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The earth is full of anger, High lust and froward bearing,
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For those who kneel beside us From panic, pride, and terror,
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Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow, E’en now their vanguard gathers, |
Category: Well I thought it was neat!
Congress passed the National Firearms Act of 1934 in response to the scourge of the motorized bandit. Dillinger, Barrow, Van Meter, Capone, and others both captivated and terrified the American public. In the face of the media-fueled canard of hypothetical machinegun-toting criminals lurking behind every bush, legislators decided that something simply had to be done.
That something leveraged the taxation powers of the US Congress to effectively end commerce in machineguns, sound suppressors, short-barreled long guns, and destructive devices like cannons and hand grenades.
There is some curious cognitive dissonance at work here. The astute observer will note that the 1st and 2d Amendments to the US Constitution are next door neighbors. The 1st Amendment says, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”
The courts have interpreted the 1st Amendment to protect, among many other things, pornography in most of its many-splendored Information Age forms. Leave the kids out of it and use consenting adults and images depicting rape, assault, and violent dismemberment distributed via the world’s most advanced digital media are all constitutionally armored up against puritanical molestation.
By contrast, there are places where an American citizen’s constitutional right to own a firearm is restricted into irrelevancy. If we applied the same filters to the 1st Amendment that we do to the 2d, the only speech that would be truly protected would be whatever you might be able to conjure up using an 18th-century steam-driven printing press.
For the sake of discussion, let us ponder a different world—a world that is truly free and unfettered as the Founders clearly intended. Let’s imagine a scenario wherein you don’t need some kind of government writ to drive a car, build a shed, buy a gun, or cut somebody’s hair.
Let’s visualize a hypothetical America without the recognized fifty-four volumes of US Code with its more than 300,000 individual federal laws. In short, let’s fancy firearms without the artificial restrictions imposed by the NFA. What would the ideal home defense gun look like if there truly were no rules?
The Mission
There are 148 million total housing units in the United States. There are roughly one million reported home invasions each annum. That means there is a 1-in-148 statistical chance that your home will be violated in any given year.
The current life expectancy for an American male is 78.4 years. Women live longer than men for obvious reasons. Their life expectancy is a bit north of 81 years.
Statistically speaking, half of all Americans will experience a home invasion over the course of the lifetimes. Some neighborhoods are obviously worse than others, but those are the numbers.
As such, home defense guns are not just marketing hype. Precious few among us can afford a 24/7 live-in cop. How on earth would you keep him in doughnuts? As a result, free folk assume responsibility for our own security. That means a proper home defense arm.
Unlike carry guns, this hypothetical weapon need not be concealable. Weight is a consideration, but not a big one. You won’t be humping this thing on a 15-mile ruck march. It just needs to be sufficiently maneuverable to move easily within the home. So, let’s get started.
Cartridge and Caliber
Caliber selection is not as straightforward as you might think. While there are hundreds if not thousands of options ranging from .22 rimfire up through .50 BMG, caliber selection for the ideal home defense weapon really distills down to either 9mm Para or 5.56mm with a few die hard .45ACP acolytes sprinkled over the top for flavor. The performance of these cartridges in a home defense scenario is a bit counterintuitive.
The concern is typically overpenetration. The reason so few folks opt for the .50BMG round as a home defense tool is that John Browning’s massive counter-balloon cartridge will penetrate end-to-end through most shopping malls. When precious people might be hiding behind a few flimsy sheets of drywall, overpenetration becomes a concern. To a degree, modern technology actually makes that worse.
Most modern high-tech pistol-caliber social bullets spawn from research driven by Law Enforcement. The ideal cop bullet expands reliably but is barrier blind. This means that these souped-up bonded projectiles remain intact when passing through such stuff as clothing, glass, or wall board. That can result in excessive penetration for the responsible home defender.
Recommended
By contrast, those zippy little high-velocity 5.56mm rounds typically go insane upon contact with common building materials, spending their energy expeditiously without punching too deep.
The downside is muzzle blast and noise. Rifle rounds of any sort, particularly when fired out of short barrels, will reliably produce an earth-shaking report while lighting up the night. These are all simply data points in our decision tree. However, I’d still opt for 9mm myself and just maintain my situational awareness.
