A Bad Idea
Thomas Maxwell
“Oh my god, Thomas, the side of your face!”
“What about my face Dad?”
“Oh shoot, that is a lot of blood,” I said as I slid my hand down my face.
“Can we at least finish our shooting before we head back?” I asked.
“Hell, no Tom, we are done.”
“Keep pressure on that, I am taking you to the damn hospital.”
During this most recent spring break, I made another poor choice. Unlike my bad ideas from high school, however, this one could have killed me rather than land me in prison. One of my favorite things to do while I am home in California is to drive out to the deserts of Barstow and visit my dad where he worked. Being the gun enthusiast I am, I often make time to go shooting deep in the desert hills. Seeing how my dad had time off during the break, he decided to come with me. I have shot hundreds if not thousands of rounds in my lifetime on many different shooting trips. This one would take a turn for far worse.
Normally, we shot regular paper targets and other sensible things. After browsing the internet, I came upon another great idea. A lot of professional shooters on the internet shoot steel targets that ring and make noise when shot. My mind would proceed to think up something along the lines of,
“Cool! That looks like it beats the hell out of paper targets.” “Now where can I get one of my own?” A few internet searches later and I would find that steel targets were not cheap. “Screw that, I ain’t paying ninety dollars for a six-inch disc of steel.” “I’m going to the scrap yard to find my own target for cheap.” Twenty dollars and a short drive later, I had myself a wonderfully cheap but also a heavy new steel target.
After a drive out into the desert and some convincing my dad that what we are about to do was “safe,” we set up our target and laid out our weapons to begin. I knew there were inherent risks that came with shooting hard targets. Unfortunately, I was not under the impression at the time of just how much danger we were in. At seventy yards distance, I reached for a .22 caliber pistol, inserted a magazine, pulled the slide, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.
Bang! Ding. “Wow, that’s fun.” “Dad, come give this a try!”
We both proceeded to dump several magazines of .22 into the steel target with no problem.
“Let me try something else,” I said. I reached for a pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun and took aim. BOOM! Ding. Six shots of twelve-gauge later, no problem.
“Good lord, I should have gotten a steel target sooner, this is too much fun!” “Hey dad, give the twelve-gauge a try as well!” “I am gonna grab my AR-15.”
My dad finished with the shotgun and stepped out of the way, I grabbed my most prized possession, inserted a magazine, pulled the charging handle, and flipped the fire selector from “SAFE” to “FIRE.” The target glinted as I stared it down through the scope. BANG! The shot connected with the target much like those from the previous weapons. However, from my perspective, it seemed to leave an angry-looking spot where the bullet landed. “Interesting,” I thought to myself. I then proceeded to squeeze off six more shots. On the seventh shot, I heard a sort of “whizzing” sound as well as a sharp sensation shoot up the side of my face. At this point, my dad began yelling at me to stop.
“Thomas, you are throwing shrapnel all over the pl- Oh my god, Thomas! Your face!” “Oh crap, that is a lot of blood.”
A piece of the bullet or more likely, a piece of the target I had been engaging had thrown a shard of steel three millimeters in length back at me with enough force to slice open and embed itself deep in the side of my face. Blood immediately began pouring from the gash.
“Any chance we can at least finish our shooting or maybe go hiking before we call it a day?” I asked.
“Hell no, I am taking you to the hospital.” He snapped.
After a thirty-minute ride to the ER with a cloth pressed to the wound, I was admitted and eventually seen at the Barstow Community Hospital. At the end of the day, I received five stitches to seal the side of my face. An X-ray demonstrated that a piece of metal had been embedded in my face. It currently sits inside my face to this day. Although the wound looked worse than it really was, I had gotten genuinely lucky that day. When shooting steel targets, the recommended distance is about hundred and fifty yards plus. My dad and I were at less than half of that. Not only were we too close but the target we had engaged was not designed to be shot at period. Although the target had absorbed the .22s and twelve gauge shells just fine, it was no match for the 5.56mm rounds coming out of my rifle. .22s and shotshells throw projectiles at around 1200 feet per second. That sounds fast but compared to the 5.56mm, they were moving at around only a 1/3 of the speed. The bullets coming out of my AR were traveling at upwards of 3200 feet per second and as a result, were ripping huge craters into the target and throwing pieces of it back at us. Had one of those pieces struck somewhere like my neck or my eye, it could have been far worse.
At the end of the day, I give thanks to my guardian angel or whoever else it is watching over me for saving my stupid ass again. I also give thanks that my dad was there with me. We were in a secluded Canyon about fifteen minutes from a main road with no cell phone reception so getting out of there on my own could have been a lot worse. If I had been alone, I would have survived given that exact situation but cleaning up and getting out of there would have been far harder. Had my wound been worse however and had I been alone, it is very possible that I could have died out there. With no way to call for help and a lack of proper medical aid, that could have been it. I have since learned that one should never ever go shooting alone again. I have also learned to truly the forces at hand. Above all, do not shoot things that are not meant to be shot. Unless you do it from far away that is.
“What about my face Dad?”
“Oh shoot, that is a lot of blood,” I said as I slid my hand down my face.
