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Originally posted by JBA2848
I did not name the American Silencer Association. They did. And you don't see a problem when the company just down the road from a mass shooting is turning around and planning this big push for the new year? And while they are saying we would like to talk with the President about gun control? I guess their idea would be make sure you use both hands when firing so your more stable. Proper stance so your more accurate.
Originally posted by TheLieWeLive
This is ridiculous. Silencers are used for one purpose. To kill quietly.
I have a silenced gun.
It doesn't make a peep until I pull the trigger.
"I like to tell folks that I put that one there intentionally," says Harry with a puckish grin. At 68, Harry admits that his recollection is a bit cloudy, but he figures that in his 35 years in the retail gun business he has experienced right at 35 robberies and burglaries. He proudly notes that in all those rip-offs and heist attempts, only two firearms were not recovered. He also remembers the only three times when the thieves were unfortunate enough to face him. Each time, it evolved into a gun battle. Each time, he shot them and they didn't get to shoot him. The first was a pure pistol fight. Harry drew and shot the robber, who lost all interest in carrying on the fight. This saved his life; when the wounded gunman surrendered, Harry Beckwith, a moral man, didn't shoot him again. In the second shootout, the gun dealer interrupted a felon about to drive off with guns he'd heisted from the store. Though not a Class III weapons dealer, Beckwith was federally licensed to possess such arms for his own use. When the thug raised a .45 auto pistol at Harry, Beckwith trumped his ace with a burst of full automatic fire from a Smith & Wesson Model 76 9mm submachine gun. Struck in the forehead, the gunman dropped his pistol and screamed, "I'm hit!" "Get out of the car," Beckwith roared back. The man did, and realizing he was still alive despite a gunshot wound in the forehead, he ran. Once more, Beckwith held fire. The man was captured later and treated for an ugly but minor head injury from a flattened- out 9mm hollowpoint round that had lost most of it's energy piercing the safety glass of the windshield. That incident took place in 1976, the Bicentennial of our nation's independence. A Class III weapons owner had delivered a splendidly appropriate demonstration of the independence our nation was celebrating. In the "the spirit of "76," he stopped a violent criminal with a Model 76. But neither of these had prepared Harry Beckwith, then 63, old enough to collect Social Security and qualify as a Senior Citizen, for the incident that left his place of business bearing the distinctive scars you can see there to this day. The night of November 12, 1990, promised to be a quiet one. The regular bowling pin shoot had finished up less than an hour ago. The gunshop was securely locked up, and so was the separate indoor shooting range building located behind it. Harry Beckwith was at home with his wife in their beautiful hacienda, separated from the business structures by about 100 yards of beach sand and trees. A picturesque setting that would make the quintessential Florida postcard. Harry was relaxed and watching TV. It was 9:50 p.m. Suddenly, two discordant sounds pierced the night. One was the distinctive crash of a heavy vehicle being driven through the steel-reinforced glass door in the concrete entryway of the gunshop. The other was the yelping of the burglar alarm. Beck with moved instantly. He knew his rural location was remote; even though the police would be rolling immediately, he wasn't sure they could get there in time. He moved smoothly and certainly, with the economy of motion that comes with age and with planning. He knew his wife would get on the phone and put a gun in her own hand, in a safe place. That left his mind free to cope with the problem of dealing with the marauders. He reached for the weapons he had laid out for just such a contingency. First was a Charter Arms Bulldog revolver in an old Bucheimer crossdraw paddle holster. It slipped easily into place in front of his left hip. It was loaded with five rounds of his favorite .44 Special ammunition, Winchester Silvertip hollowpoint. Next came the Model 76 submachine gun. One magazine was in place, the bolt properly closed, "condition three." More magazines were rubber-banded to the extended stock. Beckwith had found this to be a faster way to access them than to attach a pouch in the same place. He slung the licensed submachine gun over his right shoulder. He picked up an AR-15, a gun he has always described as a "Colt Sporting Rifle." It contained one magazine downloaded to only 15 rounds. Another such magazine was banded to its plastic stock as well. With the other hand, he scooped up a Remington Model 1100 12 gauge semiautomatic shotgun, already fully loaded. Figuring he was ready for anything, Harry