Hero at the Shooting Range...
Posted: Fri Jan 04, 2008 2:15 pm
Sorry this is long, but I was so touched by an event that just happened, that I felt compelled to share it. Of couse I flowered it up a little, added some drama, and deleted about 6000 expletives from the mouth of the source, but this is the jest nonetheless!
I'm working out of my office today at the Shooting Range, and trying to sort of help my Dad with the front counter since my little brother is on a cruise. My brother is the Manager of the place, and my father knows little, if any, on how to operate the Windows based register system. Its almost comical to watch him try to ring something up because he gets so frustrated, that he just begins making up words.
We were pretty busy considering that its January and in the middle of the day. This little old man approached the counter holding a cane/walker in one hand, and his range bag containing a .357 in the other. As he produced the bag, to get out his glasses, I noticed the dull glimmer of a "relic" Walther P38 carefully wrapped in an oily red shop rag in his bag. I casually remarked that his Kraut Capper would fetch a handsome bounty online to a collector. He peered at me above the rim of his thick glasses, and suddenly more lucid than before, stared me straight in the eye for longer than a comfortable pause. "Not this one," he remarked "this one will be going into the ground with me".
I've heard of WWII vets just bottling everything up and then suddenly, while on their death beds and to a complete stranger, 60 years after the fact, admitting to some of the most horridly gruesome experiences imaginable. They don't say a word about it their entire lives until that one moment. Its almost like its their last cling on their worldy body, and to release it, lets their souls rest in Heaven. Their Valor and Courage is undeniable, and frankly from my own generation, it is rarely seen.
The man carefully unwrapped the P38 from the rag, hands trembling with age and experience, and ejected the magazine. He pulled back the slide, locked it, and stuck his pinky in the barrel at the ejector. He mumbled "All clear" as he handed me the pistol. I accepted the piece, indexed my finger and alligned the sites with the ground. "Interesting feel to it," I remarked "it feels very...German." I said with a chuckle.
Something inside of this man suddenly broke. His head turned dramatically as he opened the weavings of a tale only familiar to that seen on John Wayne movies and Lee Marvin films. He spoke methodically and slowly, infracting each word with its own pause. It was as if he were narrating a play to the blind.
It was 1944 in France, and this man's job to clear houses, one by one. Apparently, there was much dissention in the way of the GI's in Europe in WWII regarding the seemingly ineffective charge held by our issued grenades. The Germans had these massive, hand held atombomb honeycombs that would flatten a vehicle. We had grenades that took two and three to clear a room effectively. He said that they entered this French town and would smash out glass in windows in four man teams, toss a grenade or two inside, wait a few seconds, then kick in the door and shoot anything that moved.
They approached this one home, and used a length of torn t-shirt wrapped around a fist to smash out the window, then tossed two grenades inside. They ducked and covered as the booms set the home silent. They then kicked in the front door as they had done hundreds of times in the past. The man in the shop was the point, and was first to enter. As the door crashed from the hinges and he entered the dust storm inside with his M1 in tow, a door slammed in front of him. He motioned for silence and pointed as he ducked besides the wall of that room. Suddenly and without warning, the door flew open and a Nazi soldier darted across the room, and into another room across the hallway, slamming the door loudly. Before he could notify the other 3 men, one of the other men came around the corner, unknowingly, and opened the door where the Nazi was hiding. The man in the shop watched in slow motion as the Nazi simotaneously emptied a magazine at his buddy, who had opened the door. His buddy fell to the ground stiffly, unmoving. In the old man's words "We lit him up like the fourth of July. Mcgrewter was a good man. A very good man, and that's what he would have done for us".
Within a few seconds, the other team had notified the Old Man that they had discovered 12 SS Stormtroopers in the cellar. Assisting and taking them captive, the Old Man lined them up shoulder to shoulder, face down in the street as each Nazi was searched for weapons and cuffed. The old man looked at me with a gleem and said that at that exact point, he cursed out loud! We need some more HELP around here!". No sooner than the words escaped him, McGrewter appeared out of the dust of the doorway, staggering. The old man yelled I thought you were hit!!" Mcgrewter laughed mockingly and said "Stupid Kraut didn't hit me one time! I had fainted when I opened that door and saw him standing there with that P38!".
Three of the soldiers stood around in awe, laughing, backslapping, and thanking GOD, as the Old Man went back inside the house. Finding the mangled, bullet ridden corpse of the P38 wielding Nazi, he pried the pistol from the man's hand and stuffed it into his own pants. He told me that at the time, it wasn't anything dramatic, but that his reason for doing so was that they had been moving 2 weeks ahead of their paychecks for the past three months, and he knew he could sell the P38 for as much as $20, to help tide him over on cash until their pay arrived.
