Sixgunner Stories
Pulling a shift in the prison mess hall was at times a fairly boring duty.
One thing that livened the day was the inmates. You never knew what was gonna
come up. Some of the inmates working in the mess hall were in the "Thorazin
for Lunch Bunch" as we called them. If they didn't take their medication
they often did interesting things.
One day an inmate was just sitting in the corner, staring intently at his
forefinger. He did not respond to anyone, just kept staring at his finger.
Finally one of the other CSO's said, "HEY! WHAT'S GOING ON?" and got
his attention. He looked up with a kind of goofy look in his eyes and said,
"If you concentrate, you can focus all your energy into your finger. It
will become stronger than steel. You can poke it right through a block
wall."
We all laughed to which he responded vehemently "NO! IT'S TRUE!" He
went on to say that if he concentrated all his power in the top of his head he
could ram right through the concrete wall on the opposite side of the kitchen.
One of the other guards said, "No way." and got into an argument with
him about it. He maintained he could and said he would show us. He closed his
eyes, concentrated for a couple minutes, then got up and, bent over at the waist
ran as hard as he could across room, headfirst into the concrete wall.
His scalp split open like a banana peeling back and he flopped unconscious on
the floor, blood going everywhere.
As you know, everything is documented. Lots of paperwork. I was fish and learned
from the old hands about creative report writing.
~~~Jim Taylor
I don't have too many hair raising stories but one came to
mind. It isn't so hair raising as it may prove that my guardian angel gets
extra pay.
I went on a bear hunt in the Pine Tree State a number of years ago( that is
Maine for those who don't know the nickname) and struck up a good friendship
with the guide who was also a game warden with the Passamaquoddy Indian tribe.
He said I was alright and if I wanted to, I could stay at the wardens camp
during deer season. I was not allowed to hunt on Indian land but I could sleep
there and then go off the property to anywhere my feet could carry me.
Well, I drove up through Jackman and onto the dirt roads to the camp. I arrived
in the dark of night and found the hollow cut into the tree for the key.
I then set up for myself and then I was off the next day to hunt. Didn't see
anything and when I came back to camp I retired for the evening.Well, my friend
didn't mention anything to one of the other wardens .He arrived and it was sort
of the Goldy Locks and the three bears in a different mode. He got a bit
defensive and seemed quite heated at this sqatter in the cabin. It wasn't until
I had the chance to explain everything and who I knew did it calm down and all
was ok.(I had in mind the situation my dad saw when he was younger in Maine. A
guide had spotted someone using one of his canoes. The guides father gave them
permission to use it and didn't say anything.The guide aimed his 30-06 and
clicked off the safety while ordering the men out. ) I was then given some
advice as to where to go and I shot at and missed the biggest deer of my life(
my dad commented had I been using a rifle I would have probably gotten it. I was
using my TC 45-70)
So there is my sort of lame story.
~~bigbore442001
Back in 1969 my dad got a new Weatherby MkXXII, the clip fed one not the tube
mag. These were new on the market, and we shot it a bunch. We were on vacation
at our 40 acre place in AuGres, Mi and were shooting at a local friends farm.
This Weatherby was a real shooter with open sights, and dad was an exceptional
shot. Targets started out with tomatoes and then shotshells then finally it
turned to shooting 22 cases off the tops of fence posts from about 25yds. One of
the local fellows said, I bet you can't hit this penny thrown in the air. Dad
expressed little interest till the wager amount rose to $20, which in the late
60's was serious cash. The fellow doing the challenging was a very good shot,
but couldn't quite seem to outshoot my dad, and that bothered him as he had a
very high impression of himself. Finally to shut the guy up, dad agreed to the
bet. So, the fellow threw the penny up in the air and dad shot, the penny
disappeared! We were all speechless, Mr Fullofhimself most of all. He sputtered,
"you have to do that again!" Dad replied "No, our bet was
shooting a penny out of the air, not more than one". Mr. Fullofhimself
refused to pay for quite a while, claiming dad needed to do it more than once.
Eventually, under a little calm but firm persuasion, he relented and paid up.
For me, a lad of 11 years, this feat of marksmanship firmly placed my dad as
superhuman in my eyes.
