TRIGGER ALERT!! …Lessons of the Past

I happened to turn on Russian TV one afternoon, and the news was playing a story that will probably cause enough people in America to drop dead in shock that an invasion of either coast would meet no resistance. Zero, zippo, nada. Just dead bodies in windrows.
As odd as it may sound to Americans, Russians have an immediate and visceral memory of WWII. A huge proportion of their films and TV series are set against the backdrop of that conflict. Yes, even stuff made after 2015. That history is VERY personal to them.
The news item was all of 30 seconds, and I had to capture it on my iPhone and take screenshots from that. Apologies for the image quality.

Absolutely ZERO apologies to anyone who may be offended, upset, stressed, or otherwise distressed by the following images.

When I was a kid, this kind of thing was still considered “normal”, and we had many such presentations in school. In Amerika this would have resulted in jail time for every adult present, and clearly shows how far we have descended as a society.

It also explains why Russians do not give a rat’s behind about anything Amerika does or says.

These two gents are military re-enactors dressed as German soldiers of the WWII period. They are visiting a Russian Kindergarten class. 

The first thing they do is set a German machinegun on the floor.  OMG! Gasp! The Horror!

Cool! Show & Tell!

Learning about the dangers of fireworks

Yes, that is a German “potato masher” hand grenade, and a future headbanger fan on the right.

(Note the nice lady calmly sitting in the background holding a child on her lap.)

Now an early version of a (Gasp!) Assault Rifle

And weapon handling

It should be noted that the class ended with the same number of happy and healthy children as it started with.

BUT, BUT, BUT,

How could that possibly happen?!

It happens because no PERSON in that room had any DESIRE to harm anyone else.

Something to think about, assuming rational thought is still a thing.

 

 

 

“All Guns Are Always Loaded” – Again

I hate returning to topics over and over, but in this case I refuse to apologize because the top of safe firearms management is just too critical.

In “All Guns Are Always Loaded” I presented a case where carelessness at an Old West Gunfight show nearly caused a tragedy, and I presented the following:

MM – Standard procedure for most Police departments conducting training exercises involving firearms require EVERY participant to inspect EVERY gun prior to the start of training.
Most cases of accidental shootings during training are a result of this practice not being followed, and the results are usually tragic. 

The foregoing statement was based on my own training, and much of the training materials I have studied since. In the initial article I presented this case to make my point:

Officer Killed in Arlington Texas

Now we have another case that illustrates the very same point:

Civilian Killed Accidentally in Police Training

I agree with  Greg Ellifritz on his position “This is the consequence of hiring cops who aren’t “gun people.”

When my academy class was preparing for firearms qualification, one cadet appeared for weapon inspection carrying a brand new S&W 9mm that had been purchased on the way to the meeting. When we got to the range the following day, this cadet stepped to the line with 12 other cadets. The drill was simple. Place 2 shots in the chest area of a human silhouette target at a range of 1 yard from low ready. (That’s pistol pointed at the ground in front of the shooter at an angle of approximately 45 degrees.)

Yep, 3 whole feet.

The cadet in question closed her eyes and fired. The first round went into the railroad tie that made up the lower part of the backstop beneath the target. The second round was fired after she jerked her arms to approximately 45 degrees above horizontal sending the bullet over the target, the berm behind the target, and probably over the length of the Elm Fork Country Club gold course that backed up to the shooting range.

At this point she opened her eyes and turned to her right, “Did I hit it?” Yes, she swept the entire line of shooters with her muzzle in the process. Fortunately the instructors arrived almost immediately, disarmed her, and escorted her politely off the range while “politely” suggesting she look into another profession.

I never made it into law enforcement, but I hold a CHL, I am a hobbyist, author, and I work in a business that deals in firearms. I come into contact with guns every day. Everyone who handles firearms in a professional capacity (“professional” meaning someone paid to to do this) MUST, MUST, MUST educate themselves on the tools of the trade.

Lives depend on our skill, care, and knowledge. Please get the best training you can afford. Invest in yourself, it may save a life.

 

 

 

Brother

By Michael Morgan

© 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

Dim red glow flickers into blinding moonlight.

Black hand rising into squinted view. No, not black. Soot stained, mottled with bits of pale skin. Crusted with dark flakes that fall away to expose more pale skin as the hand flexes. The hand pushes against the ground, and the view tumbles to one side.

