New alibis in pistol shooting matches
Being a Army Sargent, a Father, and a husband sometimes has complications in the 'time' frame. Trying to get everything done at the same time as you know, means turning a corner and running into your self coming back the other way. This particular story has to do with to many things scheduled at the same time.
The calendar looked like this:
Friday night pack all the Boy Scout camping gear.
Take the boys and the camping gear to the Scout camping grounds. Help set up tents, register boys, pay fees, help Scout Master with class outlines, Set up wigwams, and totem poles, assemble 30 kits for Arrow of Light, and 30 kits for Woodman badges. At about 11:30pm roll into spare sleeping bag and catch a couple hours of sleep.
0600 AM wake up get boys up, help with pancakes, clean cooking gear and then hop on motorcycle and head for home.
My wife's schedule was:
Wake up 0600 AM pack Van with Husbands Army uniforms and size 11 combat boots.
Lug his heavy Pistol Box down to the Van and after three tries get the darn thing in the back of the Van, popping the catch off her bra and three buttons off her jeans.
Wait for Husband to get home and then switch from motorcycle to Van to go to Army Pistol Match in Joplin, Mo.
While all this was going on Sarge is buzzing along on his motorcycle on a gravel road somewhere in the forest just a half a mile from the Scout Camp.
Darn slippery gravel and with street tires it is treacherous. Go slow Sarge tells himself, Then you hit the ground slow.
Suddenly over the hill and straddling the middle of the one lane gravel road comes a BIG truck. Terror stricken Sarge tries to get to the shoulder. And succeeds except for one little problem, the shoulder is loose gravel and the front tire hits and sticks into a deep ditch and Sarge goes over the front of the bike and into the dirt.
CRASH the Yamaha hits the dirt and cartwheels over Sarge.
Sarge in his usual splendid physical condition lands on his shoulders and rolls to his feet just in time to try unsuccessfully to dodge the flying motorcycle. OUCH that hurt! But the first thing Sarge thinks, after he picks himself up, is to check the motorcycle to see if it is hurt. The truck stops and backs up and the driver asks Sarge if he is OK. Seeing blood on Sarges leg the driver yells "I get Help!" and showering Sarge with gravel he speeds away.
"What is the matter with him," mutters Sarge as he tries to bend the fender away from the wheel. Out come the tool kit and soon the motorcycle is back in one piece well enough to run and hopefully get Sarge home.
Carefully Sarge steps over the seat and then he realizes that he has a gash on his knee that is bleeding like crazy. "Well the heck with it," thinks Sarge "I don't have time to mess with it."
Carefully he steers the Yamaha back out on the gravel road and starts off down the track.
Behind him he hears the roar of a big truck! "Oh My God that SOB is after me again" thinks Sarge. Roll on the gas and the little Yamaha sends a rooster tail out the back and away it spurts. Sarge looks in his rear view mirror and sees the big truck, and following it is a caravan of cars of all descriptions.
"What in the H*LL" thinks Sarge. Soon the mob of vehicles over take him and with honking horns they call to him to pull over.
From the vehicles leap Boy Scouts, Big Boy Scouts, Little Boy Scouts, Chubby Boy Scouts, Boy Scouts with glasses and freckles. All kinds of Boy Scouts.
"We are here to help you" says a tall one with a Eagle badge on his sash.
Sarge looks all around him and every Boy Scout has a green and red First Aid kit in his hand, waving it with a look of glee in their happy little eyes. Now what is Sarge going to do. Get back on his bike and ride off and break the hearts of 30 young future American voters. NOOO of course not.
So and hour and a half later Sarge is wrapped literaly from head to toe with bandages, some crooked and some neatly tied in a bow line or other assorted knots from the Scout Manual. The only request Sarge had was to bandage the knee bent so he could get it on the motorcycle peg. After thanking the troop profusely Sarge manages to get back on the Yamaha and set it into motion. Sarge smiles to himself as he rolls the throttle back and the tach up, he was single handedly responsible for at least two dozen merit badges back there, but now he has to get home and switch to the Van and get to Joplin in time for the Pistol Match.
