F
Field Ethos
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By Will Dabbs, MD
Never bring a rock to a gunfight. Those are indeed words to live by. That timeless truism was driven home to me along the bank of the Sunflower River at the end of Skinner Drive in Clarksdale, Mississippi, back when I was maybe 10 or 11 years old.
The year was 1977, and my best friend and I were wandering about shooting stuff with our pellet rifles as was our custom. My weapon of choice was a Powerline 880 pneumatic airgun that fired .177-caliber soft lead pellets. Laborious to load and subsequently sporting an absolutely glacial rate of fire, it was nonetheless the perfect tool for a miniature caveman just out making mischief.
Our stalk was interrupted by a couple of archetypal teenaged bullies. These two perambulating turds were perhaps 16 and invaded our space in search of weaker folk over whom they might assert dominance. My friend and I had waded out onto a modest island, while these two big kids were ensconced on a nearby bank perhaps 20 meters away. They began cursing us and disparaging our mothers out of pure unfettered meanness.
I was raised well myself as was my best mate. We refused to take the bait. However, the bigger boys’ abuse soon escalated. In short order, the two thugs began hurling rocks at us. I honestly know not why.
My friend and I cowered behind a pair of generous trees, but these were serious rocks. Many of them flirted with baseballs, and they left impressive craters in the surrounding mud. Any one of them, if delivered to the cranium, could have precipitated a violent gory death. We were quite effectively pinned down. Our two assailants laughed maniacally. They were having a gay old time tormenting us two little kids.
Children are concrete thinkers. They live in the moment. With the benefit of maturity and hindsight, we could have likely just plopped down behind our respective trees and whiled away the afternoon until our two assailants grew weary of the enterprise and moved on to sow chaos elsewhere. However, that’s not the way we saw it. In our immature minds, our only options were either succumb to stoning or starve to death. As neither option seemed terribly appealing, I opted to open up a dialog.
From behind the tree, I explained the situation in my manliest pre-pubescent voice. Should these two bullies not desist in their pugilistic overtures forthwith, I would be forced to escalate our conflict. My remonstrations served simply to energize the two brigands. Their sustained fusillade increased in its intensity.
Now genuinely frightened, I ensured that the safety was off on my rifle and timed my actions to the regular fall of rocks. During a momentary predictable pause in the barrage, I stepped out from around the tree, raised my weapon, and, without further preamble, shot the larger of the two boys squarely in the face. I then ducked back behind cover before peeking around to assess the effectiveness of my intervention.
When I was a wee lad, there was an exceptionally bad dog in our neighborhood named Lou. Dogs in that era, like children, all roamed free. Lou chased both kids and cars with comparable verve. One day I was playing in the front yard as Lou engaged in the relentless pursuit of a passing pickup truck, snarling like a hound from hell.
The beast suddenly and unexpectedly got one of his front legs caught underneath the wheel. The transition from rage to agony was so shockingly stark it remains a vivid memory to this day. The effect my pellet rifle had on those teenaged bullies was comparably unambiguous.
Blood now streaming down the mean kid’s face, he launched into a venomous emotional diatribe about his plans to violently dismember the two of us. Pumping madly, I got my pellet gun back in shape for further action right sharpish. My friend and I then took up firing positions behind our respective trees and veritably dared the two older boys to try.
Our plan was to alternate rounds and create a sustained rate of fire that would ideally keep our attackers at bay. Little did we know that this was the same technique that Longstreet, Johnston, Lee, and Jackson had mastered a century before on the blood-soaked battlefields of the American Civil War. Had they chosen to press their assault, I would gladly have continued shooting until both those big kids were stone dead.
My wounded attacker’s buddy wisely suggested he seek medical attention. The two boys subsequently retreated with haste, having been gifted an invaluable life lesson. I never told my parents.
I neither know nor care what ultimately became of the first man I ever shot. He had it coming. I do, however, sincerely hope he came out somewhat wiser for the exchange. If so, it was a cheap lesson.
The post The First Time I Shot a Man appeared first on Field Ethos.
