Ever hear this one? What if the Confederates in the Civil War had had assault rifles?

Well, it would'a looked somethin' like this (some of these are a bit fuzzy - I'm still figuring this digital camera out).



Here's the secret... They still would'a got beat like step children (that's another story), but they would'a looked cool as hell while they got beat. But don't say that in front of these dudes. They're VERY sensitive. Don't call it "The War of the Rebellion" ether. Just don't. Trust me.

I went up to Gatesvill to shoot Sunday morning with a buddy and a few of his friends, all Civil War buffs and reenactors. We'd all met before, at gun shows and such. The scope of their knowledge about the uniforms and buttons and tools and minutia of the period would make a doctoral candidate roll it up and go back to waiting tables at Chilli's. I shit you not. It amazes me.

They brought their muzzle loaders and I brought my two latest acquisitions, nether of which had been fired before or sighted in. I wasn't expecting to be able to put on an exhibition, other than making more than my share of noise at the appropriate moments. My buddy also had a new acquisition. At a show in Nashville, which is supposed to be the ultimate Civil War show in the country, he picked up a Hall rifle. Very cool. More on that later.



We all met at my buddies house at about 10:30am. The place is like a museum. I took pictures of his Revolutionary, Mexican and Civil War musket and rifle collection and a few other things but they all came out fuzzy. maybe next time. You can see a few rifles hanging on the upstairs wall, way in the back. Anyway, one guy was trying to sell a few artifacts to the others, doing some early spring cleaning in his collection, and so we got to check out a few things.



This is a Union cannon ball, with powder and time fuse still in tact. Yep, he's holding a 140ish year old, live, unexploded round, dug up out of the ground by reenactors and others who go over old battlefields with metal detectors, just so they can find treasures like this. Boys and their toys. I told them that this picture would provide the authorities the evidence they needed to identify the cause of death, just in case.

After a bit we piled into my buddies half ton truck and rolled out to his back 40, which has served as his family firing range for about 40 years, since the time his family moved to Gatesville from outside Dallas in the 1960s. They sold the 100 acre plot they had there and bought this 400 acre plot for the same money. Now much of it is leased to a guy who raises cattle on it, but my buddy's got 20 acres and access to the rest any time he wants. Nice.



Recently the county, or the power company came by and asked for permission to string power lines through this stretch of his property, which parallels a main road about 100 yards to the left of this picture. The consensus of our group was that it was time to set up a bench further back...



so that we can practice at a longer rages. Note the 1/2 ton truck on the right of this picture, sitting at the 100yd line. That's where we always shoot from.



My buddies dog, Red, followed us out to the range, as she always does. She's a sweet, well tempered pit bull mix, mutt, that just showed up out there one day and his mom began to feed her.



She showed up displaying evidence of having been shot before. Note the scar on her right side. There are actually two scars, showing a bullet track that glanced down her side, in and out. She lived, obviously, but have you ever heard of a dog with post traumatic stress disorder?

Usually she disappears as soon as we start shooting. We were expecting her to vanish this time and then join us again when we rolled back to the house. So imagine our shock when I glanced into the truck as I was heading to the spotting scope set up on the hood, and there she was.



As the day went on, she moved further into the truck, and began to duel all over everything, shaking with fear. We'd talk to her and pet her from time to time, but she wouldn't budge.



She wouldn't budge, so, we went back to shootin'. I know, selfish pigs.



I laid out my goodies on the back of the truck as the others got ready and started blasting away. The nearest rifle is a Hungarian folder, shooting 7.62x39. The farthest is my new Polish Tantal, shooting 5.45x39. Note the more dramatic curve to the 7.62 clip. It's an easy way to tell the difference.



We took turns shooting, but there wasn't any organization to it. Just blast away whenever you feel the need. I watched them a lot. The process of loading and firing those old things is a sight to watch. They take forever, and then I just flip the safety lever and blast away. To each his own.



Lots of fun.



I let one of the guys shoot his first AK, and he let me load and shoot his Springfield. Here he is, shooting my new Tantal (see previous post). It fires a round that is about the same as a .22, but with a lot of powder behind it. It's basically the Soviet answer to the .223, as introduced in Vietnam.



