That's the common term for law enforcement firearms training scenarios, where cops have to decide if they are justified with using lethal force. It also accurately describes the roller coaster we experienced today, 24 hours prior to a police combat shooting competition our office was entered in. Our team, with me included, consisted of five agents, and an MP Captain from Battalion.
A number of factors combined to make this competition projected to be less fun than we initially thought:
First, the weather here changed from mild and mostly sunny to rainy and windy...and the real heavy stuff is predicted for this weekend. No matter how much fun getting to shoot government ammo at targets (which aren't shooting back at you!) usually is, when doing so outside in a monsoon, that quickly sucks pretty much most of the enjoyment out of it.
Second, this event is planned, organized and will be carried out by the U.S. Army, which by Army Regulations is required to obliterate any remaining chance of fun. From the looks of the briefing powerpoint slides I saw, they accomplished that mission with room to spare.
The final factor leading to our team's ultimate "Don't Shoot" decision was when the rest of the agents on the squad ended up with "duty calls" (CID-speak for reported crimes requiring immediate investigation) last night. They were expecting to be working long past midnight, which left only me (I am exempt from stuff not directly related to my task force assignment) and the Captain. I gave him a call, and it took little convincing for him to throw in the towel. He notified the competition's organizers that we were withdrawing, and that was that.
UPDATE: The next morning, right about the time we would have been going through the first course of fire, the heavens opened up, dumping what the weather reporters claimed was over two inches of rain in less than three hours. This deluge was coupled with wind gusts of up to 40 mph. None of us felt any guilt over bailing out, though it looks like I may be stuck with a case of shotgun shells.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
Golf-Related Quote of the Day
"Golf seems to be a cocktail, made by mixing equal parts of hope, disappointment, joy and despair...and stirred with a credit card." ___The Fighting Leprechaun, September 2013
Farewell To "Old Faithful", Hello To "Mr. Versatile"!
I suppose it's a "guy thing", but I felt a few pangs of sorrow when I traded in my old shotgun for a new one this afternoon.
I bought my old shotgun, a Winchester Model 1200 with a long-ass barrel, in 1968 for $75, which was pretty much my entire two-week paycheck from my weekend job at trap and skeet club. It was a rental gun which hadn't been used much, and when the owner got in a bunch of brand new Winchester shotguns, he let us high school employees get first crack at buying the old ones. I won more than a few matches with that gun, and came THAT close to qualifying for the 1972 US Olympic trapshooting team. It was a good pheasant gun as well, as that long 32" barrel gave it longer range with a tighter pattern.
After I joined the Army and was stationed in Germany, I went out a few times to the Rod and Gun Club in Mannheim and shot trap with some of the other officers, but eventually I lost interest in that sport. Plus, I'd left my shotgun back home with the folks, and loaners just aren't quite the same.
When I came back Stateside after three years overseas, I retrieved my shotgun from the back closet at the folks' new house. To my dismay I found that it had rusted, and the nice walnut stock was covered in mildew, even though I had oiled it all down before leaving. I removed all the rust, re-blued the metal, and tried to refinish the wood, but it looked pretty sad, like a once-favorite shirt with a now frayed collar, and a big ink spot on the pocket. I went trapshooting a couple of times, but never regained that old thrill. After becoming a cop, I bought what was supposed to be the right model short barrel with rifle sights, so I could carry it in my patrol car. (My department issued 9mm carbines, and got rid of most of the shotguns, but sometimes only a shotgun will do, you know?) Well, the barrel fit, but it wouldn't allow me to chamber a shell, so that was a failed experiment! "Old Faithful" went back in the gun safe, only emerging to receive a fresh wipe-down of lubricant and preservative, and a nostalgic shouldering while I softly yelled, "Pull!" Even though replacing it with a more suitable tactical model entered my mind on a regular basis, the timing was never right. And despite increasing worries about a so-called "Zombie Apocalypse" or the desire to have a shotgun useable for deer hunting, skeet shooting, or home defense against non-zombies, I just never seriously considered parting with that unwieldy 12-gauge anti-aircraft cannon.
Fast forwarding to the beginning of this month: Our SAC (Special Agent in Charge) asked me if I'd be willing to put together a team to compete in the post's "Three-Gun Match", a tactical shooting competition which draws law enforcement officers from around the region to use pistols, rifles, and shotguns (hence the name "Three Gun") for engaging various targets while moving and using cover. While we all planned to use our Army-issued pistols and rifles (because if you do, the Army provides the ammo for the match), none of us owned a tactical shotgun. Our unit doesn't even have them in the inventory. Well, one thing led to another, and when our local Cabela's Outfitters store advertised a big sale this week on, among other things, TACTICAL SHOTGUNS!!!, the die was cast. And even though my beloved Spousal Unit didn't mention it, I wanted to honor our informal agreement concerning firearms, to wit: "One Gun In, One Gun Out." This meant trading in "Old Faithful", which ended up cutting the already great sale price of the tactical shotgun I had picked out by more than half.
