Most guns that are more than a couple years old have a story to tell; add a couple of generations and the stories take on aspects of a novel; sometimes as wide and varied as the lives of their owners. Often a person’s personal history intertwines or is influenced by
the possessions they held.

I own a Single Action Army Colt with a story. It is a pistol from my youth, my father’s adulthood and long before, down the corridors of time. It was made a generation before us both, and likely it will last generations to come.

My father served in the United States Marine Corp toward the end of World War II and as he prepared to end his time in officer candidate’s school and ship off to the Far East, his thoughts turned towards the preparation of his journey. First Lieutenants were not issued side arms by the Marine Corps at that stage of the war. Wartime shortages dictated that only Captain and above rated a sidearm. Lieutenants were issues the .30 carbine, which at that time had a checkered reputation and my dad was not happy about it. Junior officers were, however, permitted to obtain their own and one day my father left Camp LeJune and ventured into a gun store in town.


He went looking for a double action .45 revolver. There were precious few if any automatics available for public purchase at that time, but Colt and Smith and Wesson both made large frame revolvers in .45 before the war. He particularly wanted one in .45 Long Colt. One of my father’s friends (whose name is lost to time) had just returned from island fighting and told impressive tales of his Colt New Service pistol in .45 LC. Twice it had saved his life in close encounters with the enemy. My father’s friend had nearly ‘shot the rifling out of it” according to him. He told my father that it had shot a Japanese soldier who was at a dead run and the bullet flipped him onto his back as though a sledge hammer had hit him. Stopping power like that could save one’s life in combat and my dad listened to the man’s experience closely. One other night, his friend had been asleep in his slit trench with his pistol across his chest. He awoke to see the form of an enemy soldier standing over him, and he shot the man before the soldier could kill him. My father did not need a lot of convincing. He would find a similar pistol as this man, and hopefully it would protect him as his friends pistol had.

Unfortunately for my dad, Wartime deprivation had extended into the civilian gun market as well. The store was practically empty. Sporting arms had been shipped to England in mass droves to enforce the home guard after Dunkirk to help ward off invasion of the UK under the “Lend Lease” program. The US is often derided nowadays as a producer of small arms by the European community, but in the dark days of WW2, the UK benefited greatly by the USA’s sporting heritage.

My father was very disappointed to see that the few pistols left to be displayed were old Colt blackpowder cap and ball revolvers (I can’t help but imagine what they would be worth today had necessity not driven his purchase).

The only pistol chambered in the favored .45 long colt was an old Single Action Army. It was mechanically tight, but nothing special in those days: 5 ½ barrel, cracked rubber grips and it had apparently been re-blued at some point. But it was a .45 caliber and my dad could not afford to be too choosy, so he asked to see it.

My dad told me many years later “As soon as I put that pistol in my hand, it was as though it had been made for me.” My dad always fancied himself a reincarnated cowboy, and I was never sure if he came to that idea before or after handling that Colt, but regardless, that pistol made an indelible impression and it left the store with him that day.

My father had prepared for an invasion of Japan that was never to be. Truman destroyed Japanese resolve with two hydrogen bombs and VJ day came shortly after my father graduated from OCS. After a year in the Marine Corps Reserve, he was released and resumed his studies at college.

(As a side note: The Marine Corps Reserve asked my dad to stay another couple of years, but he refused. He told them he had put off his schooling long enough and was going to finish college. When the Korean War started shortly thereafter, his old unit was on the front lines in the first two weeks of our country’s involvement. Twice had the Old Colt and my father narrowly missed touring Asia.)

The Colt pistol, no longer destined for foreign shores, assumed a role of home defense weapon and deer hunting sidearm. My father injured his knee at some point in the 1950’s and as he recuperated he took up leather-craft. He made a nice field grade holster for his Colt, and a scabbard for his hunting knife. His hunting knife was a memento from the service as well-a shortened WW1 US military bayonet with a razor keen edge. Another friend from the service had made it for him, and it joined the Colt on a broad leather belt for the next 30 years. The cracked rubber grip was thrown out, replaced by a home-made grip my dad fashioned out of wood from a black walnut handrail he salvaged from a childhood home- just before it was razed. The grip was whittled, not sanded. The crudeness of its appearance belied its comfort and it reinforced the rugged nature that the Old Colt’s history implied.

