The Devil's In The Digits

I have created a monster — a “serial saga” which I’m now obligated to complete. A bunch of you wanted to know which School of Shootery I subscribe to, or the Temple of Tactical Technique in which I kneel. A wise parable says, “Never miss an opportunity to shut up,” and maybe I shoulda. Instead, in earlier posts, I explained I have what I call “evolved practices,” and then wrote about the first of three epiphanic and evolutionary episodes in my handgunning life.

That was “The Two Dudes.” I had to take a break in the series, so that “The Greyhound Rules” and “The Shoot-Down Drill” could be run through a final legal rinse cycle in the word-washer. That was necessary to avoid violations of non-disclosure agreements, classified-materials restrictions and stomping on some tender international toes. So, those episodes appeared in fairy-tale form in earlier posts. Reviewing those stories might be helpful in understanding the rest of this mess. Go ahead; I’ll wait. Done? Good.

I’ve seen a lot of men die for two reasons: First, because they failed to do what they were trained to do. Second, because they did exactly as they were trained to do. For example, “The Two Dudes” told of my first two lethal handgun engagements. If I had obeyed my training to that point, in both cases I would have skidded to a stop and assumed the Classic Pistol Position. Had I done so, I would have then assumed the “Permanent Prone Position,” and shortly ceased breathing due to ballistic perforation by my opponents. Instead, I violated that training and won those gunfights. Hence, my “evolved practices;” some derived from training, some from the University of Hard Knocks.

You asked for more details, so I’ll start from a weird place: the beginning.

All Roads Lead To Battle

But for me, all roads lead to battle, and when it comes to fighting, the Devil & the Gremlin are the king and queen of combat. Think about it: With all other factors favorable, an unstable grip is likely to throw off your first shot, and certain to doom those that should follow, fast! With a poor grip, that sidearm can even squirt right outta your hand. And the sharpest, clearest sight picture possible is lost the instant you jerk or stutter on the trigger. Conversely, if your bleary front sight seems to be circling your aiming point and won’t hold still, a smooth, even trigger pull will at least give you a hit — maybe the one that saves your life.

You shoot under, over and around what you have to, in whatever position you’re mooshed or crunched into. Mud, blood, sand, smoke and snow; adrenaline, exhaustion and pain are often present and problematic. “The fog of war” is both figurative and literal, and when you can’t even see your sights, that devil-digit and gremlin-grip are all you’ve got, and sometimes all you need. They have saved my life.

Next time, we’ll talk about things like Terminal Hesitation, “A bird in the hand,” how surviving got me in trouble and OtherStuff.
Kwaheri!

Connor OUT