Unfortunately, Mr Fullofhimself was a sore loser, and over the years things
happened around there, that were unpleasant to say the least. Acts of
underhandedness, such as putting fuel oil on our deer bait piles and such,
continued for years before we discovered who was responsible, when someone
burned our cottage out, and it turned out to be old Fullofhimself that got
caught and convicted of it.
~~Mark
During the early 1990s, I found myself at MCRD San Diego, more colloquially,
boot camp. (Marine Corps Recruit Depot.)
Boot camp was a whole new thing for me. I ended up doing the extended dance
remix version of boot camp. Ordinarily, it's twelve (now thirteen) weeks, but I
was there for one day more than six months.
I was in training, then dropped to the fat body platoon (Physical Conditioning
Platoon, aka Pork Chop Platoon), then back to training, then, ahem, I sorta
broke myself, and ended up at Medical Rehabilitation Platoon, aka the sick, the
lame, and the lazy. Had a bad stress fracture of the right tibia.
MRP is different than regular training. It's hard to do side straddle hops when
you're on crutches. They would march us, then, to the SNCO gym for physical
conditioning. Except you can't march if you're on crutches. They'd tell me,
"Ballard, you just gaggle yourself back to the house as best you can."
One day, while the other broke bodies were marching back from the gym, I was
hobbling back by myself, when two drill instructors saw me. Their platoon was in
a nearby classroom learning about the M16A2 or how to kill with their halitosis
or something. They called me over for interrogation.
They wanted to know how long I'd been at boot camp, what I wanted to do in the
Corps on the unlikely chance I'd graduate. They asked how old I was, and what
I'd done before I showed up.
When I said that "this recruit" had graduated from law school
immediately before entering the Corps, they asked if I had been psychologically
examined, since I had obviously lost my flaming mind. (Flaming is not the word
they used.)
Then they asked where I was from.
"Sir, this recruit is from Houston, Texas, sir."
And I saw it coming. The Marine Corps is all about history and tradition and
good media, and Jack Webb had entered the collective Marine Corps overmind for
his role as "The D.I." and later, R. Lee Ermey did the same, for his
role as the DI in "Full Metal Jacket."
"TEXAS?" bellowed one of the drill instructors. "Ain't nothing
from Texas but steers and queers, boy, and I don't see no horns on you."
I was standing at the position of attention, modified because I had my crutches
under my arms, and I was very much not looking at the drill instructors.
Peripheral vision, on the other hand, is a wonderful thing.
"Sir, this recruit had his horns surgically removed when he was much
younger. It is a decision the recruit now bitterly and deeply regrets,
sir."
The DIs looked at each other. One of them started to smile. (This is simply not
done.) The chief interrogator lowered his chin so that his campaign hat covered
his face.
"Get the freak away from me, recruit."
"Get the freak away from the drill instructor, aye, sir!" And away I
got. (Freak, like flaming above, is not really the word they used.)
~~Kid Cossack
Picking up Women (inspired by Alsatian's post)
I was driving down I-10 south of Phoenix one summer when I saw this gal who
had a dog with her hitchhiking. She had on real tight shorts and looked
interesting so I stopped and picked them up.
Now I have always been a sucker for long hair and big eyes and she was friendly
right from the moment she got in the cab of my pickup. Slid over against me real
tight, started rubbing me and ... such.
The woman was pockmarked and foul mouthed and smelled bad and I let her out
after a couple miles.
That dog though, she turned out to be a good one.
~~Jim Taylor
I can't match the interesting stories already posted but I'll do the best I
can.
Many years ago I was a Freshman in college in Austin, Tx and lived in north
Texas. I was ready to go back to school after Christmas break and we had a bad
ice storm, and from what we heard it actually extended almost to Austin. My dad
found out that the buses were running so he suggested that I take the bus to
school then come back next month and get my car. I tood the bus but about
halfway between Dallas and Austin we ran into ice and the bus turned around and
went back to Dallas. By then they decided that from Dallas north was iced in so
I was stuck in Dallas. I met another guy about my age in the bus station so we
got a hotel room in downtown Dallas for the night. Funny thing was that there
was ice north of Dallas and south of Dallas, but no ice in Dallas.
The next day we managed to get a bus to take us to Temple, Tx but the bus
wouldn't go any further. We stayed in a small motel in Temple. The next day we
missed our bus and ended up hitchhiking to Austin. By the time we got to Austin
there was snow and ice there too. That trip took 48 hours but I finally made it.