Wife is on the porch waiting as Sarge rolls into the drive.
Wife's eyes get big as she see's her Sarge dressed in bloody bandages. "What on earth happended to you? she says.
"Got caught by a troop of merit badge hungry Boy Scouts, now get in the truck and let's go we are late" commands Sarge.
Now folks Sarge is a tough old Army Sargent but even his reserves of strength can be compromised by loss of a lot of blood and that is what happened.
Five miles down the road the Van begins to loose speed slowly drifting over to the shoulder and then to the grass. Sarge's wife grabs the steering wheel and keeps the truck from rolling down into the ditch. Smack Smack, she slaps Sarge. "Wake up, Wake up you almost ran off the road!" Then she realizes that Sarge is not asleep but close to unconsious.
"OK Buster the heck with the Pistol Match you are going to the hospital!"
"NO! growls Sarge, you drive for a while and I will rest in the bed in back"
Finally the Van with Sarge and wife drives into the range and Sarge drags his leg to the firing line just in the nick of time. Sarge's wife sets his pistol box up and hangs his target.
Three minutes later the whistle blows and the targets turn.
Many shots later and angonizing hours later the match is over and Sarge sags to the bench with his stiff leg thrust out in front of him.
He looks up and there stands the wife and his Team Captain. The look on Captains face is not good.
"You Idiot!" Sarge, "why didn't you tell me you had been in a car accident?"
"Wasn't a car accident, was a motorcycle accident" Sarge mumbles.
Sarge's wife is standing with her arms folded and a smirk of satisfaction on her face.
"You squealed on me, wife, didn't you?" asks Sarge. "You are going on KP for the rest of the year."
"I am already on KP for the rest of the year, Sarge" she says.
Then all conversation was worthless because the noise of a helicopter descending drowned out everything.
"Now What?" thought Sarge.
"Ok Sargent you are being medivaced out of here," stated the Captain.with a finalty that didn't allow any protests or smart replies.
"YES SIR!" Replies the Sarge.
And so this episode ends with Sarge in the Chopper heading to the hospital where in he was treated to a Singer Sewing Machine that dug 27 stitches around his carcuss.
PS He shot just great that day. Was high team member scorewise, but does not recomend the techniqe to anyone sane.
Sarge the wounded Pistol Shooter.
Damn Sarge you do tell a good story. I think a camera crew needs to just follow you around. It could be a show with high drama as done by Jerry Lewis.
Seriously..I sure understand trigger time as much as any shooter addicted can but take care of yourself! I have no idea where IO can read as good a story and you post here.:)
Now that was one damn entertaining read, Sarge! Haven't laughed so hard in a while, you have a real talent for description. Great stuff!
Hey you always have a fallback literary career in the unlikely case your sheer indestructability fails you one day :D
Sir; I ''wanna'' be your neighbor; and new ''best'' friend. We could go on some wonderful adventures! :) lolol; very good story :)
You know I do have some lady friends that go shooting with me, with my wife's approval. Because Lt. Linda knows if I tried anything the ladies would shoot me first. LOL
Sarge, you tell some great stories. You should keep copies in a note book or folder as they would be agreat read for your heirs.
Actually that is what got me started writing. My family were all farm folk. Most of the men in my Dad's age and generation could not read or write. My Dad only had a 4th grade education before he was taken out of school to work all day on the farm. So our family has always had a habit of telling stories, verbally. I remember when I was young, on holidays or family events we would all gather at one of our Uncle's farm and the women would head for the kitchen (Muumm good smells from that kitchen) and the men folks would usually end up on the front porch telling stories. Stories about the history of our family, about tricks played on each other and hunting stories,etc. I listened in rapture and kept a lot of those stories locked in my memory. After I became a family (and of course our generation were all well educated clear up to college degrees) I began to write down these stories. And then when my kids asked questions I would pull them out and read them. After while I added my own stories. Then tragedy struck our family and we lost our two boys. So I really started writing in earnest so as to get it all down before I kicked the bucket. I have one son left and I want him to know about his ancesters and forefathers. And maybe a little about his Dad that I never told him LOL
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