by Hap Rocketto
Each year I never miss shooting the Abe Rocketto Memorial Service Pistol Match. Run by Steve Schady, the match requires the use of a fixed sight service pistol of any era. My brother and I always shoot the Old Man’s six digit Colt 1911. Our sister Leslie, fresh from a concealed carry permit pistol course, showed up at the match with her head full of dreams of handgun glory. Her appearance set in motion a series of events that ended in a severe blood letting for me.
My brother Steve set Leslie up on the line, gave her a briefing on how the pistol worked, and then went to hide. Before he pusillanimously crept away he instructed me to stand behind her to insure that she did no damage to range, herself, or others. She may have completed a concealed carry weapons class but she had no experience at blasting away with “Old Slabsides.” She was a quick study and, with a two hand combat grip, managed to use up a bunch of sighter rounds in order to punch 30 holes in the target board, some of them inside the scoring rings.
This placed considerable pressure on the brothers who were not of the mind to be out shot by their kid sister. To that end Steve, in typical big brother style and without thought to me, took a considerable number of extra sighting shots before beginning the match. He managed to outdistance his sister. I was the last of Abe’s children up and gathered my stuff together only to find that Leslie and Steve had used up most of our supply of .45 hardball. I was left with just 18 rounds of ammunition for a 30 shot match.
A call on the line for more ammunition showed that there was no .45 ACP to be had. However, Jay Sonneborn had 12 rounds of .45, fodder for his Smith and Wesson First Model Schofield Single Action Revolver. It was my only hope to be able to complete the match, but I was still short of ammunition. Up stepped the ever generous and gentlemanly Schady with an offer to use his 36 caliber black powder pistol. He loaded up six chambers, two sighters and four for record, and I was in business.
During the sighting in period I expended the two spare rounds from each lot to sight in the guns. With one I had to hold high and right, with another low and center, and with the last a frame hold worked best. I just had to keep this entire store of information mentally stashed away so I could pull it out as needed. To make the cheese a bit more binding Schady ruled that, as I was using three different guns, I would have to alternate at least two of them during the Duel phase of the match.
All went well through slow fire and timed fire. I used the 1911 and the charcoal burner and kept them all in the scoring rings. My first injury occurred as I tried to clear the jammed Bostich staple gun used to post new target faces. Much to the amusement of the assembled multitudes I neglected to move my fumble fingers out of the way as I pressed the loading gate shut, driving both prongs of a 3/8th inch staple their entire length into the ball of my right thumb. After plucking it out and slapping on a band-aid to prevent my blood from damaging the pistol’s finish. I put on my earmuffs to protect my ears, enhance concentration, and more importantly, deaden the raucous laughter of my fans.
The Duel, as run by Schady, takes 27 seconds and is a series of three-second intervals during which you shoot a shot when the target faces you, wait, and then repeat the evolution until all five rounds have been shot. After a reload the procedure is repeated. In my case, because of the aforementioned ruling by Schady, I was required to alternate guns and this meant that I had three seconds to exchange handguns and prepare for the next shot. Not very coordinated in the best of times I found myself juggling two guns and two sight pictures in what seemed to me as a steadily shrinking period of time. All the while I was hoping that I would do no damage to anything living.
The first shot was from the 1911 and it went well, as did the second from the wheel gun. In a hurry I quickly grabbed the Colt to get off shot number three. Right after I squeezed the trigger I was rudely reminded that in my haste I had not placed the gun into my hand properly. The hammer was forced back, as advertised, by the recoil. Like a mousetrap snapping a rodent’s neck, it caught the fleshy sensitive web of skin between the thumb and forefinger twixt the hammer spur and the grip safety. The first time it happened a blood blister was raised. The second time the hammer popped the blister, squirting my precious body essence across my hand and wrist.
Five shots down and five to go, two of which I knew were going to masticate my hand like a puppy savaging a chew toy. Having no choice I stoically continued with the masochistic exercise. To drop out would have been humiliating. When done I must admit I expected some backslapping and congratulations for completing the task despite the pain and gore. If I expected any I was disappointed. I had simply acquired the pistol equivalent of the “M1 Thumb”, a beginner’s mistake contemptible in the eyes of my peers.
All shooters know that you sometimes face conditions from which you cannot escape but which must endure. Clearly the lesson learned was that in the future I better make sure I had enough ammunition for my greedy siblings and band aids for myself, as you cannot make a virtue out of a necessity. Oh, why “Four Gun” Hap Rocketto in the title? Let us not forget Mr. Bostich’s repeater.
