I am a former law enforcement specialist (USAF), reserve police officer (Richland, WA), nuclear security officer, security shift supervisor, and firearms instructor. I grew up handling firearms; hunting with my dad and uncles. I was taught responsible gun handling from an early age. I did two tours in Vietnam, and fired my share of rounds in anger. I was a TNT (Tactical Neutralization Team) operator at Minot AFB. I have been an NRA member off and on, from 1982 to 1990. I competed in Dept of Energy-wide competitions. I also competed in Police Pistol Competitions in the state of Washington, where our Hanford Patrol DOE team was a dominant force for many years. In my career, I have handled a wide variety of weapons, from single shot to fully automatic. I mention all this to establish my credentials as someone who knows something about firearms, their safe handling, and above all else, when and when not to shoot.

After retiring from events that required NRA membership, I unsubscribed as a result of their increasingly strident stance on any form of  gun control. Since the latest atrocity at Newtown, some ideas put out on FB and Twitter concern me.

1) Someone posted a pic of an Israeli teacher carrying a firearm while minding her class. In all probability, that the teacher had already served her mandatory military service time. Ergo, she was trained and skilled in weapons handling. The problem with applying that questionable proposal to our situation in the U.S, is that you cannot willy-nilly hand someone a gun and expect them to use it properly and effectively. It takes a lot of training to discern a threat, assess the situation, and react to effectively neutralize the threat.

2) Encouraging "more weapons in the hands of the public". The average citizen, handed a gun and expected to use it effectively is woefully unprepared to do anything except get themselves and others killed. Sure, they can go out to the range and poke holes in targets, but those targets are not shooting back. The adrenaline flooding their system is causing fine motor skills to deteriorate. You develop tunnel vision, and you spray a full magazine of high-velocity ammo all over the place. There are other pro-gun arguments, but these are the ones that particularly resonated with me.

Here is a modest proposal on my part, based upon my training, experience, and game hunting: Restrict the sale of high-capacity magazines to law enforcement agencies only. Ban the sale of all semi-automatic rifles chambered for center-fire rounds. Limit the capacity of shotgun and hunting rifles to a maximum of five rounds .Ban the sale of all magazine-fed rifles. Limit all hunting weapons to single-shot break-action, double- barrel, or bolt action. All concealed handgun licensing agencies require proof of proficiency. The sale of all Class-III automatic weapons should be limited to Federal, State, and community Law Enforcement Agencies only. Same thing for suppressors.

Institute a buy-back of all weapons not meeting the above requirements. Institute mandatory, severe sentencing guidelines for those who commit felonies with guns. And finally fast-track all gun-related crimes through the judicial process.

Many in the  pro-gun community will strongly disagree with me, and claim I am attacking the Second Amendment. Well, I guess I am, to a certain extent.  I love to hunt, I am licensed in the state of Oregon to carry a concealed handgun. I believe that all sportsmen should be allowed to pursue their avocations without excessive governmental interference. However, in all my decades of hunting, I have never felt the need to spray bullets all over the place in order to take down a typical North American game animal. I don't need, and I don't want, a semiautomatic rifle  with which to hunt. I am a sportsman, not a market hunter. You remember those guys; the ones in the 19th Century who hunted Bison to near extinction; who slaughtered ducks and geese on the water with their 8  and 10 gauge punt guns. I figure the deer or Big Horn, or gopher deserves a somewhat more level playing field. If I can't hit it with  my initial shot, or a second, follow-up shot, then he deserves to life another day. Missing a kill shot does not threaten my manhood. My philosophy is to kill quickly and cleanly, with as little suffering as possible. The deer will provide meat for my table, the same with the Big Horn. The gopher population will be slightly depleted, possibly saving a stockman's or farmers' livestock from breaking a leg in a burrow.

Is this little dream of mine possible? Certainly. Is it probable in my lifetime? Probably not. I am not a libtard anti-gun nut. I enjoy the shooting sports: trap, skeet, target, varmint hunting, upland bird hunting, and sanctioned handgun competitions such as IPSC. I just don't think we need access to high-capacity, semi-automatic weapons to enjoy our hunting sports. As a former law enforcement and security professional, nothing drew my testicles farther up into my scrotum than the knowledge I was going into a potentially violent situation with someone who was known to be armed with an AR-15, an SSK, or other lethal high-capacity, high velocity weapon. 

Remember the video footage of the police officer at the Koresh Branch Davidian complex who was gunned down by someone with an M-60 firing through the wall?

