciate folks either couldn’t tell I was packing a gun or didn’t care. It was, after all, the point of the exercise.
The PPK/S with its steel frame and seven-round magazine capacity was fairly heavy. However, the superb single-action/double-action trigger allowed me to carry the gun safely with a round in the chamber. I kept the slide-mounted safety on just in case and trained to flick it off on the draw. Then as now, I am diagnosable-paranoid about negligent discharges. It’s one of the reasons over many decades of shooting and hundreds of thousands of rounds, I’ve yet to have one.
I pack something high capacity, lightweight and plastic these days. I am armed whenever I am not asleep or in the shower. I have had need of a gun twice for real since then and found myself prepared both times. Had I faced that gang with nothing but my trusty FIE Titan they likely would have killed me. However, I would have at least had the means to make them work for it.
Will’s first concealed carry pistol was this truly pathetic FIE Titan in .25 ACP.
This diminutive little heater might have been preferable to foul language or
pleading, but not by much.
Modern concealed carry pistols like this tricked-out SIG SAUER P365
are hugely more capable than previous offerings.
Just before Christmas 1984, Bernie Goetz used a J-Frame Smith & Wesson revolver to wound four hustling teenagers on a New York subway train. Though they played themselves as victims at the time, the teens later admitted their intent had been to rob Goetz. When Goetz was tried for the shooting, fully half of his jurors had themselves been victims of New York street crime. He was acquitted of everything but illegal weapons possession.
This watershed event really birthed the concealed carry movement in America. Like me, many to most Americans were fed up with being defenseless in the face of criminals who ignored the law. Nowadays more than 19 million Americans hold a valid concealed carry license, and 20 states allow concealed carry without a permit. In a nation with 196 million adults, it means at least one-tenth of the population packs heat. It’s been an interesting trip getting here.
I’m old enough to remember what a dial tone sounds like — and a busy signal. I’m so old, I remember picking up the phone every hour for five hours to tell my sister, “Hey, I need the phone!”
That’s right — every house had one phone, one phone line.
I’m so old I remember my childhood friends’ telephone numbers — Tony Salvatore was 657-8566, Jon Hulbert was 654-4503, Joel Adler was 657-5005, and my own phone number was 652-7693. Those have been in my head now for nearly 50 years.
But when I lost my phone over the weekend — I figured I left it in the men’s grill at the golf club after our round — I had to call my friends. But how?!
I have no idea what my friends’ phone numbers are, even though I call them all the time. Google was a nightmare; endless links came up when I searched their names, most wanting me to pay for the privilege of finding their numbers. And you’d be shocked to find out how many people have the same name as all of your friends.
But I tried several numbers anyway — all of them were the wrong people. The last guy I talked to said he didn’t know who I was, joked that he didn’t know where my phone was, but in a kind gesture, said he hoped I’d find it soon.
Of course I tore my car apart, nothing. And I scoured the house, taking every cushion off the couch. Then I headed to the golf club. They didn’t have it, with the manager saying no phone was turned in. The pro shops’ guys likewise said no phone was left in a cart.
At this point, I began to get suspicious. My phone is, after all, worth $1,000, and with eBay, anyone who found it could make a small fortune selling it. Someone must have it; it didn’t just disappear. Someone stole it!
Eventually, I was able to find the phone number of one golf buddy and he sent out a group text. Still nothing. No one saw it, no one had it.
All that by mid-morning. So, I just had no phone. I checked prices to buy a new one ($1,100), but decided to give it some time, maybe my phone would miraculously turn up.
Thus my phoneless life began. I decided to run some errands and, with any luck, get in a quick nine holes. Off to the grocery store.
But once there, I went to check my “notes” for my running grocery list. No phone. No list. Then I needed to ask my wife if we needed a few things. Couldn’t. No phone. And then I couldn’t find an item, so I reached for my phone to check the app for its location. No phone.
And that’s when one wonderful thing about phoneless life happened. I asked a random person if she happened to know where my item was. She told me what aisle to try. I said thanks, then complimented her shirt — she was wearing a Team Iran shirt, and this was before the big U.S.-Iran match in the World Cup.
The woman said she was born in Iran but moved to America as a young girl. She said she still loves Iran, but is supporting protesters rallying nationwide after the death of 22-year-old Mahsa Amini, who was allegedly beaten in police custody for failing to properly wear a hijab. And she said that she’ll be happy with whoever wins the game.
I would’ve never had that conversation if I’d had my phone. Head down, I would’ve just looked up the app — and likely wouldn’t have even seen her.
Errands done, I hit the golf course. But instead of turning music on via my phone, as usual, I just played in silence — well, not silence because wildlife everywhere was making a cacophonous racket. But that, I realized later, gave me a wonderful sense of ease.
And, unlike every other round, I didn’t reach for my phone between shots to see if someone had emailed or texted. Please, I’m not that important and nothing’s really that urgent, is it?
In the evening, we gathered to watch a movie. But I couldn’t just pick up my phone at a boring part to flip through, so I watched every second intently. I realized then, too, how often I split my attention — for no reason.
In one-last ditch effort, I stripped the couch again and my wife spotted the phone, shoved way down. I had my phone back!
But that night, I didn’t take it upstairs to bed. I didn’t scroll it for an hour before going to sleep. And when I woke up, it wasn’t there to pick up right away to read email and texts.
And that’s when I realized that little by little, my phone had gotten the best of me. Without thinking about it, I often just mindlessly flipped through my phone. But I learned (again) that it’s simply a tool, one that I can decide when (and more importantly, when not) to use. I control my phone, it doesn’t control me.
And I’ll probably always remember that conversation with the Iranian woman, knowing that it would’ve never happened if I’d had my phone.
The views expressed in this piece are the author’s own and do not necessarily represent those of The Daily Wire.
Joseph Curl has covered politics for 35 years, including 12 years as White House correspondent for a national newspaper. He was also the a.m. editor of the Drudge Report for four years. Send tips to josephcurl@dailywire.com and follow him on Twitter @josephcurl.