The old man exited the home and walked up on the 12 Stormtroopers in the front yard, being guarded by his three buddies. Within seconds, he heard the roar of a Jeep and the squeal of the breaks as it abruptly stopped before them. A Captain jumped out and was extatic at their find. He was in the process of congratulating each one when a tear streaked French woman, badly battered and horribly raped, came running up to the four of them, screaming hurriedly in French. No one understood French except the Old Man. Having witnessed the Meat-packing carnage of war and being soaked with blood not of his own, his jaw dropped at the words that came from the woman's hysterical mouth. The Captain impatiently asked him what the woman was saying. The Old Man shook his head sideways as if to clear his ears, and again stared at the woman in disbelief.
"Captain," said the Old Man "this woman said that the 3rd guy from the end is the leader, and that when they came into town earlier in the day, to show their "strength", the leader brutally raped her in front of her three kids, and broke the arm of her baby like a twig." The woman nodded, crying loudly, and made a sign with her two fists as if she were snapping a chopstick in two.
The Captain was appauled. He told the Old Man that under no uncertain terms would ANYONE be a witness, and that they are setting up a makeshift firing squad for this evil guy. He then asked the three other buddies, who had been silent this whole time, "We're gonna kill this guy and send him to the Hell in which he belongs. Did you see us do it? Did you see anything? Nope? Neither did I. Line 'em up!"
The Old Man, breathing deeply and with sobs in his mind but not his lips, objected to the Captain in a whisper. The Old Man said "Cap'n, we are the good guys. We don't shoot unarmed men..." The Captain, beginning to control his own shocked fear and disgust with the German Vermin, agreed and called off the other three.
The Captain then looked at the Old Man and said "Nothing says you can't beat him to death, though. That's fair, aint it?"
The Old Man then displayed the Walther P38 in his fist, sideways, and admitted in vast disdain and controlled tone, that he proceeded to beat the Stormtrooper leader about the face with the pistol, daring him to get up, and cajoling him in German as he pummeled the man. He recounted BEGGING the Nazi to stay on his feet to take more of a beating. In his own words, to the German's credit, he did receive a bloody nose from one luckily-placed jab, but he made it certain that the Stormtrooper never arose again.
He then snapped out of the trance, and told me that he was too old and tired to shoot that .357 and to please hand him a box of .38's instead. He carefully placed the P38 back into his bag, and gave a very brief sigh. He didn't shed a tear, and his voice never wavered, but I know in my hear that this was the first time that he has spoken of that incident.
I swallowed hard, and in an effort to clear my throat, asked teasingly "Are you sure you don't need a box of 9mm?"
The Old Man replied "Nah, that gun couldn't hit Mcgrewter's fat from 8ft away in 8 shots, you think I want to test it on a 2ft target??".
I'm working out of my office today at the Shooting Range, and trying to sort of help my Dad with the front counter since my little brother is on a cruise. My brother is the Manager of the place, and my father knows little, if any, on how to operate the Windows based register system. Its almost comical to watch him try to ring something up because he gets so frustrated, that he just begins making up words.
We were pretty busy considering that its January and in the middle of the day. This little old man approached the counter holding a cane/walker in one hand, and his range bag containing a .357 in the other. As he produced the bag, to get out his glasses, I noticed the dull glimmer of a "relic" Walther P38 carefully wrapped in an oily red shop rag in his bag. I casually remarked that his Kraut Capper would fetch a handsome bounty online to a collector. He peered at me above the rim of his thick glasses, and suddenly more lucid than before, stared me straight in the eye for longer than a comfortable pause. "Not this one," he remarked "this one will be going into the ground with me".
I've heard of WWII vets just bottling everything up and then suddenly, while on their death beds and to a complete stranger, 60 years after the fact, admitting to some of the most horridly gruesome experiences imaginable. They don't say a word about it their entire lives until that one moment. Its almost like its their last cling on their worldy body, and to release it, lets their souls rest in Heaven. Their Valor and Courage is undeniable, and frankly from my own generation, it is rarely seen.
The man carefully unwrapped the P38 from the rag, hands trembling with age and experience, and ejected the magazine. He pulled back the slide, locked it, and stuck his pinky in the barrel at the ejector. He mumbled "All clear" as he handed me the pistol. I accepted the piece, indexed my finger and alligned the sites with the ground. "Interesting feel to it," I remarked "it feels very...German." I said with a chuckle.
Something inside of this man suddenly broke. His head turned dramatically as he opened the weavings of a tale only familiar to that seen on John Wayne movies and Lee Marvin films. He spoke methodically and slowly, infracting each word with its own pause. It was as if he were narrating a play to the blind.
It was 1944 in France, and this man's job to clear houses, one by one. Apparently, there was much dissention in the way of the GI's in Europe in WWII regarding the seemingly ineffective charge held by our issued grenades. The Germans had these massive, hand held atombomb honeycombs that would flatten a vehicle. We had grenades that took two and three to clear a room effectively. He said that they entered this French town and would smash out glass in windows in four man teams, toss a grenade or two inside, wait a few seconds, then kick in the door and shoot anything that moved.