Barrel Length and Buttstocks
We’ll start with a long gun, because pistols are horrible. Most of us carry them regularly, but a traditional handgun is the toughest of all common firearms to run safely and well. It is innately imprecise in the hands of anyone but a trained professional. We use handguns because rifles are tough to hide underneath shorts and a t-shirt. For home defense purposes, we will start with something that has a decent buttstock.
The original text of the 1934 NFA purportedly included handguns for that onerous $200 tax. Realizing that enterprising Americans would simply cut down their long guns if handguns were banned, the barrel length restrictions were codified in the law.
Handguns were dropped to get the vile thing passed, and nobody thought to get rid of the barrel length dicta. That’s why you can walk out of your local gun emporium with a pocket pistol cash and carry, but cutting the barrel down on grandad’s single-barrel 12-bore to 17 inches can get you ten years in the Big House. If none of that existed, home defense guns would all have short barrels.
How short that barrel gets is always a compromise. The shorter the tube, the slower the bullet and the more egregious the muzzle flash. Longer barrels are more accurate and hard-hitting but tougher in tight corners. Ideally, I’d say eight to ten inches for a pistol-caliber gun is a good compromise.
Sound Suppressors
Of course the ideal home defense arm will have a sound suppressor. It is asinine that we encumber suppressors with so much artificial legislative baggage. You can buy rimfire cans without any ancillary registration in France, of all places. That’s just embarrassing.
Sound suppressors on a gun that is intended to be used indoors are simply intuitive. Nothing about a sound-suppressed tactical firearm is truly silent, but the inclusion of a quality suppressor makes it easier to communicate. The diminution of muzzle flash also enhances both accuracy and control.
Suppressors can be either integral or removable. Removeable cans are just that. Integral suppressors in a 9mm platform often incorporate ported barrels that drop standard supersonic rounds into the subsonic range. In the world of sound-suppressed pistol-caliber firearms, this is as good as it gets.
Giggle Switches
All serious close combat weapons should have selective fire capability. A four-position selector offering a three-round burst option is even better. That having been said, while the option should be there, serious gunmen almost never use it.
The 22d SAS operators who cleared Princes Gate in London in 1980 purportedly terminated most of those Iranian terrorists with a full auto mag dump apiece from their MP5’s. That means not having to say you’re sorry in any of the world’s recognized languages. However, not many of us can run a gun quite so well as might your typical SAS operator.
Serious professionals nowadays train to put semiauto double taps onto their targets in an expeditious fashion. So long as Level III body armor is not in play, this will reliably do the deed. However, retaining the full auto option, especially in a placid pistol-caliber gun, is a no-brainer.
It is Alive!
So, what does that hypothetical ideal home defense weapon actually look like? I would propose that it doesn’t actually exist. In my experience, the HK MP5SD is the most controllable, most precise CQB tool on Planet Earth. However, HK launched the MP5SD in 1974. The gun is overly complicated, it’s old, and it doesn’t readily lend itself to optics or accessories.
The HK UMP launched in 1999. If you haven’t had the pleasure, the UMP (Universal Machine Pistol) is the Glock of submachine guns. It sports a polymer chassis and weighs about five pounds. The UMP is readily configurable between 9mm, .40S&W, and .45ACP while offering a sedate rate of fire and superlative ergonomics. However, it is not integrally suppressed. The UMP will take a can, but only the detachable muzzle sort.
So, in a world without rules, I would approach our buddies at Oberndorf and ask them to build me an integrally-suppressed UMP in 9mm with a ported barrel that rendered standard 9mm rounds subsonic. I’d outfit that hypothetical gun with a combination white tactical light/green laser and a top-flight red dot or Holosight.
I’d secure it against little fingers and stage the gun alongside a couple of spare magazines where I could get to it quickly. Then I’d sleep well knowing that my castle was defended by the finest home defense weapon mankind could contrive.
Cabins in West Virginia can be pretty rustic.
Driving from deer camp is always relaxing. Winding my way back through the mountains of West Virginia and western Maryland, along the same trails Meshach Browning did over a hundred years ago, gives me the perfect time to reflect on past and present hunts.
