INTRODUCTION
by Bill Sansom
The first bullet crashed through the door and hit me just above my belt buckle. It ripped through my abdomen, shattered my right hip at the joint, and careened down my leg bone, blasting my leg muscles into a jellied, bloodshot pulp. The impact of the .44 Mag. 240 gr. jacketed hollow point blew me off the three-step trailer house porch. I slammed against the side of a parked car and slid in a heap in six inches of new-fallen snow.
I had somehow managed to draw my Smith & Wesson .357 as the bullet hurled me through the air. But my arm was pinned under my stunned and broken body, the revolver still clenched tightly in my fist. The maniac who shot me stepped calmly out onto the porch. “I told you cops to leave me alone,” he snarled.
He slowly thumbed back the hammer of his single action six gun. The soft clicking of the revolving cylinder echoed off the walls of the tightly packed trailers in the frigid December dawn. He squinted down his outstretched arm at the Deputy Sheriff star on my jacket.
The second shot punched into my chest, disintegrating a two-inch piece of rib bone, searing a white hot railroad spike of fire through my left lung, dislocating my shoulder. The force of the bullet lifted me and skidded me a foot backwards. It also freed my pinned gun hand. My first two shots bracketed the third button down on his faded red union suit.
His third shot ricocheted off the frozen ground between my splayed out legs. The mushroomed slug tore out a swath of muscle and severed an artery just above my left knee.
My third 158 gr. jacketed hollow point caught him in his right elbow, spinning him backwards into his trailer. I kept pulling the trigger until there was nothing left but the snap of my firing pin falling on spent casings.
I heard the man thrashing around inside the trailer house, and I did not know how badly he was hit or even if he was hit. I attempted to reload my Model 19 S&W using two six-shot dump boxes on my gun belt. All the rounds fell out and rolled off my body into the snow. I was stunned and badly broken up by the bullets that had hit me. I could not raise my left arm or even lift my head up. I opened the cylinder of my six-shot revolver and with my right arm reached over as far as I could and shook the empty casings out. Then I lay the gun on my chest and felt around in the snow until I luckily found one live round. I poked the round into the cylinder and rolled the cylinder on my chest until it would put the round under my firing pin when cocked. I cocked my pistol and waited.
The man came crawling out of his trailer doorway and glared down at me lying on my back in the snow, his .44 magnum revolver cocked and clenched in his right fist. I lifted my revolver, took careful aim – and shot him through the temple.
The reason that I remember all this so clearly is that the incident has been played over almost every night these last twenty-four years in my dreams. I will never again be the second guy shooting.
I had been shooting 50 rounds a week of handloads just before that incident. I had a portable silhouette target that I carried in the trunk of my patrol car, and I would drive out into the brush and shoot some rounds from every conceivable position except flat on my back. My service revolver became an extension of my arm, and I could hit a bullseye five out of six out to 15 yards, draw and fire.
A handgun should never be used as a deterrent, but, if needed, it should be drawn and fired immediately, and always used to kill - not to wound or frighten your attacker. I can tell you several stories about misused handguns, and the grief the users suffered because of their lack of resolve.
Nobody knows if they are capable of killing another human being - until they do. Some people, maybe you are one of them, think a concealed weapons permit is an insurance policy against being mugged, raped, robbed, or embarrassed in front of your loved ones. Your license to carry a concealed weapon will give you a false sense of security. You are now armed. You may even think you are dangerous. In reality, the permit is likely to increase your chances of becoming a victim of a violent act. Announcing, "I’ve got a gun," is one of the quickest ways that I know of to get yourself killed.
You are a responsible, law abiding citizen. You are probably a business or professional person. You have a family, own a home. You are educated, reliable, and conscientious. You are not a law enforcement officer, private investigator, or a security guard. They are already licensed to carry a weapon; and they are also trained to know when and how to use it. You, on the other hand, have a concealed weapon permit because you are either afraid, or you are looking for trouble. There are no other reasons for a civilian to have a concealed weapon.
After you get the permit, your weapon will most likely remain under your car seat, in your desk drawer, or in the bottom of your purse. There will not be a round in the chamber. It may even be completely unloaded, the bullets hidden in some other place – for safety. You may have last shot the weapon two months, six months, a year ago, or when you shot it to qualify for your permit. But now you are unafraid because you have a possibly loaded gun – somewhere. Suddenly, the trouble you were looking out for is looking at you – while you are looking for your gun. There is only one place to have a concealed weapon: on your body. There is only one way to handle a weapon: often. And there is only one way to react to trouble: instinctively.
Just having a gun is not enough to protect you or your loved ones. You must know how to use a gun. You must be able to recognize danger in time to react immediately and lethally. You must prepare yourself beforehand, mentally and emotionally, to take another human life, and to face the legal and psychological consequences of your decision, so that you will not have to think about it in the split second that you will have to live or die.
This book is filled with real-life situations, where a gun was not enough, where it had to be mixed with blood and courage to stop a determined, often deranged, attacker. Read this book carefully. Put yourself into the shoes of those who stood fast, who faced the ultimate test of bravery. And lie in the street for awhile with those who lost their lives -- even though they were armed.
Bill Sansom
Saint Regis, Montana
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