Fireflies in the distance, and singing? Yes, singing. Negro voices. The songs of home. Sounds of metal tools on earth. The vision goes indistinct for a moment as blackness edges the scene. Burial parties? Yes, that must be it.

An unseen hand fumbles free of unseen tangles, and sends shrieking pain through its shoulder as the scene is levered off the trampled grass to settle like a painting hung just a bit off kilter. The unseen hand touches the unseeing eye, but feels nothing through the numb digits.

The pale blob to the left attracts the eye, resolving itself into a familiar C- shaped scar that Micah had carried on his forehead since they were six year old. Was it really Micah? Hard to tell. Only the scar, one blue eye, and a ruined face.

Other names called other friends into view. Ollie and Jack. Side by side as always. Lying tangled, blouses torn open probing for the wounds that killed them.

Where was Brother? He should be here. Somewhere.

Crawling along the line. Sharp steel gouging the knees and hands as they passed over. Tangled men. Face up, face down, curled fetal. A canteen. Scant drops of water falling from the ragged hole instead of the spout.

Faces past. Mr. Barnes, the owner of the dry goods store, had a soft spot for the school teacher. Andrew’s leg was missing. Calhoun, Fredericks, Hoff, Johnson. Men he’d known all of his life. Brother wasn’t here. He should be. Everyone else was.

Susurrations from the back of his mind became moans and faint pleas for water, mothers, and sweethearts as the field crawled to life with the agonies of the damned.

The stained hand reached out to roll a ragdoll to its back. A gurgling exhalation from a face stained black across the right cheek. The doll’s eyes searched and settled on the face above.

“Hello Brother.”

“I… did not expect to… see you again.” Death rattled closer.

“I’ll get help.”

“No…need.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Tell Mother…”

“Tell Mother what?”

A cough. Cracked lips coated crimson so bright the color was visible in the moonlight.

The stained hand reaches to touch Brother’s shoulder but the blue sleeve refused to touch butternut vestments. The gulf between the colors could not be closed by force of will or even by common blood.

The grass rose up to cushion the fall.

“Pahdun me Lootenun,” the freedman’s voice called reality back into focus. Clouds obscured the moon, and a dark face in the dark continued, “Y’all need a stretcha?”

A pathetic attempt at a gesture reminded him of the wounded arm, “No, but my brother does,”

“I’m sorry Mars Lootenun, if thas yo’ brotha, he past help. We here to take care o’ these boys.” More figures in the gloom. The sound of a shovel biting into the turf.

 

Warm hands raised the Lieutenant. Wobbly legs turned to erratic steps along the windrow of his life.

A town on the march to Atlanta. Like the one he left on the way to West Point.

Just old men, little kids, and women trying to keep life going. A pinned sleeve or leaning crutch belonging to the ones lucky to return. Reminders of those who never would.

 

Sweethearts, sisters, and wives swarming the board where the lists of the wounded and slain were posted each morning. Begging God not to give them any news.

Here, in this place, looking over the field, reciting the census of his town. Knowing home is gone.

 

Tell Mother…

What to say?

 

Brother died in my arms…?

Why?

What did he die for?

Brother died defending his home so he could live as a free man.

 

Brother died, and I lead the men who killed him.

It was my duty…

Mother’s voice stole his thoughts…You followed a tyrant who would enslave all men while waving the banner of Emancipation!

Dragging foot stumbles on something. The dead weight of an arm attached to a cocked revolver, pointing the way home.

 

Author’s Note:

The War of Southern Independence has long held a fascination for me because the causes of that conflict, and the consequences of its outcome, have shaped the national identity and dialog in the United States far more than any other war before or since.

The regional differences and social conflicts of the war were never resolved, and we are seeing these forces again in the rising tide of violence perpetrated by the political factions of today. The irony lies in the labels. If one side is composed of “sore losers” and the other of “deplorables” who is left to cheer for?

I recently finished this book:

Still the Arena of Civil War: Violence and Turmoil in Reconstruction Texas, 1865-1874 by Kenneth W. Howell

The author is a archetypal Unionist, but I thought his work was fair. I found his description of the operations of the Democratic Party in cooperation with the Ku Klux Klan in Texas a bit…familiar.

“Brother” was written as an examination of a young man suddenly cast adrift, as so many young men were, during the aftermath of that conflict. With homes and families destroyed, or cast to the wind, these men drifted away. Mostly westward.

We read about these men as the heroes and villains of the Old West. Eventually, they picked up new lives, or found the self-destruction that gave them peace.