~~bj
When I was a lot younger I went with my brother-in-law and one of his friends
backpacking in the Grand Canyon. This was my first backpacking trip but the 2
younger (and far tougher!) boys were more experienced. After 3 days with a heavy
pack I was pretty well done in so I stopped at the Bright Angel campground and
hung out for the day while the tougher boys went ahead. Later that day I was
sitting there and a guy walked up and started talking to me. He pretended to
recognize me and knew details about my past, but he did not seem at all familiar
to me. Turned out the other 2 boys had met him further down the trail and cooked
up this trick to play on me.
About 15 years later I was hiking in the bottom of the Grand Canyon again with a
couple of guys I had just met. We went down the steeper trail and their wives
were coming down the easier trail. They described the wives to me and told me a
few things about them. So I hiked back the easier trail and sure enough saw the
2 girls coming. The husbands had told me that one of the wives was a teacher so
I pretended to recognize her and say that I had been one of her students. She
was totally baffled so I had to let her in on the joke. That little round trip
turned out to be about 20 miles for me, including 5000 feet down and 5000 feet
back up.
~~bj
OK, this is the last one unless I manage to remember something real
interesting later on.
About 20 years ago I was dove hunting with family in south Texas. We hunted and
camped at the back of the ranch, about 3 miles off of the rural road. We were
packing up our camp and it started raining a little so we decided we better get
outta there. The road out crossed a creek and climbed a steep clay hill, which
by the time we got there was pretty slick. My "city" pickup with
street tires just wouldn't make it up the hill so I had to leave it at the
bottom of the hill. I grabbed my guns, clothes and camping gear and walked the
last mile to the paved road in the deep mud. I hitched a ride back to Austin
with family, left my camping gear and guns at my father-in-law's house, and took
Southwest Airlines back home. So I left home with a pickup packed with camping
and hunting gear, and returned on a plane with just the clothes I was wearing. A
relative was able to drive my truck out a week later and bring it to me but I
had to go back later under better conditions and collect the rest of my stuff.
~~bj
I was on uniform patrol in 16 District in Houston. Night shift. We ran with
the windows down and the air conditioning on in the summer. You had to be able
to hear, but with the vest and all your gear, you simply had to have some
cooling.
I heard an argument and cut the lights cruising down the street to the next
intersection where I saw a man cranking rounds from a pistol into an open front
door of what I knew to be a house of ill repute. I hit the lights and he turned
and cranked a couple of rounds in MY DIRECTION. Ok, I was not amused!
He jumps into this little car and takes off with me in hot pursuit. As he makes
the corner, I hear this loud BOOM to my right and figure that I have just
screwed up big time and I was taking fire from the side! But, as I was not hurt
and I knew that this guy had shot at me, I continued the pursuit.
He did not go far and he cooperated very well as I severely arrested him. I
asked him about his partner and he denied having one. I found the gun under the
seat and it was empty and still warm. I had my guy, but where had the shot come
from?
Turns out that one of his slugs hit the bumper of my Crown Vic and the
whereabouts of the other slug was never known. It was certainly sufficient.
I went back to the scene with him and asked the ladies about the incident. I
then learned the truth, there had been an altercation over fees for services
rendered and this ended with our bad boy resorting to the gun as a negotiation
tool as I arrived at the scene. The ladies produced a nice old Remington hammer
double which had been freshly fired, both barrels. They explained that they had
shot at him as he drove away.
I had the wrecker driver bring our boy's car around and sure enough, there was
not a space on the rear quarter panel that had not been properly peppered with
bird shot.
I left the ladies with a couple of rounds of OO buck and ignored their
participation in the incident report.
~~the Alsatian
Midnight Desert Trek - a story from my teens ....
I was 17 years old and in High School. Friday during school a bunch of us
decided to have a beer party on the Verde River, a popular hangout for kids
during the hot Arizona summers. We set off to gather up what alcoholic
refreshments that we could, inviting girls to come to the party and rounding up
snacks and whatever else would be needed.
I rode up in a friend’s car leaving mine at his house. We had it loaded …
figuratively and literally. The gathering spot on the Verde River was a nice
shaded area with big rocks, large trees and quiet places. It also happened to be
on the Indian Reservation.