Beckwith quietly stepped out into the shadows, moving away from the house in the direction of the shop, some 100 paces distant. He could see that two vehicles were there, both '88 Oldsmobiles, one blue and one white. Numerous adult male figures were scurrying in and out of the shop, bearing armloads of guns to the cars through the door they'd crashed. He couldn't make out color or age, only that they were grown men, and that they were maybe seven of them. At a point between the shop and the house, he carefully laid the shotgun down out of sight. It would be a fallback weapon if he had to retreat in that direction. He took the AR-15 in both hands, ready, and moved forward again. But there was a full moon out, and the same moonlight that had allowed him to observe the criminals allowed them to see him. Beckwith knew then he'd been "made". "I should've been more in the shadows," Beckwith would tell me years later. "He gunned the car straight at me. I'm too old to run. I fired off my shoulder at him and the vehicle." When the butt of the rifle hit the shoulder pocket, Beckwith opened fire, manipulating the trigger as fast as he could. Suddenly, the AR was not responding; he had run dry. The vehicle was still coming at him, rapidly closing the 50 yards distance. A skilled man can reload an AR-15 almost as quickly as a Colt .45 auto, and Harry Beckwith is skilled at arms. As his right index finger punched the mag release, his left hand broke the spare magazine free of the rubber band and slammed it home with a practiced motion, his left thumb almost simultaneously pressing the bolt drop paddle on the left side of the frame. He resumed fire, as fast as he could work the gun. The high-pitched crack of the AR-15 could not drown out the dull chong sound of the .223 ball rounds punching through the auto body, nor the distinctive sound of heavy glass breaking. The vehicle swerved off course, and Harry ran dry again. As he dropped the now useless rifle, the blue Oldsmobile veered away from him, cutting to its left. It threw a giant rooster-tail of dust as the driver accelerated away from the old man he had tried seconds before to crush to death. Beckwith saw the car disappear onto Route 441. Beckwith turned his attention back toward the shop. Five more of the burglars were there, most holding guns, pistols and longer weapons. Silhouetted in the moonlight, too old to run, still facing five-to-one odds against men with all kinds of guns capable of easily killing him from 50 yards away and who could easily have loaded up with some of the thousands of rounds they'd had access to for some time now, Beckwith knew he was still in deadly danger. He swung up the Smith & Wesson submachine gun, racked the open bolt back and cut loose on full automatic. "I fired high, over their heads, to keep them down," he would explain later. "I used short bursts." He saw them duck. He knew it had bought him a moment. But his near-death experience with the blue Oldsmobile bearing down on him was fresh in his mind. If they crawled up the covered side of the car, they could do the same with the white Olds. And if two magazines of .223 hadn't disabled the other identical vehicle, what could he hope to do with 9mm fire? He realized that the time to disable the felons' second car was now. He swept it from one end to the other, reloaded, and continued. Every window in the Oldsmobile disintegrated as the copper jacketed bullets tore through. Beckwith had stagger- loaded the magazines with hardball and Remington 115 gr. jacketed hollowpoints. The tires deflated with an audible hiss. Beckwith saw the surviving perps moving away from the vehicle. Now the big danger was being shot instead of being run down. A second empty S&W magazine hit the ground, and Beckwith opened another burst of diversionary fire with a third stick. The perpetrators had enough. He saw them run around the corner of the building. He took a cover position and waited. The first police car pulled into the scene approximately one minute later. To Beckwith, it seemed as if he waited an hour. However, reconstruction of the incident would show that it had been only three minutes from when the alarm sounded to when the first responding Alachua County deputy made it into the gunshop. The incident itself had lasted less than two minutes. During that time, Harry Beckwith had fired 105 shots. By 2 a.m. all surviving perpetrators had been arrested and were in custody. Six were at the jail and one at morgue. Roger Patterson, age 18, was found dead in the wreck of the shot up Oldsmobile. He'd gotten across the line into Marion County with one tire shot away, driving 13 miles before he lost control and crashed. Cause of death was a .223 rifle wound through the chest. The second man in the blue car was captured near the scene.
Originally posted by BASSPLYR
Most silenced guns are pretty loud. I Sweden I believe they are required for hunters.
Odd how the government allows themselves to have them but forbids the citizenry.