As I grew into child hood, I developed a boy’s natural affinity for guns. For a child of the 1970’s being able to handle a ‘real’ cowboy gun was a thrill. My dad never failed to allow me to look and handle, but I had to ask first. The rule was iron clad, and I never broke it. The wisdom of his philosophy carries on to this day with my own children.

Of all the guns in my dad’s small collection, the Old Colt .45 was my favorite. Like many of my contemporaries of the day, The Lone Ranger and John Wayne were real influences on me. I spent most of my teen years turning beet-red as nurses my dad worked with reminisced to me about the variety of cowboy costumes (complete with my teddy bear side-kick) I would wear as 4 year old, visiting the hospital with my dad as he made rounds seeing his patients (A doctor bringing his child to work at the hospital...how times have changed! That would never happen today.) I used to see that gun hanging on my dad’s closet door handle daily. The smooth old blue finish, with brownish hues suggesting a turn of the century re-blue, was the neatest thing I had ever seen. We knew it was old, and it was not hard to imagine this very gun riding high in a brown leather rig under the Wyoming sky. As a teenager, I found a Colt Blue Book and my dad and I were stunned to see that the colt truly *was* old. It had been manufactured as a late black powder model in 1880. At about the time we discovered this, the old Colt had been on the planet for almost a century.

With my burgeoning interest in firearms, I saved my money and my dad bought me a duplicate Colt SAA. We marveled at the minimal mechanical differences, I am sure that almost every part would interchange, even though they were 100 years apart in age.

The Old Colt narrowly missed being stolen in a home burglary. Thieves broke in while my dad and I were in Fort Worth, Texas one week. They took my Colt, and a couple of other guns. My dad had moved the old colt by accident, and laid it on the bed. He was moving things around, and the Old Colt survived the break-in under a stack of folded shirts. (My duplicate was stolen, and later recovered by the police, but that is another story.)

My dad passed away in the early 1990’s, a victim of cancer and probably a strenuous work schedule that delayed his desire to seek medical intervention.

The Old Colt, the Mauser bayonet and the holster passed to my hands.

It resides in a safe now, protected well from thieves and time. My children know of it, and they ask me to see it, much as I did way back when. We take it out and slowly turn the cylinder. It clicks in a very satisfying way. I can still fancy that a cowboy heard that same sound a century ago, as he reloaded behind a horse trough with the scattered bad guys in the dusty street beyond.

It lies in my hand today and I can see how my dad felt an affinity for it. It points naturally and the hammer snicks solidly when cocked. It is a timeless design, and this gun is an object that seems to exist without time. It has survived at least two owners, it will likely survive me. There is an old saying which my father liked: “When a man dies, do not say that he is no more. Say instead that he is forever”.

Now, this gun has remained and my father is forever. I feel his hand when the Old Colt lays in mine. His touch has changed this gun, as his touch changed me. The Old Colt has served its owners well; both as a tool and as a time piece. Its history has interwoven with ours, a common thread in the tapestry of our lives, and the weaving shall continue with mine. The gun is permanent, and we are seemingly so impermanent. But I think to my self: “Surely, there is more to this story than what it seems......”. So I hope for a time when objects are impermanent, people are permanent and guns are outlived by their owners. I hope for a time when we are truly forever.

I hope.

Wow! It is 1230AM here and what a nice way to end the day and head for the pillow. This story brought back many memories of my grandfather who was around in the late 1800's, growing up from knee pants to chaps with just that type of handgun. I think I'll take this story and those of my grandfathers and see if I can continue them into REM. Thanks for the bedtime story, it's been awhile since I had one of those.

quote:

impressive tales of his Colt New Service pistol in .45 LC.