When we arrived at the river we found about 6 or 8 cars already there. The party
was starting! By 10 PM there were maybe 30 kids. We were playing music, dancing,
making out, drinking and in general having a good time. Things were cool until
someone yelled that headlights were coming our way!
I was clear-headed enough to know that there wasn’t but one way in and out,
and that whoever was coming most likely wasn’t one of "us". I
grabbed a couple of the kids and said, "Come on … up the rocks!"
The rocks I referred to were from 50 to 100 feet high, piled up like some giant
dump truck had backed up and left them there. All jumbled up. About 15 or 20 of
us scrambled up into the rocks and picked a place where we could watch. My hunch
was correct, it was the Reservation Police.
The cops fanned out and grabbed everyone on the ground. Then they looked through
the cars and soon it was apparent that some of the owners of the cars were not
in the bunch they had rounded up. One cop got on his mike and began calling for
the car owners and everyone else to come in and give themselves up. "There
is no way out of here" he said.
Dejectedly the owners of the cars went back down the rocks and gave up. I told
the group that there was no way the cops could find us and if those guys kept
their mouths shut we would be OK. It did not take long to figure that the cops
were gonna try to wait us out, though. They looked like they were gonna settle
in for the night.
I figured it wasn’t more than 10 or 12 miles across the desert to the Beeline
Highway and told the kids with me that I was gonna walk out of there. At first
some wanted to give up and I told them they could do whatever they wanted. I was
going across the desert and started out. Soon they all followed.
I was pretty confident in my ability to find my way across country, day or
night. There was a pretty full moon and it was a nice summer’s night. Using
the mountains as guides we walked from around 11 that night until near 3 AM when
we hit the Beeline Highway. There was no traffic so we started walking toward
town, another 15 miles or so.
Somewhere’s about 3:30 or so we saw the headlights of a car coming. We were
off the reservation and did not figure it was the Indian Police, but we were not
sure if they had put out a "look out for" us or not. We hid alongside
the road and as the car came by we saw it was our friend Dennis, one of the guys
who was busted earlier that night.
We jumped up yelling and Dennis slid to a stop. We were sure glad as we had
really long walk home in front of us.
Turns out the Indian Police handcuffed them, gave them a hard time, then
confiscated all the beer and left them go free.
But … we had a nice trek across the desert while they were being held.
Country boys can survive!
~~Jim Taylor
The horse was caught in the cienegas after running wild and free for 6 years.
My friend Jimmy threw him and gelded him a few minutes after he was caught.
He was a big brown horse, solid bodied but wall-eyed. And he turned out to be
one of those horses that wasn't gonna be broke. Oh, he got to where you could
screw a saddle on him and he would sorta reign as long as you used a hackamore.
The big problem was that he would booger at anything. If you were riding along
peaceful and took off your hat he would go to bucking. I never did manage to
stay on him either. A couple other hands could but he could dump most anyone.
After about 3 months we still had not named him. He was just "the
horse" or "the wild one".
One day we decided we would wear him down and got the local Deputy whom we
called Buffalo to ride him. Buffalo stood 6 foot 6 in his socks and weighed
close to 375.
We caught the horses and saddled them up. We warned Buffalo. "Once you get
on him, just set him. Don't wave your arms around. Don't make any sudden moves.
Just set him." Our plan was to ride him down to a puddle of sweat.
On the way out of the corral Buffalo reached over to the shed roof to retreieve
a Thirst Buster he had set there. The horse snorted and the show was on! About 6
jumps and Buffalo was flying through the air.
The horse took off out of the corral with us in pursuit. It showed us its heels
down the lane to the road and as it ran across the highway it ran smack into the
side of a VW van that was passing by, caving in the side of the van.
It shook the horse enough that we were able to get a couple ropes on it and
settle it down.
The driver of the van turned out to be a tourist from New York. "How will I
explain to my insurance company that I was hit by a horse?" he asked. I
often wonder what came of that.
From that day on the horse had his name. Forever more he was IRON HORSE.
~~ Jim Taylor
This is kind of a trucking story. For those who have not been to the New
Jersey town of Camdon, I have to inform you it is a dangerous place, very
dangerous.
