Odds are any legitimate threat will come out of the dark. A decent flashlight should be readily
accessible at night and your constant companion during the day. Options in this regard are extensive.
Chances are you will not be called upon to defend yourself as you are strolling up to the bench at your local range carrying your favorite tricked-out black rifle and 1/2-dozen loaded magazines.
It will more likely be in the middle of the night when you awaken suddenly to the sound of breaking glass. To maximize our probability of success in a social exchange of gunfire, it behooves us to understand our bodies—how these magnificent machines that transport us through life and work when tired, surprised, or both.
You have had a hard day at work on top of perhaps several hard days at work and you have not been sleeping well. You ate some greasy takeout garbage on the way home and your daughter announces when you arrive she wants to date some unworthy punk sporting a nose ring you wouldn’t trust to cut your grass. After a spirited discussion on the subject you finally collapse into the bed and sleep the sleep of the dead.
At three in the morning you are startled awake to the sound of glass breaking downstairs in the kitchen. Your heart rate jumps from 60 to three times that in a matter of seconds and you scramble for your glasses and weapon from the nightstand. You stand shivering in the dark, clad only in your underwear, clutching a deadly piece of tactical hardware while trying desperately to clear your head. Despite your lack of forewarning and innate disadvantage, it is indeed showtime.
Volumes have been penned on the effects of fatigue on fine motor skills, mostly in the context of Law Enforcement Officers, commercial airline pilots, and over-the-road truck drivers. In the face of chronic sleep deprivation reaction times slow predictably and otherwise sound judgment becomes routinely suspect.
On two occasions as a soldier I went four days without sleep. In both cases I actively hallucinated, later swearing I could have seen sounds and smelled colors.
The longest documented period any person has ever gone without sleep is 11 days. Though we really do not understand why sleep is such a critical commodity, the human animal dies from lack of it long before he dies from lack of food.
In our dreams, we think we will look like this when we are confronted with a deadly threat. Reality will likely be a little different.
Research on Law Enforcement Officers forced to make split second, life-or-death decisions in various states of fatigue has demonstrated some fascinating predictable phenomena.
By monitoring Event-Related Brain Potentials (ERPs) via non-invasive electrodes on the scalp, researchers are able to map the areas of the brain activated under stressful circumstances requiring quick but critical decision-making. One particular study I found focused on an ERP component called Event-Related Negativity (ERN) that originates from the anterior cingulate cortex. The anterior cingulate cortex is a part of the brain shown to play a critical role in conflict detection.
The working theory is there is a ying and yang sort of interplay occurring when the human brain is confronted with sudden conflict. Reactions to a threat are lightning fast, yet inhibitory functions serve to restrict, modulate or deflect behavior as needed in an attempt to control an instinctive and potentially catastrophic response.
A well-rested armed citizen who perceives a threat 50 meters away from a position of concealment is able to modulate his response in much greater depth than he might if he is sleep-deprived and the threat comes as a close-range shock.
A good example might be when you inadvertently trip over the family pet in the night. You have an initial urge to kick the animal reflexively but then, ideally, regain control in time to avoid this response. While this may seem intuitive, understanding the mechanism behind it can be useful.
It is a simple thing to induce fatigue-related deteriorations in performance. While most people will deny any degradation in cognitive function in early fatigue states, decreasing sleep by as little as one hour per night for a single week is sufficient to produce measurable deficits.
In addition to a quantifiable negative impact on cognitive function, symptoms of mild to moderate fatigue include a lack of energy, weakness, dullness and cognitive depletion.
Cognitive depletion is a temporary state wherein one has diminished capacity to exert control or volition over one’s affect, behavior and cognition.
Interruptions of circadian rhythms typically manifest when trying to acclimate to working night shifts in medical, law enforcement, or manufacturing jobs, and can produce comparable effects in the absence of actual sleep deprivation. Such conditions inevitably lead to cognitive shortcuts that can result in the employment of a firearm under circumstances that might be otherwise inappropriate with potentially catastrophic results.
The primary concern for the typical armed American involves showing appropriate restraint in a hostile environment concurrently populated with friendlies. However, this data has shown a propensity of law enforcement officers to employ deadly force more frequently based upon racial or environmental triggers that might otherwise be suppressed in the absence of fatigue and stress.
Keep your gun and your flashlight readily available should the need arise. The physiology of our response to a deadly threat shapes our performance and our subsequent survival. However, the best tactical hardware on the planet is nothing more than ballast if you aren’t in satisfactory physical condition to operate it.
Typically, we will be girded thusly for combat when faced with a legitimate threat. Tired, surprised and groggy, our brains guide our actions under conditions of stress to shape and flavor our responses.
Degradations to our performance under these circumstances can be stark.
Adrenergic receptors are a class of G-protein-coupled cellular receptors targeted by catecholamines. The most pertinent catecholamines to our discussion are epinephrine and norepinephrine. More pedestrian terms would be noradrenaline and adrenaline. This extraordinary contrivance is responsible for the fight-or-flight response that kept our forbearers alive when confronted by saber-toothed tigers. This system offers comparable benefits against more modern threats as well.