Admittedly, and thankfully, the occurrence of such mass murders are committed by a tiny fraction of the law-abiding gun owners in America. But giving up the right to own what are essentially military class weapons does not constitute a slippery slope into tyranny. Just think for a moment that one of your own children had been attending Sandy Hook Elementary School that day. . .

Where Has Civility Gone?

Saturday, September 29, 2012 -- 11:45 pm.

I was skimming through my Facebook account today, when I ran across a post referring to  my not so great friends at Fox News screwing the pooch yet again. It seems they were following a police pursuit live, when the perp un-assed his vehicle, ran down an  embankment, then shot himself live, on national television. To the news reader's credit, at least seemed quite upset and apologized for the failure of the tape delay system.

Fox was quick to drop the feed, after the fact, of course, but it was picked up and tweeted by other online news agencies. So. now, the grieving parents, siblings, etc., get to see live, in-color images of their loved one shooting himself on national television. I understand the video clip has now gone viral.

I was following this via a Slate blogger. I began to read the comments, and was appalled to find  so much callous disregard for the loss of life. It's as  if most of the posters couldn't distinguish between their video games and real life. It was extremely depressing to see not a single post addressing the fact a family saw their loved one end his life so publicly.

The internet has opened up a whole new world of instant communications, but has failed to open up the minds of individuals, or their ability to enter into civil discourse with others whose views may differ from their own. In fact, civility seems to have become a victim of our modern digital communications world.

I am a firm believer in the constitutionally protected right to freedom of expression, but I also as firmly believe that with that right comes a responsibility to weigh your words with great care. It is so easy to hide behind a screen of anonymity and spew the most hateful, vitriolic rhetoric without regard to the effects of  those ugly words on the people and institutions addressed.  People who do that reveal far more about themselves than about the subject at hand.

It's Funny How the Mind Works

It's almost 4:00 a.m., and I'm having one of those nights when the brain just won't shut down. I took the stuff my shrink prescribed, but, even with a martini chaser, I can't seem to find the "off" switch for  my psyche. Stuff just seems to circle round and round, like a dog chasing its tail; lots of effort expended to no avail. I just can't seem to process all the little things running around in my head like cockroaches scurrying about in a suddenly lit room.

At least the change in my antidepressants seems to be working. I no longer feel so hopeless. I am still constantly surprised that I've managed to live as long as I have. I have lived for a very long time now thinking that my death was imminent. My counseler tells me that typical of PTSD, but I can't seem to internalize that. First of all, I feel guilty being diagnosed with what I've always considered to be a combat-related condition. I didn't go out in the bush looking for trouble. I wasn't ambushed, shot at, or attacked by Viet Cong.

For God's sake, I spent the majority of my service in Vietnam safely ensconced behind layers of barbed wire, sentries, and sand bags. Yeah, we got shelled a bunch of times, but all I had to to was run and hide in a bunker. That wasn't a very good feeling, I'll admit. But, to me, that wasn't combat. That was just hiding in a hole while other young men put their lives on the line going outside the wire to deal with the problem.

I remember when I was TDY at Cam Rahn Bay watching the medvac buses bringing the wounded to the evac aircraft that were taking  them home. How could I compare what I did with what they suffered?

I remember sitting one night in the all-ranks club with my radio shop NCOIC. We were sucking down flat Miller High Life beer and complaining about how tough we had it when a grunt, fresh in from the bush, laughed at us and called our base a "fucking in-country R&R.".  My NCOIC, a TSgt famous for his enormous capacity for booze, and lack of sensitivity, took offense and told him he just didn't understand how miserable our lives were. For instance, the showers ran out of hot water to soon, the beer was always flat, the chow hall food,while it might have been hot, was bland and not very tasty. Even the steaks were  tough.

This kind of whining  to someone just out of the bundu with a beard, an attitude, and a thousand-yard stare was not something that would endear the Air Force to an Army Ranger.  The grunt replied with a right hook that levled my shop chief and then started after me. I beat a very hasty  retreat.  I definitely didn't want to be part of that mess, especially with the Air Police on their way.

I KNEW I was well off, and I had enough common sense stay way from situations that might rearrange my rather plain face into something uglier. My shop chief showed up for duty two days later sporting a remarkable set of bruises, two black eyes, and a broken nose. Call me a coward for not defending the honor of the USAF, but even in my cups, I had sense enough not to prod a tiger with a short stick.

Just another day in Paradise.