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Never bring a rock to a gunfight. Those are indeed words to live by. That timeless truism was driven home to me along the bank of the Sunflower River at the end of Skinner Drive in Clarksdale, Mississippi, back when I was maybe 10 or 11 years old.
Feral Children
The year was 1977, and my best friend and I were wandering about shooting stuff with our pellet rifles as was our custom. My weapon of choice was a Powerline 880 pneumatic airgun that fired .177-caliber soft lead pellets. Laborious to load and subsequently sporting an absolutely glacial rate of fire, it was nonetheless the perfect tool for a miniature caveman just out making mischief.
Our stalk was interrupted by a couple of archetypal teenaged bullies. These two perambulating turds were perhaps 16 and invaded our space in search of weaker folk over whom they might assert dominance. My friend and I had waded out onto a modest island, while these two big kids were ensconced on a nearby bank perhaps 20 meters away. They began cursing us and disparaging our mothers out of pure unfettered meanness.
I was raised well myself as was my best mate. We refused to take the bait. However, the bigger boys’ abuse soon escalated. In short order, the two thugs began hurling rocks at us. I honestly know not why.
My friend and I cowered behind a pair of generous trees, but these were serious rocks. Many of them flirted with baseballs, and they left impressive craters in the surrounding mud. Any one of them, if delivered to the cranium, could have precipitated a violent gory death. We were quite effectively pinned down. Our two assailants laughed maniacally. They were having a gay old time tormenting us two little kids.
Trapped Rats
Children are concrete thinkers. They live in the moment. With the benefit of maturity and hindsight, we could have likely just plopped down behind our respective trees and whiled away the afternoon until our two assailants grew weary of the enterprise and moved on to sow chaos elsewhere. However, that’s not the way we saw it. In our immature minds, our only options were either succumb to stoning or starve to death. As neither option seemed terribly appealing, I opted to open up a dialog.
From behind the tree, I explained the situation in my manliest pre-pubescent voice. Should these two bullies not desist in their pugilistic overtures forthwith, I would be forced to escalate our conflict. My remonstrations served simply to energize the two brigands. Their sustained fusillade increased in its intensity.
Now genuinely frightened, I ensured that the safety was off on my rifle and timed my actions to the regular fall of rocks. During a momentary predictable pause in the barrage, I stepped out from around the tree, raised my weapon, and, without further preamble, shot the larger of the two boys squarely in the face. I then ducked back behind cover before peeking around to assess the effectiveness of my intervention.
Parallels
When I was a wee lad, there was an exceptionally bad dog in our neighborhood named Lou. Dogs in that era, like children, all roamed free. Lou chased both kids and cars with comparable verve. One day I was playing in the front yard as Lou engaged in the relentless pursuit of a passing pickup truck, snarling like a hound from hell.
The beast suddenly and unexpectedly got one of his front legs caught underneath the wheel. The transition from rage to agony was so shockingly stark it remains a vivid memory to this day. The effect my pellet rifle had on those teenaged bullies was comparably unambiguous.
Terminal Effects
Blood now streaming down the mean kid’s face, he launched into a venomous emotional diatribe about his plans to violently dismember the two of us. Pumping madly, I got my pellet gun back in shape for further action right sharpish. My friend and I then took up firing positions behind our respective trees and veritably dared the two older boys to try.
Our plan was to alternate rounds and create a sustained rate of fire that would ideally keep our attackers at bay. Little did we know that this was the same technique that Longstreet, Johnston, Lee, and Jackson had mastered a century before on the blood-soaked battlefields of the American Civil War. Had they chosen to press their assault, I would gladly have continued shooting until both those big kids were stone dead.
Discretion is the Better Part of Valor
My wounded attacker’s buddy wisely suggested he seek medical attention. The two boys subsequently retreated with haste, having been gifted an invaluable life lesson. I never told my parents.
I neither know nor care what ultimately became of the first man I ever shot. He had it coming. I do, however, sincerely hope he came out somewhat wiser for the exchange. If so, it was a cheap lesson.
The post The First Time I Shot a Man appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...