BUFF
SWCA Member, Absent Comrade
October, 1981, I was hired by my department and started the Utah state police academy. The armorer issued us each a well-worn Combat Masterpiece/Model 15. I was going to carry my own gun, a 6 inch Model 66, but took the .38 anyway.
My 'new' gat had some mileage on it. It had been reblued at least once. Polishing before bluing is an art, one well beyond whoever did mine. All the sharp edges had been rounded off, screw holes dished out, roll markings almost gone. The Magna stocks had been sprayed with some kind of lacquer, but the worker hadn't bothered to scrape the dirt out of the checkering border grooves first.
The gun was shiny all right, a shiny blue mess. I put it in my gun cabinet and never shot it.
I decided to try my hand at making grips. I needed something to hold them steady while working them with my dremel-type tool and wood rasps. I got out the Model 15, removed the cylinder and yoke and then cut a piece of wood to fill the cylinder window of the frame so I could use my vice to hold the gun without marring it. I could then put the soon-to-be grips on it after routing out the inside and fitting the brass escutcheons, and work on the outside of the stocks. I should have used one of my own guns, but decided that if I slipped with a tool, better to ding up their beater than one of my nice guns.
Time went by. This was the age before many computers, and my department kept most records, including equipment inventories, on hand-written forms. Every now and then, they would want to check up on who had what, and required us to bring everything they had issued to us to the range during a qualification.
They didn't issue us much gear. The handgun, a uniform badge, a hat badge, one pair of Peerless handcuffs, and a safety helmet so cheap that it had a sticker from the maker inside that warned the user the helmet wasn't to be used with motor vehicles! We were also given a big 3 ring binder filled with pages of our policy and procedures. Each of these items was serial numbered.
I don't think they kept track of the inventory lists very well because they never had them when they inspected us. They filled out a new one each time they did an inspection before the shooting.
So, the day of the inspection/qualification arrives. I remove the Model 15 from the vice on my work bench and blew the sawdust out of it. Then I went to replace the yoke and cylinder. I couldn't find them! Pretty well tore up the garage and then my gun and reloading room. No dice. I began to panic. How am I going to explain this?
Running out of time, I decided I would swap the yoke and cylinder from my Model 14. The gas ring or something was different and it wouldn't fit! It was the only blue .38 K frame I owned.
In desperation, I tried the yoke and cylinder from my .22 LR Model 18. It fit! Maybe I could pull this off, as the serial number for the gun was only stamped on the bottom of the grip frame. I hoped that they would just look at that, as the armorer would be pretty busy checking the guns the deputies were going to shoot after the inspection.
I got to the range. As usual, there wasn't enough staff there to keep up, just the armorer and the training lieutenant. It was a hot afternoon and they were working out in the sun, on a picnic table. I got in line. My heart was thumping and I was sweating like, well, a pig. I continued to worry. What if I get caught? Would they fire me? Would they take away the .38, with my cylinder in it? I could send the Model 18 off to S&W and have it replaced, but right then and there, the cost of a new wheel was about the least of my worries. Explaining it to my bosses would be the sticky wicket.
I got to the front of the line finally and sat down the policy manual and the helmet. I pulled out the handcuffs from their place on Sam Browne. Now, the guns.
I drew my empty Model 66 from my holster, swung the cylinder out and handed it to the armorer. Good manners requires a person who is handing a handgun to someone else to have the gun open while you give it to them. The armorer took it, sat it down on his mat and began to take it apart to inspect it. The training lieutenant began filling out my inventory form.
I pulled out the Model 15 from my belt. I made a show to open the cylinder, point the muzzle up and worked the ejector several time. The armorer and lieutenant both looked up as I did that, and then, having checked there were no cartridges in the gun, I closed they cylinder and dry-fired it 10 or 12 times with the muzzle still pointing straight up.
Now for the crucial minute, when my career hanged in the balance. I had decided if I was found out, to play dumb about it. "Heck," I would say, "how would I know it was like that? It's your old gun. I've never even tried to load it, let alone shoot it!"
Grace and luck then fell upon me. The training lieutenant said, "Deputy BUFF, do you ever carry that piece?" "No sir," I replied, "I just keep it as a spare in case my personal weapon breaks." Pen and form in hand, he asks me, "BUFF, please read me the serial number." He made no effort to take the gun and look at it closer.
I exhaled deeply, almost a sigh. "Sir, the serial is K522975, and the rack number stamped on the side is 72." As he wrote this on the form, I stuck the Model 15 back in my belt. Then I offered to read him the handcuff's serial number, as the digits were small and the nickel on the cuffs was shining and glaring in the bright sunshine. "Sure," he said.
And that was that. I returned the policy manual and crash helmet to my car with the Model 15, drew my qualification ammo, 50 of the cheapest reloaded minus-P wadcutters they could buy, loaded my speedloaders and shot a perfect score with the Model 66. The course of fire included 6 rounds from 50 yards, but most were at 7 and 15 and time limits were generous.