“Can we at least finish our shooting before we head back?” I asked.
“Hell, no Tom, we are done.”
“Keep pressure on that, I am taking you to the damn hospital.”
During this most recent spring break, I made another poor choice. Unlike my bad ideas from high school, however, this one could have killed me rather than land me in prison. One of my favorite things to do while I am home in California is to drive out to the deserts of Barstow and visit my dad where he worked. Being the gun enthusiast I am, I often make time to go shooting deep in the desert hills. Seeing how my dad had time off during the break, he decided to come with me. I have shot hundreds if not thousands of rounds in my lifetime on many different shooting trips. This one would take a turn for far worse.
Normally, we shot regular paper targets and other sensible things. After browsing the internet, I came upon another great idea. A lot of professional shooters on the internet shoot steel targets that ring and make noise when shot. My mind would proceed to think up something along the lines of,
“Cool! That looks like it beats the hell out of paper targets.” “Now where can I get one of my own?” A few internet searches later and I would find that steel targets were not cheap. “Screw that, I ain’t paying ninety dollars for a six-inch disc of steel.” “I’m going to the scrap yard to find my own target for cheap.” Twenty dollars and a short drive later, I had myself a wonderfully cheap but also a heavy new steel target.
After a drive out into the desert and some convincing my dad that what we are about to do was “safe,” we set up our target and laid out our weapons to begin. I knew there were inherent risks that came with shooting hard targets. Unfortunately, I was not under the impression at the time of just how much danger we were in. At seventy yards distance, I reached for a .22 caliber pistol, inserted a magazine, pulled the slide, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.
Bang! Ding. “Wow, that’s fun.” “Dad, come give this a try!”
We both proceeded to dump several magazines of .22 into the steel target with no problem.
“Let me try something else,” I said. I reached for a pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun and took aim. BOOM! Ding. Six shots of twelve-gauge later, no problem.
“Good lord, I should have gotten a steel target sooner, this is too much fun!” “Hey dad, give the twelve-gauge a try as well!” “I am gonna grab my AR-15.”
My dad finished with the shotgun and stepped out of the way, I grabbed my most prized possession, inserted a magazine, pulled the charging handle, and flipped the fire selector from “SAFE” to “FIRE.” The target glinted as I stared it down through the scope. BANG! The shot connected with the target much like those from the previous weapons. However, from my perspective, it seemed to leave an angry-looking spot where the bullet landed. “Interesting,” I thought to myself. I then proceeded to squeeze off six more shots. On the seventh shot, I heard a sort of “whizzing” sound as well as a sharp sensation shoot up the side of my face. At this point, my dad began yelling at me to stop.
“Thomas, you are throwing shrapnel all over the pl- Oh my god, Thomas! Your face!” “Oh crap, that is a lot of blood.”
A piece of the bullet or more likely, a piece of the target I had been engaging had thrown a shard of steel three millimeters in length back at me with enough force to slice open and embed itself deep in the side of my face. Blood immediately began pouring from the gash.
“Any chance we can at least finish our shooting or maybe go hiking before we call it a day?” I asked.
“Hell no, I am taking you to the hospital.” He snapped.
After a thirty-minute ride to the ER with a cloth pressed to the wound, I was admitted and eventually seen at the Barstow Community Hospital. At the end of the day, I received five stitches to seal the side of my face. An X-ray demonstrated that a piece of metal had been embedded in my face. It currently sits inside my face to this day. Although the wound looked worse than it really was, I had gotten genuinely lucky that day. When shooting steel targets, the recommended distance is about hundred and fifty yards plus. My dad and I were at less than half of that. Not only were we too close but the target we had engaged was not designed to be shot at period. Although the target had absorbed the .22s and twelve gauge shells just fine, it was no match for the 5.56mm rounds coming out of my rifle. .22s and shotshells throw projectiles at around 1200 feet per second. That sounds fast but compared to the 5.56mm, they were moving at around only a 1/3 of the speed. The bullets coming out of my AR were traveling at upwards of 3200 feet per second and as a result, were ripping huge craters into the target and throwing pieces of it back at us. Had one of those pieces struck somewhere like my neck or my eye, it could have been far worse.
At the end of the day, I give thanks to my guardian angel or whoever else it is watching over me for saving my stupid ass again. I also give thanks that my dad was there with me. We were in a secluded Canyon about fifteen minutes from a main road with no cell phone reception so getting out of there on my own could have been a lot worse. If I had been alone, I would have survived given that exact situation but cleaning up and getting out of there would have been far harder. Had my wound been worse however and had I been alone, it is very possible that I could have died out there. With no way to call for help and a lack of proper medical aid, that could have been it. I have since learned that one should never ever go shooting alone again. I have also learned to truly the forces at hand. Above all, do not shoot things that are not meant to be shot. Unless you do it from far away that is.
Thomas Maxwell is an outgoing and active cadet hailing from the Great State of California. He is a second year cadet at NMMI looking to pursue a degree in Criminal Justice and a career in Law Enforcement. He enjoys several hobbies which include but are not limited to: hunting, shooting, fishing, urban exploration, scuba diving, hiking, metalworking, and just being outdoors in general.