Several times in my life I've had to decide how I feel about firearms. The first time I had anything to do with a rifle (other than my trusty pump gun, seen above) was in the military. I discovered two things; I didn't like the noise or recoil but I could make the bullet go where I wanted. I had discovered this ability early on, with the pump gun. The pump gun fires a twenty-five caliber lead bullet with enough velocity to penetrate a half-inch pine board. It operates on compressed air, accomplished by ' pumping up' an air cylinder located under the barrel. The pump gun was operated by a single action bolt, had a rifled barrel and was accurate to about 75 feet. When I aimed at a certain spot and the shot went low and to the right I learned to aim high and to the left. Then I learned how to adjust the sight so that the bullet went where the sight showed it was aimed.

I seemed to have an instinctive ability to shoot. The military fine-tuned my natural instincts and I became a better marksman. I fired 'expert', the military's highest classification, with several rifles and pistols as well as various machine guns, rocket launchers, etc. Not without certain 'learning experiences', of course. The military M-14 rifle was not designed with left-handed shooters in mind. As a left-handed shooter I can affirm that none of the Army's weapons (at that time) took handedness into consideration. As an example, the spent shell casings from my M-14 ejected to the right and to the rear, which put those hot brass cartridges right down the neck of my poncho, which is a certain kind of military raincoat designed to make one sweat their brains out in the humid heat of Fort Jackson, South Carolina. One's first instinct upon feeling a hot brass cartridge go down the back of your neck is to jump up and do a little dance. However, this is not recommended on a rifle range. The Army's handgun of choice was a large 45 caliber pistol. Here again, handedness was an issue. The barrel's rifling caused the handgrip to jerk to the right, when a shot was fired, which would be into the palm of a right-handed shooter. Us lefties had to hang onto the thing for dear life, as it wanted to jump out of your hand each time you pulled the trigger. At that time the standard shooting stance was one-handed, not the two-handed spread footed stance popular on TV today.

The M-14 rifle was a huge success because it could fire one bullet at a time, or at the flip of a button it would fire on automatic like a machine gun. The magazine held 20 bullets and if one held the trigger down it emptied in a few seconds of sound, smoke and recoil. It was drummed into our heads to say the words, 'fire a burst of 6', and then release the trigger. So, the darn thing was shooting about six bullets a second. Just firing one bullet at a time it takes quite a while to get used to the recoil. One must hold the stock of the rifle tight against one's shoulder. And keep one's cheek pressed tight against one's thumb on the grip. So that when the rifle jerks, your body and head jerk with it. Otherwise it just seems to slam into your face, which makes it very hard to concentrate on the next shot. We had some pretty badly bruised shoulders and cheekbones until this lesson was absorbed. Some guys never figured it out. You could spot them by the large purple bruises on their cheeks, and the fact that they tended to close their eyes when they pulled the trigger and never hit the target.

Nothing really prepares one for the repeated recoil that comes with firing on automatic. We were advised to hang on tight and not let the thing get away from us. The first time I fired the M-14 on automatic was from a standing position (sometimes referred to as 'John Wayne style') holding the rifle at waist height, one hand on the trigger and the other hand well forward on the stock to control the recoil. Observing the fellows that went before me I noticed that the rifle barrel tended to travel up and to the right with each successive shot and that they were having a hard time letting go of the trigger before the magazine emptied. Even prepared as I was, when the first target popped up and I cut loose, the recoil knocked my hundred and thirty pound body right on my butt. I learned to keep my weight balanced over the rifle and fire in very short bursts, preferably three rounds. I learned to fire low, in front of the targets and let the bullet fragments and rocks and dirt knock them down. I also gained about 35 pounds in six months and have probably never been in as good shape since then.

Being a good shot still did not make the idea of carrying a light weapon into a war, and trying to shoot people with it, seem very appealing. As soon as possible I worked my way into a Howitzer battalion. Howitzers are large cannons that fire from about seven miles back. Still feeling that this was too close to the action I eventually finished my military career in a missile unit. You can shoot those from another country altogether.

After the military experience I wasn't faced with any more decisions about guns until I was in my late 20s. We were contemplating a cross-country trip on motorcycles with another couple . For various reasons (drugs, anti hippie sentiment) we entertained a certain amount of paranoia and debated carrying firearms. In the end I refused to carry any other weapon except an air horn. We never had a problem and I never regretted my decision to travel across the country armed with nothing but my wits. We did use the air horn on several occasions. Mostly for critters.