I hauled in a truck load of Dried Potatoes to a "One Dock" market just
over the line from Philadelphia, Pa and when I called for directions, I was told
not to came down there till daylight and for certain not to stop at any red
light and for real certain not to talk to anyone even for emergencies and for
dead certain not to get out of my truck for any reason other than to open my
trailer doors before backing into the dock.
Well, that is enough to get your imagination going, thats for sure. I have been
in most major cities in the United States including the New Jersey shore but
excepting down town New York, which doesn't intrest me at all. I have been in
East LA and it is a bad place but I have never been delt such warnings such as
what I had recieved prior my delivering in Camdon, New Jersey.
Well, as I was being unloaded, I was hounded by a certain man, Black in color,
(I am not bigoted, but I am just stating the facts here) for money. I rolled the
window down about an inch and told him to get lost. He came back about half an
hour later and told me he needed money real bad and I gave him the same
"get lost" warning. He came back again and with force began pounding
on my door while shouting "White reversed, racist remarks" and saying
he would rob me if I didn't give him 100 bucks. I told him I was warning him for
the last time. He left kind of pissed. I went into the sleeper and fetched a m94
Winchester 30-30 and placed in in my lab with the barrel resting against the
dash. When he returned and jumped up on the running boards with anger on his
face, he looked at my rifle and ran off. I was now pretty well, nervous, certain
he had gone to fetch his Gang Banger buddies and I was headed for a Showdown
right there on the Camdon, New Jersey streets. 15 minutes later, the reciever
came to my door and handed me my papers telling me I was finished being
unloaded. I pulled away from the dock and closed the doors, while looking over
my shoulder and drove off, not to stop for 50 miles.
~~CM
Here is a true story of horse theft and recovery in the deep wilderness.
The year was 1995 (I think) I decided to take a pack trip into the Frank Church
River of No Return Wilderness by myself. This federal wilderness is 2.5 million
square acres and is the largest in the lower 48. Real rough, very steep and
remote. I was going to recharge my personal batteries and do some exploring for
the upcoming elk season.
Since I was going alone, I took only one pack mule and one horse to ride. The
horse was only four and it is not a real good idea to go alone with a four year
old, but I had been riding him for a year and he was raised right here, so he
knew all about bears, lions, rocks, mud , ice, blow down, etc. and I figured he
would not be too big a risk. The mule was 10 years old and was bomb proof.
I rode in about 15 miles from the trail head and set up a camp that could not be
seen from the trail. Even though this area rarely sees any horse traffic (like
never, except me) I didnt want my camp to be visible from the trail.
At night I would untie the mule so it could eat all night. During the day, I
would let the horse loose to feed and keep the mule tied. Horses and mules being
herd animals will not leave each other, so as long as you leave one tied, the
other will feed and drink close by, but wont run off. Turning both loose at the
same time would be a booboo.
I awoke early, ( I never sleep good alone in the wilderness) put my day pack
together, tied the mule and untied the horse. I took my rifle (Marlin 45-70) and
my 500 linebaugh (in a shoulder holster) and left camp for a day of watching
elk/deer and exploring. I put on an honest 10 miles of up and down moutain
hiking that morning. In those days I was really in shape.
When I got back to camp at around noon, my horse was no where to be seen. I had
put a grazing bell on him that morning so I could locate him by sound, but I
couldnt hear him any where. Normally he would not stray more than a 100 yards
from camp. What was wrong?
I walked down to the trail I had ridden in on. The tracks on the trail told the
story. Several riders had ridden by that morning. My horse had followed them.
With that bell on, they would have obviously heard and then seen my horse, so
they had to know that my horse was with them. Keep in mind that this is one real
good lookng horse. Any one would be proud to have this horse and once he was
gone, I'd never see him again. I was in good enough physical condition to out
walk other horses that were carrying riders in steep country, but the earlier 10
miles I had put on, were going to take their toll later in the day.
I loaded my camp on the mule and took off after the riders and my horse with my
mule in tow. She knew we were folowing the other horses. Old mules live by thier
nose, just like a hound and she knew exactly what we were doing. I kept up a
fast pace, but I could only go as fast as the pack mule would follow and she was
loaded heavy.