I recently spent a few days with my cousins, their sons-in-law, and even a grandchild. Seven men ranging in age from 66 to 17 crammed in a small two-bedroom, one-bath cabin was a great way of getting closer in more ways than one.
Here’s a buck caught on a trial camera
a few years ago in West Virginia.
New Traditions
The West Virginia hunt started back in the late 70s. My cousin Barrel’s dad, my uncle, was killed in a farming accident during a blizzard. My uncle Jerry took Barrel to West Virginia that year to do something different while spending time together. Over the years, more people started going, including myself. As people got older and stopped going, there was always someone younger to step in. It’s the revered cycle of life.
After almost 20 years, the unexpected happened. Uncle Jerry died on the very mountain we hunt. He was only 50. Barrel, Brent and I were there. The saying misery loves company was never more apparent. The experience drew us closer together, and the WVA hunt became almost sacred.
A few years later, our Uncle Gary, Brent’s dad, started coming to WVA. Being older, he didn’t venture far from the road but loved hunting and being outdoors. When walking out of the woods, I’d sometimes smell cigar smoke. I’d follow the aroma and see Gary sitting on a log, enjoying the last light of day, a big grin on his face.
He truly loved the outdoors. During Pennsylvania’s deer season, he’d sit all day, dark to dark, in his tree stand every day of the season. Farmer tough, rain, sleet, snow, cold or wind didn’t deter him. And he made the ride to his stand on his ATV. He did this up until last year when he died at age 80 after having dinner with my cousins.
My cousin Barrel with last year’s buck using his dad’s Savage 99.
Current Day
Now, Barrel and I are the “camp elders.” How’d that ever happen? Looking in the mirror, the answer is obvious. Barrel’s taken over Uncle Gary’s log, shooting a buck last year using his dad’s old Savage 99. Talk about a little family magic happening on that hunt! I used to hunt Uncle Jerry’s hollow for years, but now I hunt from a closer spot.
A young Tank and Barrel are now the camp elders.” Fluorescent orange hunting coats were the thing back then.
During this year’s hunt, Tank is evaluating
a gun for a future article
New Research
To hell with this thing called climate change! Scientists need to research mountain inclination, combined with oxygen dissipation, as the hills and hollows are surely steeper, and the air noticeably thinner from years ago. I know it’s true! It’s even affecting the deer! Somehow, they’re heavier while looking the same size.
A nice W. VA. buck taken a few years ago.
Cock-a-doodle-doo Do!
Sleep is fitful the first night in camp. Anticipation, as well as our own rendition of the Walton’s saying goodnight to each other is more akin to the campfire scene in Blazing Saddles and the large bean pot. Between laughs, giggles, and a last (hopefully) expenditure of methane gas, a few winks are caught … maybe …
Opening day has us up at 3:45 to start the bathroom rotation. The rule of the cabin is first come, first served. I start the coffee and get the pork loin, sauerkraut and taters ready for the crockpot supper. Nothing’s better than having the aroma of a hot meal welcome you when opening the cabin door after hunting all day. It’s the perfect cure for being cold, tired and hungry.
Lunches are packed, and it’s out the door a little before 5:00. Most are in the stand well before first light. I was especially excited as I was toting a new lightweight rifle in a new caliber to write about down the road. Opening day was beautiful, but our gang only got one deer. Jeremy was the lucky hunter. Our usual spots were taken over by 5 or 6 other hunters, so adjustments were made. Ah, the perils of hunting the National Forest.
Heads on the porch after a successful hunt.
Supper
When everyone’s back, we eat together. The bantering picks back up, followed by laughs, insults, jokes and old stories. We tell and retell stories of our uncles, Paps, and other family and friends no longer with us. There’s no place like deer camp. After supper, it isn’t long before people start heading for bed. Since most didn’t sleep much the previous night, it comes much easier after the day’s hunt.
The year after our Uncle Jerry died. We still felt his
presence on the hunt. Barrel, Tank, and Brent.