Thanks for the good story and bringing up the Colt New Service. I have my grandfather's, and it has a bit of history dating back to Cuba before Hearst's war.

Thanks Windsor, for a story many of us can relate to, but few of us could tell so elequently.

Since we've started a thread of war stories, here's another one.

June 22, 1950, the Army started pulling my teeth to give me dentures. June 25, 1950, the North Koreans crossed the 38th parallel to invade the South. I was twenty-one, a Sergeant with four years’ service, practically an old soldier, assigned to General MacArthur’s GHQ in Tokyo, Japan. My MOS was infantry.

The 24th Infantry Division was quickly shipped to Korea from Southern Japan. We were euphoric. They’d whip ‘em in a week. But it took about that long to decimate them. Then the 25th went and the news was no better. The First Cav. went in July and the NK’s were slowing down. Then began the grinding seesaw battle of the Pusan Perimeter and finally the Inchon invasion in September.

Rear area euphoria turned to grimness as our troops lost ground and died. Empty bunks appeared in our quarters as our unit was cannibalized for combat replacements. We looked at each other and wondered who’s next.

I qualified as an infantry squad leader. I wondered when it would be my turn. I didn’t know there was a medical hold on me. The Army won’t send you to war without teeth in your mouth and I didn’t get mine until just before Christmas. By then the replacement pipeline was full. Bad teeth saved my life, but even today I suffer survivor guilt.

I have some strong memories. My office ran 24/7, assigning newly arriving officers to temporary quarters. We normally had four men, one on duty at all times. For a few weeks there were only two of us as the others had gone to combat units. It wasn’t combat but we got pretty tired.

Late summer 1950, we were alerted to a large number of people coming through. They were dependents of 24th & 25th Infantry soldiers killed, captured, or missing. For more than a week we processed a parade of stunned, vacant-eyed young women with strangely silent children. A typical order read: Mary Doe (wife - age 22), Peter Doe (son - age 3), Jean Doe (dau - age 1), dependents of SFC John Doe, RA 12345678, (DECEASED). The parade seemed endless. When I think of it the horror returns.

My office was on the corner of the main intersection in Tokyo. Daily, Army buses converted to carry litters passed by, filled with wounded on their way to Tokyo Army hospital. There were lots of these too. We knew there was a war on and were glad we weren’t in it.

I got letters from home saying so-and-so, a neighbor boy had been wounded and was in Tokyo Army Hospital. Twice this happened, twice I went to see them, twice they were already gone. Trouble was, both these men were little kids when I left home. At twenty-one I was older than most of the soldiers in combat.

I came home in February 1952, to a new assignment at Fort Douglas in Salt Lake City, Utah. There were no barracks on post and we were told it would be wise to keep our uniforms on base and travel to and from in civilian clothes. The town wasn’t soldier-friendly.

Korea killed nearly as many Americans as Viet Nam but it only took one-third as long. Perhaps it was such a small blip on the world’s radar, coming right after the trauma of World War Two, that it didn’t really register. Most Americans were just beginning to enjoy postwar prosperity. There wasn’t room for more gloom and tragedy. Vietnam, on the other hand was on the nightly news live and in living color. And it was unpopular.

Korea was merely ignored. Seems like it still is. But I remember.

Dear Olroy:

My sincerest gratitude for your service to this country, and my similarly sincerest wishes that you have peace and prosperity and a long life ahead.

My condolences for the suffering you saw and experienced. Nobody, it seems, escapes such trial lightly.

Thank you for sharing your story.

Roy,

One of the more pleasant aspects of my job is to occasionally serve as a tour guide/docent for various groups visiting the National Mall in Washington. Much of my time is spent on the west end, in the area of the Lincoln, Viet Nam and Korean war memorials.

Everyday, thousands of folks visit the Korean War memorial site....some to revisit memories and reflect, some to learn about the conflict for the first time.

It's a sobering and somber site, and I think it reflects the degree of sacrifice that took place, and all who visit come away with a new-found appreciation of what transpired in a far away corner of the world over half a century ago.