Today was really shitty. I slept til almost 11 am, dragged my ass out of bed. I've been down all day. Really short fuse. Yelled at my dog, which I never do. Carl told me I should try to write down my feelings, but when I'm this way, I don't want to do anything. Sometimes, I just feel like my whole life is a fucking failure. I've never done anything well in my life. Unless reading escape liturature counts.

Letters to my Shrink

Hi Carl.

I hope this email finds you well, and still gainfully employed <g>.  I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to get together lately. I always enjoy our conversations.  Something just recently percolated up from my subconscious, that I wanted to share with you.  I actually DID attempt suicide when I was in Vietnam.  However, like many things in my life, I made a dreadful hash of it.  

I was stationed at Phang Rang airbase in the Republic of Vietnam.  I was with an Avionics Maintenance Squadron supporting F-100 fighter-bombers of the 35th Tactical Fighter Wing. This would have been around October or November, 1970.

I was drinking heavily during my tour of 'Nam.  I wasn't particularly well-liked by my peers.  I think it may have been because I took my job very seriously, and was less than charitable to those who weren't as quick on the uptake, or as dedicated to getting the job done as I perceived myself to be.. (Of course, it could have been also that I just had no skills in dealing with people).  It wasn't unusual to start a 12-hr shift with 20-25 aircraft radios on the bench awaiting repair.  My shift team consisted of a (mostly) absent NOIC and three other technicians.  There was no time for anyone to slack off, and I was pretty tough on anyone who wasn't pulling his weight.  We worked six nights a week. 

When I got off duty each morning, I went to my squadron area, where I usually ate in my bunk (the chow hall was too big a target as far as I was concerned).  I then went to to our patio area, which consisted of a lean-to attached to the orderly room.  The furniture consisted of a pretty well built bar, complete with bar stools and a few tables and chairs stolen from the all ranks club.  It was open 24/7 so beer was always available.  

I usually drank  a lot (I don't remember exact amounts, but it was probably around eight to ten beers every morning.  Then I would try to sleep a few hours before putting myself together for another 12-hr shift.  Usually, on my one day off, I would go to the all ranks club and stayed there drinking and watching whatever USO entertainment happened to be available.  I remember one particularly bad band making heavy weather of "Inna Gadda Davida" by Iron Butterfly.  I usually stayed there drinking until the club closed, then I would return to our squadron patio and continue to drink beer til 3 or 4 in  the morning.

I can't remember the occasion, but the squadron was having a big barbecue, and booze-up which coincided with my day off. I was alternately drinking scotch and a rose' wine [Mateus, which seemed very popular in my unit].  I remember feeling pretty loosey-goosey, when one of my hootch-mates, with whom I had had trouble in the past got up in my face about something I no longer remember.  He was drunk, I was drunk. One thing led to another, and we starting swinging at each other.  

I guess I hurt him pretty badly, because a number of his friends started in on me about beating him up. Everything was crashing down around me. I had no friends, I was burning out, my drinking was getting worse. I had to drink more and more to get the numbing effect I needed to get me through the next day, the next week, month, until I could escape from this ugly place. 

I guess I snapped, because I ran up the stairs to the second landing of the super-hootch in which I was billeted, and I jumped off the railing to the concrete about 12 feet below. I guess there really is some power that protects drunks and fools, because I landed on my butt and hip.  I remember being in a lot of pain. I also remember the ring of faces looking down at me while waiting for the ambulance.  All I could see was judgment, disapproval, and amusement in their faces.

I spent three days in the base dispensary with a bruised ass and sprained back.  When I was released, I had to report to my C.O. for disciplinary action.  I got a pretty major ass-chewing, and my orders promoting me to E-5 were red-lined.  I was placed on a 90 day probation. If I kept sober and out of trouble, I would receive my promotion.  I managed to stay out of trouble, but I continued to drink heavily all during my tour.  I can only speculate my CO recognized how hard I worked, and how much my crew contributed to our combat readiness.  He was a pretty cool guy who cut me some slack when even I didn't think I deserved it.  

Carl, this memory, came out of nowhere only in the past two or three weeks.  I tried to dismiss it at first, as simply another false recollection, but the details, once remembered, have become clearer as I poked and prodded at them.  My service records will probably reflect the injuries sustained. I have tried a number of times to sort this out for myself, and it has been very difficult for me to come to grips with.  All this time I've thought of suicide, only to realize I have already tried. . .and failed.

Make what you will of this, I just needed to share it with someone I felt might understand.