Bill Bane
Telling these stories reminds me of stories a buddy told me when he was young. He was bunked up with a friend of his dad’s, an older fellow named Bill Bane. Sleeping in the top bunk the night before opening day, he’s awakened by hot water dripping on his forehead. Looking over his bunk, he sees Bill Bane boiling something in a large pot.
“What’s ya cooking, Bill?” he asked. “Turnips! Want some?” came the reply. “Bill, it’s 2:30. Get some sleep,” he told him. “Sleep? I been busting deer all night long in my sleep!”
My best buck from West Virginia and the same trip
I found out Camille was pregnant with Samantha.
The Bane Load
Bill was a character. He had an innovative, unusual way of loading his .30-06. In his high-pitched voice, he explained it to my buddy. “My first load is a 180-grain soft-point roundnose, to buck brush. Next comes a 165-grain spitzer to reach out a little bit in case I miss with the roundnose. Lastly, is a Remington 150-grain bronze point in case he makes it a long way. I figure I got my bases covered when loaded like this.”
Bill wore a heavy florescent orange coveralls over his regular hunting clothes. Next came a thick leather belt with about 60 cartridge loops, and he had them all filled with the above bullets he mentioned. Next came a hatchet, hunting knife and bone saw. He may have even had a cast iron skillet because my buddy said something sure clanged when he walked.
His last piece of specialized equipment was a pair of linemen spikes, the kind linemen wear while climbing telephone poles. Sure enough, Bill climbed the straightest tree he could find to hunt from high above perch. Funny thing was, he always complained about getting hot, overheated and tired when getting to his tree.
The man who started the West Virgina tradition, our Uncle Jerry.
Immortal Tales
Hunting stories are as natural and traditional since the beginning of man. Most cave drawings depict hunting tales from the beginning of time. These tales bring joy and are even comforting as we hear about long-lost loved ones’ exploits or mishaps, which make us laugh. One thing is certain: hunting camp and hunting stories have a way of warming the soul and binding kindred spirits like no other.
Over the years, I’ve often heard the question, “What was the best Christmas gift you ever received?” Usually, this is qualified by the following: “Maybe not the most expensive or the biggest surprise, but the most memorable; the one you’ll always remember as the best.” For me, the answer is easy. I’ve known exactly what it was since I was 19 years old. It was a pair of socks.
They weren’t just any socks. They were new, never worn, clean, dry military-issue boot socks, and they were perhaps the only such pair within 100 miles. They were a gift from my best friend and “roommate” in our 2-man fighting hole on Christmas Eve. He had bartered who-knows-what for them over a month before and kept them secretly hidden away in a plastic bag.
It was hardly possible for us to hide anything from each other. We were closer than brothers and lived out of each other’s rucksacks. I knew how difficult hiding things could be because I had done the same with something he highly prized: a can of fruit cocktail, almost as rare as clean, dry socks.
We decided to exchange gifts on Christmas Eve because the odds were against us seeing another dawn. He opened the fruit cocktail and offered me a spoonful. Grinning, he announced he wasn’t going to die and leave an unopened can for someone else to enjoy. I put on the socks right away, reveling in their luxury, and he smiled like the proud poppa he would never get the chance to be. He was killed in action the following July. One lone surviving photo of him, smiling in the sun on a shell-cratered hilltop, is a cherished memento. Does anyone wonder why that pair of socks has always been my “best Christmas gift”?
Giving IS Getting
I suspect a lot of you folks are like me; uncomfortable receiving gifts but really tickled with giving appreciated gifts. One of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done is giving Christmas gifts the recipients named as their “best ever.” I’ll tell you about just one — and admit I have an ulterior motive.
Years ago, I knew a kid in his early 20s who had never held a firearm, much less shot one — but he was interested in a girl who was an avid rifle shooter, and he wanted to learn gun handling.
I taught him the basics — safety, nomenclature, shooting and maintenance, slipping in mini-lectures about the history of free, armed Americans and the rights and responsibilities of armed citizens. It was all new to him, but he hungrily devoured it.
I had him shooting a variety of rifles and carbines, but there was one he truly loved: a Swedish Mauser Model 96, in 6.5x55mm, made in 1916.