Back home, I searched for the missing .38 cylinder and yoke. I found them in a small tan leather drawstring bag, in one of the drawers of my big Snap-On tool chest, just where I had put it a couple of years earlier.
Well, No harm, no foul.
My 'new' gat had some mileage on it. It had been reblued at least once. Polishing before bluing is an art, one well beyond whoever did mine. All the sharp edges had been rounded off, screw holes dished out, roll markings almost gone. The Magna stocks had been sprayed with some kind of lacquer, but the worker hadn't bothered to scrape the dirt out of the checkering border grooves first.
The gun was shiny all right, a shiny blue mess. I put it in my gun cabinet and never shot it.
I decided to try my hand at making grips. I needed something to hold them steady while working them with my dremel-type tool and wood rasps. I got out the Model 15, removed the cylinder and yoke and then cut a piece of wood to fill the cylinder window of the frame so I could use my vice to hold the gun without marring it. I could then put the soon-to-be grips on it after routing out the inside and fitting the brass escutcheons, and work on the outside of the stocks. I should have used one of my own guns, but decided that if I slipped with a tool, better to ding up their beater than one of my nice guns.
Time went by. This was the age before many computers, and my department kept most records, including equipment inventories, on hand-written forms. Every now and then, they would want to check up on who had what, and required us to bring everything they had issued to us to the range during a qualification.
They didn't issue us much gear. The handgun, a uniform badge, a hat badge, one pair of Peerless handcuffs, and a safety helmet so cheap that it had a sticker from the maker inside that warned the user the helmet wasn't to be used with motor vehicles! We were also given a big 3 ring binder filled with pages of our policy and procedures. Each of these items was serial numbered.
I don't think they kept track of the inventory lists very well because they never had them when they inspected us. They filled out a new one each time they did an inspection before the shooting.
So, the day of the inspection/qualification arrives. I remove the Model 15 from the vice on my work bench and blew the sawdust out of it. Then I went to replace the yoke and cylinder. I couldn't find them! Pretty well tore up the garage and then my gun and reloading room. No dice. I began to panic. How am I going to explain this?
Running out of time, I decided I would swap the yoke and cylinder from my Model 14. The gas ring or something was different and it wouldn't fit! It was the only blue .38 K frame I owned.
In desperation, I tried the yoke and cylinder from my .22 LR Model 18. It fit! Maybe I could pull this off, as the serial number for the gun was only stamped on the bottom of the grip frame. I hoped that they would just look at that, as the armorer would be pretty busy checking the guns the deputies were going to shoot after the inspection.
I got to the range. As usual, there wasn't enough staff there to keep up, just the armorer and the training lieutenant. It was a hot afternoon and they were working out in the sun, on a picnic table. I got in line. My heart was thumping and I was sweating like, well, a pig. I continued to worry. What if I get caught? Would they fire me? Would they take away the .38, with my cylinder in it? I could send the Model 18 off to S&W and have it replaced, but right then and there, the cost of a new wheel was about the least of my worries. Explaining it to my bosses would be the sticky wicket.
I got to the front of the line finally and sat down the policy manual and the helmet. I pulled out the handcuffs from their place on Sam Browne. Now, the guns.
I drew my empty Model 66 from my holster, swung the cylinder out and handed it to the armorer. Good manners requires a person who is handing a handgun to someone else to have the gun open while you give it to them. The armorer took it, sat it down on his mat and began to take it apart to inspect it. The training lieutenant began filling out my inventory form.
I pulled out the Model 15 from my belt. I made a show to open the cylinder, point the muzzle up and worked the ejector several time. The armorer and lieutenant both looked up as I did that, and then, having checked there were no cartridges in the gun, I closed they cylinder and dry-fired it 10 or 12 times with the muzzle still pointing straight up.
Now for the crucial minute, when my career hanged in the balance. I had decided if I was found out, to play dumb about it. "Heck," I would say, "how would I know it was like that? It's your old gun. I've never even tried to load it, let alone shoot it!"
Grace and luck then fell upon me. The training lieutenant said, "Deputy BUFF, do you ever carry that piece?" "No sir," I replied, "I just keep it as a spare in case my personal weapon breaks." Pen and form in hand, he asks me, "BUFF, please read me the serial number." He made no effort to take the gun and look at it closer.
I exhaled deeply, almost a sigh. "Sir, the serial is K522975, and the rack number stamped on the side is 72." As he wrote this on the form, I stuck the Model 15 back in my belt. Then I offered to read him the handcuff's serial number, as the digits were small and the nickel on the cuffs was shining and glaring in the bright sunshine. "Sure," he said.
And that was that. I returned the policy manual and crash helmet to my car with the Model 15, drew my qualification ammo, 50 of the cheapest reloaded minus-P wadcutters they could buy, loaded my speedloaders and shot a perfect score with the Model 66. The course of fire included 6 rounds from 50 yards, but most were at 7 and 15 and time limits were generous.
Back home, I searched for the missing .38 cylinder and yoke. I found them in a small tan leather drawstring bag, in one of the drawers of my big Snap-On tool chest, just where I had put it a couple of years earlier.
Well, No harm, no foul.
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