Here's me loading...



And shooting his .58 cal. Springfield (reproduction). These things are a huge load of fun, and these guys are REALLY into it. Biting off the paper and loading the powder and mini ball was a huge pain in the ass. I can't imagine having to do it under fire, as guys are being blown away all around you. Training!



These guys have all the gear and it's easy for them to relax and fall into a familiar stance. I don't see myself ever getting this much into these things, but I will have one of these rifles one of these days, and these guys will come in very handy when it comes to figuring it all out.



Lots of pouring stuff, and ramming and tweaking of things. Please, get yer mind out of the gutter! This is a MANLY pastime. 'Course, even manly men need ear protection. Were not crazy.



Anyway, back to that Hall rifle. Take note of the action on this baby (and the powder residue around the hammer from several firings). In stead of ramming the ball down the muzzle, as in the other rifles we were shooting, this one has an action that pops up to allow you to load it more rapidly, almost like a percussion pistol.



Note how he's popped the action out and is pouring powder into the hole. Thing is, when you fire this thing (and yes, it is an original 1819 model Harper's Ferry Hall rifle he's shooting), there's a little gap between the action and the barrel. As I said, it's like firing an old cap pistol from the same era, only this thing is right up in your face when it goes off. When I got my turn to shoot it my buddy made sure I had my glasses on.



This was taken a second after I'd shot, and you can see how I instantly pulled the thing down and away from my face as I was splattered with powder and bits of crap. It makes it clear why this rifle design never really took off. My buddy said, after shooting it a dozen times or so, and figuring it out, that it would very probably be cleaned and hung on the wall, never to be shot again. Too much friggin' trouble compared to what he's used to.



One guy tried to get an old antique percussion pistol to shoot, but couldn't. the nipples were fouled, or something. So he switched to plinking away with a new toy he'd picked up at the gun show in Dallas the day before.



Again, we all took turns in the end. This is my buddy, the geologist, shooting his friends .45 Taurus. By this time we were all pretty much spent.

Then the weirdest thing happened. As the noise of the shooting died down and we talked, we slowly began to recognise the sound of a child crying. Weird. It was coming from over by the road, to our left in these pictures, in the woods. My buddy and I walked over to see what it was, with all sorts of ideas rolling through my head. Had someone dumped a kid off on the road? What the hell?

Turned out some little brat had been giving his mom too much lip, so she stopped right there on the side of the road and let him have it. From the sound of it I think he' was learning a valuable lesson, but I'm sure that she was lucky a highway patrolman didn't drive by as she was conveying that lesson, in mid swat.

We drug the dog out of the truck, wiped away some of the duel and drove back to the house. She wagged her tail as she ran back beside the truck, happy as a clam. No frontal lobe. Very handy in pets from time to time. We parted, promising to do it all again one day soon. I drove back to Killeen, and then after a bit of a rest I drove to Temple to eat with the folks. Mom had called to inform me that she was cooking eggplant parmigian and fried chicken, and I know what to do when that happens.



I arrived having made a stop at HEB to pick up drinks for dad, just as the goodies were being served.



Mom was in rare form. The chicken and parmigian melted in your mouth. It was so good, and the thing is...



I got to take home the leftovers. I'll eat well for days. Well, for about one day. One and a half.



Dad agrees, Mom's place is the best restaurant in town. He ate the Chinese food I got him Saturday night in Hillsboro. He loves that creamed shrimp. I'm not stupid. Shrimp for him means more chicken for me. Note the cat on the left side of the picture. His name is Mo, and he's waiting for his share. He's dads buddy. He showed up in my back yard one day and my cats beat his ass for a week until I could catch him and get him fixed and turned over to the folks.



Eventually I went home to my own cats, who were glad to see me. It was a hell of a weekend, and the week that began Monday, with seven classes starting, would make me wish I'd spent the two days in bed, but there you go. As someone said once in a great flick, there'll be enough time to sleep in the grave.

Pfew, that was along one. It's back to short inappropriate posts from now on, at least for a while. I'll be too busy for another magnum opus like this. Anyway, thanks for slogging through, and I hope you Dug the scene. Peace out babies. I'll see ya in the later.