Adding to the appeal of that long, exceptionally accurate rifle was the date on its receiver—to him, ancient history. I told him about the cataclysmic events of that momentous year, including the 11-month battle of Verdun. I told him to save his money, and I could find him one like it. Then I gave it to him for Christmas, with 400 rounds of ammo. He was stunned.
It made him a rifleman. I watched as he became an informed, confident, proud, armed citizen — a fully-realized American. Possession of a rifle, some skills, and a sense of history gave him identity; for the first time, a worthwhile self-image. The gift of that gun changed his life—and enriched mine.
I know lots of you have more old but serviceable shooters than you’ll ever have real need for again. You’re experienced hunters, trap and skeet shooters and competitive marksmen.
You have both things and skills. Maybe this isn’t something you could do this Christmas, but perhaps a project you could fulfill over 2011, culminating in the same kind of Christmas surprise. There are worthy candidates out there waiting for a mentor. It would be good for you, for them, for the nation—and for me too. Sneaky of me, huh? Think about it, OK?
The 1999-issue New Jersey statehood 25¢ piece shows Washington crossing the Delaware on Christmas night, 1776—but how many people know the story?
The Gift Of Trenton
This Christmas, if you can capture some grandkids or miscellaneous munchkins, I urge you to give them Trenton. It’s highly unlikely they’ll ever hear of it in school. Get a book or two with colorful illustrations; maybe make a crude map yourself. Kids need visual aids to capture their attention. Keep it brief or you’ll lose ’em. But tell it with humor and passion, and you might just change a world-view, and a life.
You remember the story: In November of 1776, the Continental Army numbered 30,000 men. After the disastrous battles for New York and New Jersey, only about 2,500 remained strong enough to fight.
Washington’s army barely escaped across the freezing Delaware into Pennsylvania. They were so short of supplies that only 1/3 had shoes or boots; the rest wrapped their feet in rags and burlap.
The British-led Hessian troops decided to wait in Trenton until the river froze over, then march across and wipe out the ragged band of Americans. Washington’s men were hungry, exhausted and demoralized.
But on December 19, something extraordinary happened. Thomas Paine, the author of Common Sense, which inspired so many colonials to revolt against the English crown, published another pamphlet titled The American Crisis.
It began with the once-famous words, “These are the times that try men’s souls.” Paine spoke of the “summer soldiers and sunshine patriots” who would fold when times got tough, but for the true patriots, “the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.” Washington read it to his men. It wasn’t food or medicine, but it filled and invigorated them. They were ready to fight again.
In the teeth of a storm on Christmas night, against all odds, they crossed the ice-filled Delaware to Trenton, where they surprised and defeated the Hessians. More victories followed, and with them, freedom.
There are so many stories within the saga. A spy came to the Hessians’ headquarters to warn them of Washington’s attack. Why did their commander, Colonel Johan Rall, refuse to admit him—and shove the note in his pocket?
Who was “Fat Henry Knox,” the 26-year-old bookworm, and why might the operation have failed without him? Emanuel Leutze’s 1851 painting “Washington Crossing the Delaware” contains several silly inaccuracies—what are they? Point ’em out, tell the true tale; breathe life into it.
The story is waiting, online and in libraries, almost forgotten. It needs telling; it needs giving on Christmas. If one kid in a thousand is inspired, will your efforts be rewarded? It could be your best Christmas gift ever. Merry Christmas, friends.
Connor OUT
Categories
HUH!
In a small Irish town sits a stainless steel reminder of that country’s historic link to Oklahoma and the Choctaw Nation. Nine handmade feathers curve up from a concrete foundation, symbolizing the shape of an empty bowl.
The feathers, meant to represent the Choctaw Nation’s strength, kindness and humanity, are delicate and give off a metallic luster when illuminated by the sun.
The sculpture stands 20 feet tall near a popular walking path in Bailic Park in Midleton, a town of about 12,000 on Ireland’s southern coast. The work, named “Kindred Spirits,” is meant to symbolize the shared history between the Choctaw Nation and the Irish, which began with a $170 donation.
Though an ocean away, a mutual feeling of oppression united the tribe with the Irish. In 1847, the Choctaw Nation scraped together $170, about $5,000 today, to send to the starving poor in Ireland.