Not much consolation, but I wanted you to know...

In war or at peace, front lines or Stateside; THANK YOU ALL for your service to our country.

I was three years old when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. Windsor, your dad and hundreds of thousands like him, were and are, my heroes. Your beautiful words show all of us how much you loved your dad. May my kids think that way about me.
Roy, again, as a twelve year old, I watched and read about Korea and the horrendous losses we incurred to help a free people live. Tom Brokaw has written a book called "The Greatest Generation". For me, every man and woman who fought in any war, including the current one are members of that 'great generation'. Anyone who serves this great country of ours in the military are still my heroes.
Thank you both for sharing your hearts with us.
Jim

I have gotten into the habit of thanking every individual I learn has served (or is serving) our country, and so I wish to thank you gentlemen, as well. Please realize that most of us here today appreciate our many freedoms that were and are being protected by your collective efforts. Even this very small gesture we can make now might not have been allowed if you hadn't done your work. God Bless You All.

Thank you Lou! I've have served and I thank those who served before and after my stint, God bless.

Windsor,

Your post five days ago has been careening around in my skull ever since I read it. It’s obvious you have a strong talent for writing.

We have several gentlemen at our local coffee shop that I frequently meet with weekdays in the noon hour. I’m sure they would appreciate it. Most are well-read and interesting folk that have the ‘sporting heritage’ you write about. They love the good things in life. Along with that, they appreciate firearms and our collective right to bear them.

I don’t, as a rule, take our BM.C conversations outside of the website we all enjoy and respect. This would be the first time. But with your permission, I will quote you and pass it on to them.

Perhaps Bill NY can also comment on whether I’m violating any rules here.

quote:

Originally posted by Lou:
Perhaps Bill NY can also comment on whether I’m violating any rules here.

Anyone can stumble onto this site and read his posts and I hope that you tell people about our site. We have a few members who don't even own an RV that visit our site, on a daily basis, because of people like Windsor.

I hope one day he is published and I can say. "I knew Tom Clancy Windsor Dalrymple back when..."

Windsor Dalrymple does have a way of describing everything in such rich detail. I am surprised he doesn't write short stories or has penned a book.

Read some of his other posts. He does have a flair for the written word.

I have come to the conclusion that I cannot afford my Barth..

The Last Days of Summer

Maiden Voyager

Christmas Memories

Honest opinions. Would you buy a book like this?

Use the search feature to pull up some more.

Lou:

I would be honored.

I write for several reasons: One is to save memories that might otherwise be lost, and to leave something for my kids to read someday. Another is practice.

I would like to write a book, but since I am not a person who is educated in writing (But I know what I like) I decided to start writing to see if I could a: tolerate reading my own words, and b: see if my writing resonated with others. I have to say that the first piece I ever did was about my dad's jaguar and a jag web publication posted it. It was at both exhilarating and scary.

I have written about my dad a lot, as you can see. He died before my children were born, and one of my great sadnesses is that he never met them. He represented quite a bit to me, because he is at this point in time, history to me. I have written about my mom, but since she is still very much around, my writing of her is less somber. She is a great person too, and I have a couple chapters in my paramedic book that will be 'hers'.

I have a book about 25 percent complete. I work on it somewhat irregularly since my writing conforms to my work/home/parenting schedule..which of course is a total mess. Lol.

So, to answer your question: I would be honored if you shared my story with your friends. I hope they like it. I don't believe Bill in NY put any terms of use like 'no sharing' so as far as I am concerned, feel free.

I posted these things in a public forum for the purpose of sharing my memories and to provoke others to recall theirs. It has been very gratifying to see it has had some effect.

Thanks again,

Windsor

Thanks, Windsor. It is in their 'hands.' I would like to add my voice to the urgings you have heard from others on this site to keep writing, for we are all enjoying your work.

And BTW, your Dad is now 'meeting' his grandchildren through your efforts. Just in a different setting.

Best regards,

Lou