Sissy Cartridges
Who shoots them?
I believe it was gun writer Bryce Towsley who once wrote – on Facebook I think – something to the effect that, the only reason some hunters use small cartridges to hunt with was so they could brag about it. I thought this was a stupid remark, because men never brag about small stuff. They don’t brag about their pickup truck’s little tires, their 11 pound poodle dog, or their wife’s little titties. I always looked at it like the only reason guys hunted with big cartridges, was so they could express their manliness, and well, brag about it.
One time I met a hunter in the West Virginia woods who was carrying a 338 Winchester Magnum. He said it would kill the hell out of deer. His wife was hunting with him, and she had a 300 Winchester Magnum. He said the 338 was just a little too much for her, and he seemed a bit embarrassed by that. I’m not exactly sure what a sissy cartridge is, but that guy sure looked at my 250 Savage, and then at me, like he thought I was still feeding from a bottle.
Throughout my life I’ve heard nonsense about this or that cartridge not being big and bad enough for deer or whatever. After more than a half century of killing all sorts of things with all manner of cartridges, I’ll quote Granny Hawkings from Josey Wales, “I say that big talk's worth doodly-squat.” A deer can’t tell if it was shot with a 243 or a 30-06, and all them fellers bitching about sissy cartridges couldn’t tell the difference if they were shot with either. But still, a lot of hunters who have killed a couple dozen deer will tell you only sissies use small caliber rifles for deer and such.
But, I always thought my dad was pretty tough. He grew up on a farm, and when he was 14 his dad died, so he dropped out of school and stared driving a coal truck to support his momma. That didn’t work out too well, so he lied about his age and joined the Army. When he showed up at boot camp, they pulled his teeth and sent him to Korea – toothless – to kill communists with a 30 Carbine. About six months later they let him come home. Not to get teeth or because he had earned leave, but because he was shot all to hell.
That happened to a lot of young American boys, like Army Colonel Robert L. Howard. He was shot all to hell, too. COL Howard was wounded 14 times over the span of 54 months in Vietnam. Was awarded the medal of honor and retired from the Army after 36 years of service. I don’t care what kind of rifle he shot; he was a bad dude, and I’m sure he would not have cared if me or anyone else cared about his rifle.
But toughness comes in all different ways. When dad returned stateside after being wounded, he had a bullet hole in the center of his chest and a hole in his left leg as big as a baseball. He said when they unwrapped his wound to clean out the dead tissue, the orderly passed out and a nurse threw up on him. He wasn’t sure if it was the smell of rotting flesh or all the magots that got to ‘em. He spent three years in an Army hospital at Fort Picket and the Army finally gave him some teeth, probably only because they said he would never walk again. But he did, even though one leg was three inches shorter than the other.
They didn’t think Roy Benavidez would walk again either. He dropped out of school at 15 to support his family, then he joined the Army, and then he stepped on a land mine in Vietnam. Then, after months of self-inflicted vigorous training they came to discharge him. But Roy got out of bed and walked across the room. So, instead of sending him home they sent him for more physical therapy. Before long he was running 10 miles with a ruck sack and went back to Vietnam with the 5th Special Forces Group. Attemping to rescue troops he was shot in the leg and then hit with a grenade. Six hours later they were putting him in a body bag when he opened his eyes and spit in the doctors face. When they buried him in 1988, he was a Medal of Honor recipient. I don’t know what kind of rifle Benavidez might have shot. Don’t care. He was badass.
Dad would have nightmares sometimes, and I asked mom why she let him lay there and scream. She said it was no use; she had tried to wake him up but couldn’t. I tried one time, couldn’t do it either. So, I just went outside where I couldn’t hear him. He told me one time he dreamed he was in a field and the sheep were eating his legs off. I guess that was a combination of his farm life and the years of misery he went through in the hospital. I remember when his injury would flare up from osteomyelitis, he’d take a big needle and jam it in his bullet wound, and the brownish yellow puss and blood would run down his leg like a river as he squeezed the nastiness out of his body. He didn’t cry, but he did make one hell of a bad face.
When I was only about as tall as dad’s waist and we were coon hunting, he would carry me on his shoulders – for miles in the dark, over the steep and rugged West Virginia hills – and of course one leg was still 3 inches shorter than the other. One time I watched him accidently drill a hole through his hand with a 1/2-inch drill bit. Blood was everywhere and he calmly told me, “I think I’m going to need a towel.” I also saw him fall through a roof when a rafter broke. When he finally got off the ground and got most of the blood cleaned off the gash along his ribs, he said, “I guess I’m gonna have to replace that board.” I never saw a tear in my father’s eye, and I watched him lose his mother and mine.
And dad, well, he shot a 243 Winchester and killed the hell out of deer with it.
In this day and age, when some men think they’re a woman and others think they can even get pregnant, I’m not sure about a hell of a lot anymore, but I am positively sure my daddy was no sissy. You can make whatever the hell you want out of all this, and you can shoot whatever damned rifle cartridge you want. But I’d strongly suggest you be a bit leery about passing judgement on another man’s character based on what he’s shooting. Some men don’t have anything left they need to prove, and, well, some men know how to shoot, too.
This edition of the EmptyCases Substack is coming to you from a secure and hidden 400 yard range, deep in the Allegheny Mountains.
Check out Richard’s new book that details his experiences hunting all over the world with 50 different rifle cartridges.
Well you can always try the man bun magnum - 6.5 PRC 😁. Gotta give those DATs a wide berth.
Oh my! How could you possibly kill an elk with a seven mag?