I knew that there were several riders in front of me. I did not know why they
were so deep in the wilderness nor did I know who they were. Why were they
taking my horse? I climbed for a good five miles at a stiff pace. Came to a
divide on top of the mountain range. I was on top of the world and could see for
100 miles in all directions--nothing but mountains. The good news??? Now we
would be going down hill! From this spot, I knew it was at least another 10
miles to the nearest trail head. Many more miles to several other trail heads. I
had to catch these men before they made the trail head where thier trucks and
horse trailers were or I'd never see my horse again. The damn mule was slowing
me down.
By now it was mid/late afternoon. The tracks in front of me were real fresh.
When I caught those guys, I was going to be needing some explanations.
Suddenly I saw my mules ears go forward. I stopped. It was time to tie the mule
and go in quietly. BUUUUTT, my mule started to bellar. I knew we were real close
and now they knew I was close too, darn! No more element of suprise. The mule
stepped up the pace now. I came over a little rise and there they were--setting
up camp for the evening. Two men, two women and about 8 head of riding/pack
horses. My horse was there too, but no bell on him. All four of them were
looking at me as I led my mule into thier camp, rifle in hand. One man said,
pointing at my horse, I guess thats your horse, huh? I said, YOU THINK? I walked
to my horse, every one was staring. I put my lead rope on him. I said, wheres my
bell. One guy said, we took it off cause it was spooking our horses. He dug
through his stuff and produced the bell. For high altitude mountain air, it was
awfully thick at the moment. The other guy spoke up and said, we didnt know
where the horse came from, so we let it follow us. I said, it had a bell on, you
new exactly when it started to follow you, right? The guy said , yea, but we
didnt see a camp any where, so we let it follow us. "Sure is a nice looking
animal". I was really angry and wanted to punch the guy, but I figured that
would lead to shooting. I said "thanks for taking care of him". I tied
my mule to the horse and started off toward the trail head on foot.
I had left the ridding saddle at my camp in an effort to not over load the mule.
So, I was about 8 miles from my camp sight where the saddle was (a $2,500.00
saddle), or I was about 10 miles from the trail head my truck was at. I was real
tired, but in those days, real tired meant I wasnt dead yet. I started for the
trail head. Got there well after dark, loaded up my critters and headed for home
a few days earlier than planned.
The next week, I came back with two riding horses, One to ride in and the other,
bare back, to throw my saddle on that I had left in the woods and then ride the
fresh horse out. This would be a 30 mile round trip in steep country, so the two
horses were a must. It went without a hitch.
That trip was the only time I had ever seen other people in this remote stretch
of wilderness. I hate horse thieves!
~~Sundles
I went to college in Montana, back in the '60s. Money was a little tight
trying to support a wife and new baby on the GI Bill, so I did a lot of odd jobs
on the side when I wasn't studying or hunting. Among those was guiding dudes for
an outfitter out of Absarokee (pronounced ab-SORE-key for those who don't know).
Mostly we worked the local ranches around there and the National Forest up in
the Little Pryor Mountains, about 60 miles south of Billings. Teasing the
clients and telling tall tales was part of the fun. One of our favorite gags was
to locate a pile of mule deer droppings, get down close and examine them very
critically. While doing so I'd surrupticiously drop a few raisins among the
turds then, with my best poker face, pick one of them up and bite into it. I'd
then render an opinion as to how old it might be, chew it and swallow it. The
look of horror and disbelief on the face of the dude was always amazing to
behold, but I'd do my best to tell them that it didn't taste bad at all, and
invite them to try one. Once in awhile one did and immediately began spitting it
out, while declaring, "That tastes like s**t!" Thinking back on it
now, nearly 40 years later, it's a wonder one of them didn't shoot me. Sure was
funny at the time.
~~"Doc"
O'Meara
My brother signed up for a college biology class. On the first day, the prof
told the class that a weak stomach would not be tolerated in a class full of
dissections, etc. From his desk, he held up a beaker that he said contained
human urine. As the class watched, he dipped a finger in the beaker, and then
stuck it in his mouth, and sucked on it. Moving to the first row of desks, he
handed the beaker to the wide-eyed student, and said that anyone who did not
repeat the proceedure would flunk the class.