A few years later I found myself employed by the New York Central Railroad as a conductor. To my surprise and amazement I found that most of my fellow conductors, and most of the engineers and brakemen, were all armed to the teeth! It seems that every man's grip, in which was carried his books and lunch and lantern and raincoat, also carried his pistol. When I inquired about this I was told by way of explanation; 'train robbers'. It is true that there was a lot of train robbing going on at that time. The country was in a recession and trains were much easier pickings than say, banks. The popular item to steal on the trains that we worked was new tires. It's hard for one or two men to carry off refrigerators. And most boxcars contain items that are not very interesting. But you can smell the new tires in a boxcar from several hundred feet away.

The train robbers would stop the train by turning an angle cock between two cars while the train was moving slowly. This would cause the air brakes to set up and eventually stop the train. The thieves knew from experience that if they turned the angle cock at this location the train would stop by that location. The rest of the gang of train robbers would be waiting at that location with pickup trucks and vans to cart off the new tires.

To the conductor riding in the caboose the first indication that there was a problem would be a drop in brake pipe pressure (noticeable if one is awake and happens to be looking at the brake pipe gauge) followed by the gradual application of the brakes. At this point the conductor had several options: option No. 1 - Do nothing. See what happens. If it wasn't a robbery, sometimes the train would start up again. Option No. 2 - If you happened to have a radio, call the engineer and see if he stopped on purpose. We didn't have many radios so option No. 2 usually wasn't viable. Option No. 3 - Send the Fieldman up to the engine and let him see if the engineer stopped the train on purpose? This suggestion was usually met with a reply something along the lines of, 'Fuck you! I ain't going out there!'

It is true that during train robberies shots had been fired at the train crew, and trainmen had been hit. I had no first-hand knowledge of anyone having been killed, but there were rumors of fatalities. I did know a couple conductors that were accosted right in the caboose with robbery as a motive. As it happened they were unarmed and fortunately so were the intruders, so the conductors triumphed by using Railroad flares as weapons. Burning phosphorus goes through clothing and skin and cannot be extinguished with water, a pretty fair deterrent.

Railroad rules dictate that the conductor is responsible for the train, and must walk the train and investigate any unplanned application of the brakes. At night in the middle of nowhere and suspecting that one's train is being robbed this can be a rather troublesome and daunting responsibility. The first few times my train was stopped I did walk quietly forward to see what the problem might be? I could smell the tires and hear the noise from the busy thieves, several car lengths back. Having ascertained that the train was in fact being robbed I would then walk in the other direction to the nearest railroad call box along the tracks to report this matter to the dispatcher. And await the arrival of the authorities. The local police weren't really too interested in train robberies and by the time they arrived the boxcars were empty and the only evidence of excitement was trampled grass.

In an effort to thwart the thieves, tire manufacturers started bundling their tires in groups of four, figuring that your average thief can't carry four tires at once. I saw guys caring four tires on each arm. I wouldn't have tried to stop a guy like that if I did have a gun. I don't know of any railroad employees from the Transportation Department, that would be conductors and engineers, that ever broke up a train robbery.

I did see my fellow employees fire their weapons on more than one occasion. At no time did this give me a safe secure warm feeling. One afternoon while working with an engineer who carried a pretty well stocked bar in his grip (as well as his weapons) I was surprised when he pulled out a small canon of a handgun. His reply to my questioning glance was, "Kids up ahead been shooting at the train."

Sure enough, around the next bend there were some kids playing in a field. Fortunately for all concerned they were a good ways off. They did have rifles (small caliber) and they did begin to take potshots at the train. At this time my well oiled engineer jumped out of his seat and exited the cab to stand on the catwalk where he proceeded to fire back with his monster revolver. The chances of us being struck by a round fired from so far away were pretty minimal. Maybe a little better if you went and danced around on the catwalk. The engineer's performance was also mostly for show, revolvers being wildly inaccurate at distances over 50 feet. However, the sight of this guy cracking off large caliber shots was enough to send the kids running. It was enough to send me a little lower into the fireman's seat, too.

When he came in to reload I felt compelled to comment, "Okay, Dirty Harry, it's time to make my day and yard this train so I can go home."

I began to get used to my associates digging out their weapons at the slightest inclination. While yarding the train in an industrial area   we stirred up several pheasants. This was on the fireman's side of the engine, and he immediately dove into his grip and produced a small 25 caliber pistol. Leaning out his window from the waist he emptied the clip. When the smoke cleared, the pheasants were none the worse for wear. In fact, one large hen hadn't even bothered to run off. The engineer stepped out of the cab with a fusee, and with one well aimed toss conked the pheasant on the head. To his credit he ran down and collected the bird for later consumption.

They say that guns don't kill people -- people kill people. That's not quite right. People with guns are killing people.

It is also suggested that when guns are outlawed only outlaws will have guns. That's okay. Most of the outlaws I know tend to shoot other outlaws.

This pretty well sums up my feelings regarding guns. A necessary evil perhaps, but one that I would rather avoid.