Still, as I pulled my long-time scattergun companion from the gun safe, wiped it down one last time, and gently peeled the red "Dymo" label with my name which had been stuck on the fore-end the day I bought it 45 years ago, I felt a twinge of guilt and sadness. Which lasted until I got my new light-weight tactical gun home, pulled it from the box, cleaned, lubed and assembled it, threw it up to my shoulder, and softly yelled, "Pull!" 'Cause like they say, "Honey Badger and old shotguns don't care!"
(IMPORTANT NOTE: This story is in NO WAY, SHAPE OR FORM, an allegory about any kind of relationship other than with that one inanimate firearm; no one, especially any Spousal Units who might happen to read this, should draw any inferences of any kind. Thank You.)
I bought my old shotgun, a Winchester Model 1200 with a long-ass barrel, in 1968 for $75, which was pretty much my entire two-week paycheck from my weekend job at trap and skeet club. It was a rental gun which hadn't been used much, and when the owner got in a bunch of brand new Winchester shotguns, he let us high school employees get first crack at buying the old ones. I won more than a few matches with that gun, and came THAT close to qualifying for the 1972 US Olympic trapshooting team. It was a good pheasant gun as well, as that long 32" barrel gave it longer range with a tighter pattern.
After I joined the Army and was stationed in Germany, I went out a few times to the Rod and Gun Club in Mannheim and shot trap with some of the other officers, but eventually I lost interest in that sport. Plus, I'd left my shotgun back home with the folks, and loaners just aren't quite the same.
When I came back Stateside after three years overseas, I retrieved my shotgun from the back closet at the folks' new house. To my dismay I found that it had rusted, and the nice walnut stock was covered in mildew, even though I had oiled it all down before leaving. I removed all the rust, re-blued the metal, and tried to refinish the wood, but it looked pretty sad, like a once-favorite shirt with a now frayed collar, and a big ink spot on the pocket. I went trapshooting a couple of times, but never regained that old thrill. After becoming a cop, I bought what was supposed to be the right model short barrel with rifle sights, so I could carry it in my patrol car. (My department issued 9mm carbines, and got rid of most of the shotguns, but sometimes only a shotgun will do, you know?) Well, the barrel fit, but it wouldn't allow me to chamber a shell, so that was a failed experiment! "Old Faithful" went back in the gun safe, only emerging to receive a fresh wipe-down of lubricant and preservative, and a nostalgic shouldering while I softly yelled, "Pull!" Even though replacing it with a more suitable tactical model entered my mind on a regular basis, the timing was never right. And despite increasing worries about a so-called "Zombie Apocalypse" or the desire to have a shotgun useable for deer hunting, skeet shooting, or home defense against non-zombies, I just never seriously considered parting with that unwieldy 12-gauge anti-aircraft cannon.
Fast forwarding to the beginning of this month: Our SAC (Special Agent in Charge) asked me if I'd be willing to put together a team to compete in the post's "Three-Gun Match", a tactical shooting competition which draws law enforcement officers from around the region to use pistols, rifles, and shotguns (hence the name "Three Gun") for engaging various targets while moving and using cover. While we all planned to use our Army-issued pistols and rifles (because if you do, the Army provides the ammo for the match), none of us owned a tactical shotgun. Our unit doesn't even have them in the inventory. Well, one thing led to another, and when our local Cabela's Outfitters store advertised a big sale this week on, among other things, TACTICAL SHOTGUNS!!!, the die was cast. And even though my beloved Spousal Unit didn't mention it, I wanted to honor our informal agreement concerning firearms, to wit: "One Gun In, One Gun Out." This meant trading in "Old Faithful", which ended up cutting the already great sale price of the tactical shotgun I had picked out by more than half.
Still, as I pulled my long-time scattergun companion from the gun safe, wiped it down one last time, and gently peeled the red "Dymo" label with my name which had been stuck on the fore-end the day I bought it 45 years ago, I felt a twinge of guilt and sadness. Which lasted until I got my new light-weight tactical gun home, pulled it from the box, cleaned, lubed and assembled it, threw it up to my shoulder, and softly yelled, "Pull!" 'Cause like they say, "Honey Badger and old shotguns don't care!"
(IMPORTANT NOTE: This story is in NO WAY, SHAPE OR FORM, an allegory about any kind of relationship other than with that one inanimate firearm; no one, especially any Spousal Units who might happen to read this, should draw any inferences of any kind. Thank You.)
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