Don't ask me��get an expert: how can you believe anyone with an Ex-in his title?

I just about fumbled the cheesecake when I heard the Head Honcho say, "Let's ask an expert," and I got that sneakin', sinkin' feeling he was talking about me. I was right; he was, and I immediately formed this highly intelligent, articulate thought: Poop! OK, maybe it wasn't exactly that word, but you get my drift.

It was one of those defense-industry-military confabs titled something like, "Considerations in Disenclosed Battlespace Management for the New Millennium," and informally billed as a gathering of wizards and warriors to discuss Hyper-Techno-Warfighting. I've been to enough of 'em to know the title should be "Let's Burn Some Steaks and Shoot The Breeze, Write It All Up, Then File & Forget It." As for the wizards and warriors, they usually turn out to be elves and trolls, with a coupla shaved apes like me thrown in for comic relief. I go because you can pick up some good scoop on guns and gear--in the bar, after the Official Officiousness is over.

The after-dinner conversation had swerved away from crew-served electro-gadgets into "Desirable Attributes of the Professional Soldier" when I became less interested in the discussion and more interested in the dessert. See, at these kinda gatherings, folks routinely confuse "professional soldiers" with "promotable career employees of U.S. military services." They're not the same thing. They're rarely the same people.

They were talking about stuff like "ability to coordinate electronic intelligence grids" and "real-time datasharing with ancillary resources" as I launched a shameless assault on the guy to my right's untouched cheesecake. Hey, it was good, OK? And he appeared to have consumed his lifetime ration of cheesecake already, like when he was in third grade, maybe. So when the honcho's eyes fell on me and he said the dreaded "expert" word, my first thought--after poop! of course--was, "the ability to feel somebody's eyes on you, and then turning invisible--now, that's a desirable attribute!"

The Shaved Ape Speaks

Proving once again that I don't fit in with such learned groups, I gave 'em what I thought were some desirable attributes of professional soldiers. Like, number one, you need a cast-iron immune system and stainless steel guts. Second, you've gotta be able to drop off to sleep like somebody tripped a switch on the back of your noggin, anyplace, anytime, in the echo-chamber belly of a C-130, or snuggled into some nice, warm mud against a tree stump. If you're prone to pickin' up Monkey Fever or a dinner of roast bush rat gives you a case of the Terminal Aztec Two-Step or you can't sleep and recharge your batteries without darkness, quiet and a fluffy pillow, you ain't gonna make it soldiering in any country whose name contains the letter "Z," ends in "Coast" or "start."

I went on with numbers three through twelve, but it was clear that my comments were lost on all but a few present, who nodded and gave lopsided smiles. I noticed they were sorta lumpy and sported various scars, just like me--members of the Order of Shaved Apes. The rest were confused or bemused, because I hadn't mentioned anything containing microchips, mega-gigs, or depleted uranium whatnots. No, my comments were all about what goes on in someone's body or between their ears, not about stuff with circuit boards. Hey, I never claimed to be an "expert"--just "experienced." These two don't necessarily give you different skill-sets, just different priorities and different senses of fundamental needs.

Oh Mountain o' Wisdom

I shuffled back to my hotel room. fired up my e-mail, and that difference between expertise and experience smacked me upside the gourd again. There you guys were, asking me for "'expert advice" on guns and gunfighting. I've found people usually assume I'm an expert because I've been in gunfights and survived. To me, that ain't much of a recommendation for "expert" status. Even weirder, they seem to put great importance on the fact that I've been hit! To me, all that means is that I engaged in an unintended and unsuccessful attempt to violate the laws of physics, to wit: Occupying the same space and time as intruding bits of high-speed metallic objects. Some "'expert," huh?

One guy writes. "This expert says to always shoot double-taps, another says triples, another says two in the chest, one in the head. What say you?"

I can't tell you what's right, only what's worked for me. Umm, shoot him where he's biggest, and do it more than once. Shoot until your on-board sensor says, "OK, you can stop shooting now." Look around. 'cause somebody or something else might also need shooting. Remember, too, that it ain't enough to shoot somebody until you think they're done or dead. You gotta shoot 'em until they think they're dead. If they think they're dead. you've covered the "done" part.

If all you've got to shoot at is a piece of your target, shoot that piece. Shoot the piece to pieces, then shoot the pieces to pieces. It might be overkill, but it beats underkill.

There were lots of other questions, and maybe I should write a piece on gunfighting. But if you're looking for expert advice, remember--I'm just here for the cheesecake, OK?

(For expert advice on sleeping in mud. or recipes for roast bush rat, contact Connor at ThatGunWriterGuy@aol.com--Editor)

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