Amid a thunder of groans, and protests, the beaker was passed around the
classroom until it was returned to the prof. He then glared at the class, and
said he wasn't testing their stomachs, he was testing their powers of
observation, and they all flunked. Had they possessed any, he said, they would
have observed that he stuck his second finger in the beaker, and his first
finger in his mouth.
~~Arch Stanton
I had just checked in to my new command and had done a preliminary sanitation
inspection the day previous. I was following up on my Sanitation/Habitability
inspection after field day and decided to "get" the guys responsible
for cleaning this particular head. I took some toilet paper out of the CPO
quarters and walked through the mess decks. On the mess decks I put a 6 inch
skid mark of peanut butter on the toilet paper and concealed it. When the Sonar
techs were gathered in the head for the final inspection I reached behind the
toilet and pulled out the "soiled" toilet paper. I took a long sniff,
tasted it, pronounced it SH#T and told them they failed the inspection. All the
while, everyone of them had the dry heaves/gags so bad I almost couldn't keep a
straight face.
~~SubDoc
Here is a little story (tis true) that might be of interest.
When I was in college at Sul Ross in Alpine Texas, the far reaches of the Big
Bend country was out playground. Southern Brewster and Presidio counties have
many abandoned mines where they used to pull silver and cinnabar from the
ground.
There were large hills or tailing of rocks and stuff brought to the surface in
the process of mining. One minerals from deep in the earth was floresent
calcite. This stuff would glow and pretty pretty green or blue under UV light
and was popular with collectors of such stuff.
Three of us had a little industry going combing through those tailings and
shipping it to a gem and mineral dealer in California. We got 35 cents per
pound. That may not sound like much but we could harvest a couple of hundred
pounds in an evening and that was real money back in those days. We would wait
until the moon was dark and use a portable UV light to dig through the tailing.
The stuff we were looking for glowed under the light.
On one trip, we were pretty tuckered and turned in about 2am. One guy had a 55
Pontiac station wagon and me and another guy slept in the back. One fellow
insisted on sleeping on the ground. I warned him about sleeping on the ground in
the desert, but he would not listen and curled up on the ground in his surplus
GI feather moutain sleeping bag.
There was a little chill in the morning air, when I crawled out of the Pontiac a
little after first light. The fellow on the ground was sound asleep and a small
rattlesnake was coiled up on his stomach enjoying the warmth from his body.
Now I had three choices..1) I could wake him up and tell him a rattlesnake was
on his stomach. 2) I could rake the snake off with a long handled shovel and
kill it with the same or 3) I could shoot it off with my 1911 Remington Rand.
What to do?
I decided the most fun would be to shoot it off. I got down on my belly a few
feet from the sleeping man and happy snake. Took careful aim and across his
belly at the snake. I droped the hammer and sent a good 452423 on it's way to
the snake. That brought the fellow to an immediate state to wakefullness and I
started yelling "snake..snake".
Well, have you ever seen a fellow try to get up and run in a sleeping bag? He
rolled, tumbled, and tryed to crawl in the bag. He pretty much shreaded the bag
and sent feathers all over that part of the county. It took him almost a full
year to get over being pissed at me.
Later that day the other fellow, who was also a semi-fool, fell into the
elevatory shaft (about 150 feel deep) of an abandoned mine..but that is another
story.
That weekend put the whoa on our calcite gathering operations.
~~Charles
We used to go swimming in the Bosque River north of Waco and a favorite thing
to do was to swing out over the river on a rope and either drop in or swing back
to the tree platform. If you caught the platform on the first back swing, you
could land on it. If not, you pendulumed in to a stand-sill about five feet
above the bank.
There was a cross-stick on this particular rope with the tag-end of the rope
hanging down. One fool tied the end of the rope around his neck knowing that he
could take it off when he got back to the platform. Ummm Hmmmm.
Well he is dangling there with his hands getting tired and another guy got under
him so that he could stand on his shoulders, hang on by one hand while trying to
untie the rope with the other. I was standing by with my 1917 colt loaded with
ball. If worse came to worse, I could pick a spot well over his head and start
shooting. Probably wouldn't have been able to part the rope before he strangled
but it was a thought anyway.
He was more scared of the .45 than of getting bugled off to heaven on the end of
that rope. Fortunately, he managed to untie himself and colapse in a
hyperventilating heap. He went to Vietnam and won a chest full of medals and is
still alive to this day.
~~mcump
