By Katlynn Mullins
Guns have always scared me.
In my mind, on an elementary level, they serve one purpose: to kill.
Now, here I was, shooting an AR-15 with a police officer standing behind me.
I had done a ride-along with the officer for my advanced reporting class the week before.
It had been a slow night. We met with another officer while they were both on what the police call “PWT,” or Park, Walk, Talk. Every officer in St. Petersburg, even the chief, gets out of their car for an hour every week to interact with people in the neighborhoods they patrol.
The officers asked what I thought about guns, and I was honest. I don’t know much about them, but I find them intimidating.
The officers asked me if I had ever fired a weapon. I never had. The officers agreed that I needed to shoot one before I could have an informed, proper opinion.
One of them offered to take me to a firing range so I could “complete my training.”
I agreed. I had a point to prove.
A lot of The Crow’s Nest staff have done ride-alongs with police. I read every story I could find before I went on mine, and they all said, in so many words, “There are a lot of good cops.”
Well, there are a lot of good reporters, too.
We’re willing to listen and be proven wrong. This was a chance for me to be proven wrong.
I got to the range, signed my consent form and carried two paper targets over as the officer brought his guns — two rifles, several handguns (revolvers, a few 9mm and a .22) and one in a leather carrying case.
I was shaking as the officer taught me how to stand (like you’re about to fight; it won’t be easy to knock you over, and you can pivot), how to load (slap the magazine, don’t push gently) and how to shoot so my arm didn’t get tired (use your nondominant hand to support, but don’t depend on it).
He reminded me about the safety whenever I finished firing a weapon, and I kept forgetting to turn it on. Once, the gun wasn’t empty when I put it down and a bullet landed about 18 inches from my foot.
But I shot all of them. I wasn’t as clumsy with the AR-15. I eventually stopped shaking and my shoulder stopped the kickback, though I still had to be reminded to turn on the safety.
There was one weapon I really didn’t want to shoot, however.
In that leather bag was an all-black, metal Luger from World War II. The guns were expensive to produce, according to the officer, and only generals carried them.
There was a swastika above the barrel.
It was only used to shoot someone at point blank range, especially in concentration camps, the officer said.
The gun was obviously stolen as a prize, he said, and kept well-hidden. War prizes were illegal, so it was smuggled into this country after the American soldier came home.
The officer asked if I wanted to shoot it.
I put on a brave face and said yes.
I walked across the range to the target. I was shaking again.
All I could think was, “You’re really doing this?”
I loaded the gun.
“This probably killed someone,” my mind said.
I pulled back the hammer.
“This isn’t OK,” my mind argued.
I held it up.
I fired a round, not even hitting the paper. It didn’t matter. This was more than target practice.
“You’re holding history.”
I fired a second time, missed again.
“Someone fought for this.”
Third. Missed.
“This may have killed someone, but you’re not.”
Fourth. I missed again, but I wasn’t shaking anymore.
“It’s safe. You’re safe here.”
Fifth. Missed, but I felt in control.
“There’s more to this.”
I walked closer and fired a sixth time.
“It’s not that bad.”
Seventh… there weren’t any bullets left.
“Aw, you’re empty! Don’t worry about not hitting anything, they fired those at close range for a reason,” the officer said. “How was it?”
I just stared at the swastika. All I could say was “weird.”
I could’ve shot every gun in the world. I could’ve listened to pointers about gun safety all day. I don’t know that anything would’ve taught me what that Luger did.