A great many human cells are equipped with these receptors and binding and subsequent activation will stimulate the sympathetic nervous system. Manifestations include rapid mobilization of energy, the diversion of blood from non-essential organs to skeletal muscle, increased blood pressure, and the widening of the pupils.
Imagine how you felt the last time you hit the brakes to avoid a squirrel, and you’ll get a taste of this automatic threat management system in action. Feeling the hair stand up on your neck or losing control of your bowels or bladder in extreme circumstances are some of the more fascinating side effects.
The different subtypes and functions of these various proteins are labyrinthine, to say the least, and have been sufficient to drive many a young medical student to despair. The system itself has only been identified since the Second World War and manipulation of these receptors has produced some remarkably effective treatments for common maladies.
The family of anti-hypertensive drugs called Beta Blockers works by modulating the sympathetic nervous system. Lowering blood pressure is the function while potentially undesirable side effects like slowed heart rate and sexual dysfunction stem from the interrelated nature of this system. By contrast, Beta Agonists activate rather than suppress portions of the sympathetic nervous system and are used to treat maladies like asthma.
Let’s go back to our hero standing in the dark in his underwear clutching a handgun and trying desperately not to wet himself in the presence of his terrified wife. Will an understanding of the intricacies of the sympathetic nervous system and “event-related negativity” make him a more viable gunfighter in this circumstance? Likely not, but the nature of our design does maximize our innate tactical capabilities in the face of stress and danger.
Our pupils dilate so as to allow increased enhancement of our night vision capabilities and greater utilization of peripheral cues. Our heart rate increases to provide maximum fuel to our mechanical systems should the need arise to move or react quickly. Blood shunts from places not needed at the moment, like your liver and testicles, and instead moves to feed the skeletal muscle that can help you move quickly, jump farther and run your gun better in the face of an armed adversary.
At the same time, even modest fatigue, combined with the inevitable disorientation spawned by being awakened suddenly and unexpectedly, can disengage some of the inhibitory functions that might keep us from engaging were we better rested or emotionally prepared. Under such circumstances the possibility of shooting a no-shoot target goes up and it is in this case your having a family crisis plan can pay legitimate dividends.
Train in times of peace so as to be ready in times of war. Run through possible scenarios with your spouse and children so everybody knows what to do in the event of a crisis. Have a rally point a safe distance outside the house so you can get a quick headcount in the event of a fire or similar emergency. Place a few old blankets in the tool shed along with a flashlight or chem lights so your family won’t freeze to death waiting for the fire department. Plan and rehearse actions on enemy contact for everybody in the family in the event of a home invasion. Make it a game and practice with flashlights in the dark so the kids aren’t frightened. Ensure they know where to go, how to hide and what to do if the world goes sideways in the middle of the night.
Lastly, take care of yourself. Physical fitness and personal discipline are dying arts in America. Getting old may not be negotiable, but allowing yourself to get soft and fat are personal choices. If you smoke cigarettes and think you are in any way serious about survival, you are deluding yourself. Eat right, exercise and practice with your primary defensive weapon as often as you are able. In so doing you can better protect your family, impress your bride and defend your castle for those times when life really hands you lemons.
Sometimes, by the time you learn the lessons, you’re as frayed and dog-eared as the lesson books.
The kid was about 7, I think. A rawboned skinny boy with a big scab on his nose and sparkling blue eyes. He gawked at my legs while I stacked groceries on the checkout counter, then finally looked up and caught my eye.
“You sure got ugly legs,” he observed, wrinkling his nose. “What happened?” I thought for a moment—a long moment, and almost got lost in my head. Oh, a lot, I thought, a lot has happened … But that’s not what I told him.
Summer had come to the high country, and despite the fact the appearance of my legs tends to upset some folks of tender sensitivities—an array of shrapnel wounds make them sorta “decorative”—I happily donned old bush shorts again. I mean, long pants are just, you know, too long. Besides, when you’re balancing precariously on a cane, shorts are much easier to pull on.
Anyway, the kid’s statement surprised me. Many people stare sidelong, like they’re trying not to be seen looking at a bad accident, but very few will ever ask what happened. It might be the kinda thing they really don’t wanta know. Little boys don’t have that reticence.
But how can you—and why would you—tell a child about things that made you scream in pain; wonder can I lose this much blood and live?; and haunt you every cold, wet morning, stinging like fire ants?
I told him, “I just moved the wrong way a few times, too slow or too fast; just did the wrong thing.” He took that in, rolled it over like a sour lemon drop on his tongue and said simply, “I done that too. See?” He pointed to the scab on his beak. “Mom says I learned a lesson. Did you?”
Yeah; I’ve learned a few lessons.
