Backup Guns and Reloads
Chris Byrne has a pretty good read on carrying a backup gun and spare magazines. I’ve always been a fan of the New York reload. There’s no surer way to clear a jammed pistol than by quickly producing a second pistol.
I will admit, I seldom carry a backup gun or a spare magazine in summer. In winter, I do more often. The Glock 19 holds 15+1 rounds of 9mm Corbon DPX. When I a carry a backup, it’s generally the Makarov, which holds 8+1 Pow’R Ball 9×18 rounds. In summer the Mak is often my primary carry pistol.
August 13th, 2007 at 11:20 am
In summer I carry a 9mm 14+1 CZ 9mm, no back-up. With coller weather and heavier clothing, I like to carry my Taurus .357 mag 7 rd. 4″ barrel revolver, with an extra speed loader. I don’t have to worry about it jamming.
August 13th, 2007 at 9:38 pm
Oh man you always have to carry at least 1 spare mag! Ya’ll must have not been to the range recently to remind your selfs atrocious accuracy. I’m a good shot compared to the average shooter but I think I’d need a mag per threat.
August 13th, 2007 at 9:51 pm
I’m a pretty good shot with my Glock. I’m pretty confident even under stress I could land hits.
August 14th, 2007 at 12:58 pm
Hmm, “two is one, and one is none”, envision this: you draw as you beat feet toward the closest cover(parked car), and realize that the mag release button got hit somewhere between holstering your pistol earlier, and pointing it downrange at the closest of the pursuing group as your shoes slap at the pavement. Oh, S**t!!! you think, as you see/hear the mag bounce on the blacktop. Multiple BG’s, and I’m now holding a single shot handgun! Your shoes are slipping as you try to slow and turn too quickly as you reach the far side of the car. As you attempt to get your breathing slowed, you see one BG take a couple quick paces over to see what you dropped. He picks it up, waggling it while grinning at you and profanely advising his associates what you lost and your now unarmed state. The BGs, who had stopped when one yelled “m’f’r got a gun”, start moving again as you watch the one pocket the mag and resume his advance.
You don’t often carry a spare mag, as the IWB carrier is uncomfortable with the jeans you normally wear. You are sobbing with relief as you realize YOU HAVE ONE!, grab the mag and stuff it into place. Although he is not the closest, you target the one with your dropped mag, deliberately hesitating a beat between the two shots to underscore you are not de-fanged. One more shot at another, closer one. You are not sure if you connected, as he was backing and spinning as the sights lined up. You catch a muzzle flash in the late evening dim light as one attempts to keep his gun pointed in my direction while running. He gives that up as the angle increases with distance. A couple of the closer ones are doing some broken field running, but most are sprinting flat out for the corner of a building. The second target is the last one to reach that point, noticeably slower than the others, which suggests he was hit. They disappear, the pounding feet sounding like a thundering herd of ponies, suddenly loud as it echoes off the walls but rapidly fading away.
Scanning the area, the only vestige of life is the mag-man, twitching as he continues to lay in a crumpled heap where he collapsed after the second shot. Cautiously, you approach him, circling around to keep out of his vision. His pistol lays a few feet away from him, and you kick it a couple feet further before stooping down to fish your mag out of his pocket. His breathing is ragged, sort of a gasp and gurgle combined, and there is blood on one side of his chest and around his mouth. You roll him to put the bloody side down, and shortly afterwards his breathing sounds less labored. You don’t recognize the pistol, and not wanting to attempt to conceal it in a pocket, you kick it past the car into the street, and then into a drain. You see brass sitting on the windshield against a wiper, but as you reach for it your jacket sleeve knocks a second case into the recess at the rear of the hood. The sound as it bounces a couple times tells you what happened. A quick look using your mini flashlight reveals nothing, but the third case is found laying on the ground to the side of the car.
Leaving at a quick pace in the opposite direction from the vanished BGs, you do not encounter any phones. You eventually realize that the shortcut you were initially taking to reach your truck, that brought you into contact with those miscreants, has got you totally lost. After wandering around what seems like half of the neighborhoods in San Francisco, you find a street whose name you recognize. Orienting yourself, you proceed down the road until reaching the cross street that will lead you onward to your trucks location. On your long drive home, you go over the various mistakes you made earlier. Finally home, you make a cup of tea to relax with, but find yourself unable to hold the cup as you suddenly develop a familiar case of the shakes. As you sit there with your hands clasped tightly together, shaking like the proverbial leaf in a storm, the thought that rattles through your mind is how once again you’ve prevailed.
You have to nuke your tea, as it has gotten cold waiting for the shaking to subside.
Checking the news for a few days, nothing turns up that seems to match the incident, leaving equal parts puzzlement and relief.