They approached this one home, and used a length of torn t-shirt wrapped around a fist to smash out the window, then tossed two grenades inside. They ducked and covered as the booms set the home silent. They then kicked in the front door as they had done hundreds of times in the past. The man in the shop was the point, and was first to enter. As the door crashed from the hinges and he entered the dust storm inside with his M1 in tow, a door slammed in front of him. He motioned for silence and pointed as he ducked besides the wall of that room. Suddenly and without warning, the door flew open and a Nazi soldier darted across the room, and into another room across the hallway, slamming the door loudly. Before he could notify the other 3 men, one of the other men came around the corner, unknowingly, and opened the door where the Nazi was hiding. The man in the shop watched in slow motion as the Nazi simotaneously emptied a magazine at his buddy, who had opened the door. His buddy fell to the ground stiffly, unmoving. In the old man's words "We lit him up like the fourth of July. Mcgrewter was a good man. A very good man, and that's what he would have done for us".
Within a few seconds, the other team had notified the Old Man that they had discovered 12 SS Stormtroopers in the cellar. Assisting and taking them captive, the Old Man lined them up shoulder to shoulder, face down in the street as each Nazi was searched for weapons and cuffed. The old man looked at me with a gleem and said that at that exact point, he cursed out loud! We need some more HELP around here!". No sooner than the words escaped him, McGrewter appeared out of the dust of the doorway, staggering. The old man yelled I thought you were hit!!" Mcgrewter laughed mockingly and said "Stupid Kraut didn't hit me one time! I had fainted when I opened that door and saw him standing there with that P38!".
Three of the soldiers stood around in awe, laughing, backslapping, and thanking GOD, as the Old Man went back inside the house. Finding the mangled, bullet ridden corpse of the P38 wielding Nazi, he pried the pistol from the man's hand and stuffed it into his own pants. He told me that at the time, it wasn't anything dramatic, but that his reason for doing so was that they had been moving 2 weeks ahead of their paychecks for the past three months, and he knew he could sell the P38 for as much as $20, to help tide him over on cash until their pay arrived.
The old man exited the home and walked up on the 12 Stormtroopers in the front yard, being guarded by his three buddies. Within seconds, he heard the roar of a Jeep and the squeal of the breaks as it abruptly stopped before them. A Captain jumped out and was extatic at their find. He was in the process of congratulating each one when a tear streaked French woman, badly battered and horribly raped, came running up to the four of them, screaming hurriedly in French. No one understood French except the Old Man. Having witnessed the Meat-packing carnage of war and being soaked with blood not of his own, his jaw dropped at the words that came from the woman's hysterical mouth. The Captain impatiently asked him what the woman was saying. The Old Man shook his head sideways as if to clear his ears, and again stared at the woman in disbelief.
"Captain," said the Old Man "this woman said that the 3rd guy from the end is the leader, and that when they came into town earlier in the day, to show their "strength", the leader brutally raped her in front of her three kids, and broke the arm of her baby like a twig." The woman nodded, crying loudly, and made a sign with her two fists as if she were snapping a chopstick in two.
The Captain was appauled. He told the Old Man that under no uncertain terms would ANYONE be a witness, and that they are setting up a makeshift firing squad for this evil guy. He then asked the three other buddies, who had been silent this whole time, "We're gonna kill this guy and send him to the Hell in which he belongs. Did you see us do it? Did you see anything? Nope? Neither did I. Line 'em up!"
The Old Man, breathing deeply and with sobs in his mind but not his lips, objected to the Captain in a whisper. The Old Man said "Cap'n, we are the good guys. We don't shoot unarmed men..." The Captain, beginning to control his own shocked fear and disgust with the German Vermin, agreed and called off the other three.
The Captain then looked at the Old Man and said "Nothing says you can't beat him to death, though. That's fair, aint it?"
The Old Man then displayed the Walther P38 in his fist, sideways, and admitted in vast disdain and controlled tone, that he proceeded to beat the Stormtrooper leader about the face with the pistol, daring him to get up, and cajoling him in German as he pummeled the man. He recounted BEGGING the Nazi to stay on his feet to take more of a beating. In his own words, to the German's credit, he did receive a bloody nose from one luckily-placed jab, but he made it certain that the Stormtrooper never arose again.
He then snapped out of the trance, and told me that he was too old and tired to shoot that .357 and to please hand him a box of .38's instead. He carefully placed the P38 back into his bag, and gave a very brief sigh. He didn't shed a tear, and his voice never wavered, but I know in my hear that this was the first time that he has spoken of that incident.
I swallowed hard, and in an effort to clear my throat, asked teasingly "Are you sure you don't need a box of 9mm?"
The Old Man replied "Nah, that gun couldn't hit Mcgrewter's fat from 8ft away in 8 shots, you think I want to test it on a 2ft target??".
