What It Was Like To Get Shot

Have you ever been shot? Not too many people say yes to that question. It's about as many yes answers as the question, "Have you ever shot someone?" And why people used to ask me that, I never did figure out. In the modern era, it would have been in the news.

So, what's it like to get shot?

One thing: it's usually loud. Guns are loud and make a loud bang when fired. There's no avoiding that reality, usually. In my case, I was close enough to the bullet going off that not only did I hear the shot, but I saw it happening. Yes, best laid plans of mice and men don't always pan out well.

The truth is, the bullet with my name on it came in 1997. It wasn't with malice or forethought that I went through the experience. Rather, it was an afterthought that I felt the pain in my upper left arm. Only after the bullet "discharged" did anyone imagine that someone might have been going to get hit.

I was on the firing range in Peoria, Illinois, at a range class. It's the Illinois 40hr mandatory firearms class that I was taking for employment as a Sheriff's Deputy. You guessed it, I was shot due to the actions of officers. Thankfully, I didn't have to work with the officer responsible, because that would have been awkward.

My shooting story is a little different than most of the guys I know who were shot. It's nowhere near as life-threatening, as luck would have it. I've known several people who have been shot. And to them, I say, glad your case turned out okay. At least most of them, that is. The first person I knew who was shot was Donald White.

Donald wasn't as lucky as I, or anybody else I've known who was shot. He was at the wrong ATM in Hellifornia, and the wrong illegal alien was behind him with a gun when he took out some cash. I guess it was easier to shoot him in the head and take the money than to beat him down and take it.

Unlike everybody else I know who's been hit by that bullet with their name on it, I was more annoyed and pissed off than anything. Don't get me wrong, it's better to be pissed off than pissed on, or at least that's the saying.

So, how it happened was we were on the firing range. We were going through load and unload drills with the range instructor providing us guidance. This was long enough ago that there were still wheel guns (Revolvers) in play, so the drills were different for everyone.

It happened that I was on the second string. My role was to watch the first string shooter in front of me, making sure he didn't turn his weapon any direction other than down range. It's a safety practice during law enforcement training.

The first-string shooters ran their drill. Those people with a wheel gun were inclined to palm their rounds before loading another six rounds in their gun. When Tuna, the range instructor, saw that people palmed their rounds, he called for everyone to holster.

Tuna's issue was that if we were in a gunfight, we would not have palmed our spent casings. He had a valid point, even though this wasn't a gunfight.

"Train like it's real so you're ready when it is."

--Gerard Butler, Angel Has Fallen

It's a true quote, and it makes sense. So the drills began again.

As Tuna gave the reload command, the first-string shooter I was watching did as instructed. This was where the impossible happened.

There's a primer on a bullet. The hammer hits the firing pin, and that is what pushes the pin into the primer, causing the bullet to fire. Knowing the basics, how did I get shot?

The one in a million times possibility that we encountered was beyond belief. If you haven't guessed it, the bullet that had my name on it, it fell bottom first and landed on a rock. The bullet fired randomly from that.

There was a puff of smoke from the ground, and a pressure followed by my arm hurting like hell. I must have been in shock, because all I could do was pat my arm, looking for blood, and utter the words, "Goddammit!"

Have you ever seen one of those movie scenes where someone should be dead, but they wake up, and find that something in their pocket saved their lives? Well, I lived that moment.

In 1997, I was still a smoker. It was October when we were on the range. I wore a black bomber jacket with a shoulder pocket. I kept a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo there. The dent in my Zippo told us where it struck. It ricocheted off the Zippo, bouncing behind me and into the van parked behind us.

So, you might say, at the time, smoking saved my arm from having one hell of a hole in it. A .357 magnum hollow point will leave a big hole in what it hits, often breaking or shattering bone. At that distance, it could have gone through my arm and into my side, stopping at the ribs or in my lungs or heart.

What was it like? It freaking sucked. My arm was sore enough I could barely lift it the rest of the day.

That's my story.