As a Marine, I learned our national “house” needs tough, vicious guard dogs on duty 24/7 out in the inky dark, even out past the far fenceline; couldn’t exist without ’em—but most of the “residents and guests” don’t want to see them lying on the lawn in the sunshine, nor pay the vet bills when they’re ripped and bleeding, nor even be aware of them.
I learned a lot of dogs fight because they’re fighting dogs, not necessarily because they’ve got a bone in the yard or ever expect to get one for themselves. Others fight because all their brothers are fighting dogs, and there is honor in the pack, and in your heart, if nowhere else. Hard lessons, but the dogs are hard too.
As a cop, I learned we don’t have a Criminal Justice System, we have a Legal Industry. It pays some people handsomely and destroys others, innocent or guilty, and not many care much about who is which.
There are prosecutors who aren’t interested in evidence which might absolve a defendant, defenders who fight tooth and nail to exclude damning evidence of guilt, and the courtroom charade is all about who scores the win, not at all about “justice.” Look up the word “eristic” and you’ll know the real name of the game played in court. Testify in enough trials and you’ll learn there are only two kinds of justice left: street and poetic.
I learned every big agency needs shooters; guys who can stand and deliver, willingly and well. The brass knows who they are, quickly calls on ’em when all else fails, and even more quickly throws them to the jackals whenever it’s politically expedient.
As a contract soldier, I learned most “mercenaries” aren’t very mercenary at all, instead, driven by ideals their birth-nations espouse, but will not support without a hefty, unbalanced quid pro quo. I’ve known “mercenaries” who never lost a fight, but were conquered by every grinning hungry child; every thin, dashiki-wrapped momma with a thirsty mtoto; every bent old man whose only possessions were his cloak, cap, walking stick and his dignity—the people whose only support from their own governments are cold rations of misery and poverty.
And I learned why governments call contract soldiers “mercenaries” and hate them. Simple: because a “mercenary” can have and exercise a conscience; refuse immoral, unethical orders—and will not go quietly to a wall where a man waits smiling with a blindfold and a cigarette. If you wanta shoot him, you’d better be able to out-shoot him.
I learned sometimes when you “come home,” in many, many ways, it’s not there anymore.
Hard Knock U
As a “representative of US and Western interests,” I learned nations don’t have “friends,” they have “interests,” and for many of their individual leaders, those are “self-interests.” I learned “diplomacy” is usually the act of buying time; time for one side to marshal its forces for the aggression they have long planned and absolutely will carry out—when they’re good and ready; that peace is not a product of lavish state dinners or signatures flourished on treaties.
That’s usually the conduct of business; the business of personally enriching those wielding the gold-nibbed pens, knowing that eventually, there’s gonna be a horrific fight, but they won’t have to fight it—just “somebody else’s children”—and meantime, their own pockets are richly lined.
I learned peace usually exists only when others are convinced you can hurt them a lot worse than they could hurt you—and you’re willing to do it.
I learned too often, another word for diplomacy is cowardice.
As a “travelled American,” I’ve learned free peoples can lose their rights and freedoms one tiny slice at a time, and like the death by a thousand paper cuts, they may hardly feel it happening.
But once freedom is lost, it can never be regained in the same manner; not with elections, petitions and wishful thinking. It can only be regained tumultuously, and at great and grave cost, often paying again the ransoms paid by their grandfathers.
I learned some kids die fighting only because their fathers wouldn’t.
Out in the parking lot, the kid broke free of a hushed conversation with his dad and came over. He waggled a finger toward my legs and asked,
“Is that from scrap-null, mister? My dad says maybe so.” I nodded.
“Yeah; shrapnel, kid.”
“Does it hurt real bad, like—still?”
“Some things hurt worse, son,” I told him. “And they hurt a lot longer.”
Connor OUT
For example 
The author is presented with a shot at a giant buffalo, but the shooting light is poor and there is a screen of twigs in the way. Should he take the shot?
A long week of tracking and hunting Cape Buffalo lay behind us; a week of sorting through the muddy nighttime tracks left around a pan – the African version of a small lake or pond – and following the freshest of those tracks into the Mopane and Sandveldt jungle.
A week of staying ever alert for elephants, especially cows with calves. The mamas have no sense of humor and will do their best to annihilate unwary hunters. They like to stomp folks to jelly on the ground or use their trunk to grasp poor souls by a limb and beat them against a convenient tree. The thought has a way of inspiring you to pay attention to your surroundings and keep your rifle handy.
Every morning we checked around the pans and along dirt two-tracks, searching for the fresh tracks of buffalo. In the afternoon we might look again, often dragging a small bushy tree behind the Land Cruiser to wipe the dirt roads clean of signs, creating a fresh slate for the morning hunt. We would saw or hack trees and limbs from the roadways, littered there by elephants as they browsed their perpetual way toward another massive belly full of feed. They were irresponsible in their methods, pushing trees and breaking limbs every place, regardless of the inconvenience they caused.
The local trackers each carried a curious machete/billhook-shaped “Ponga”, using it for everything from chopping trees to digging holes or pointing out fresh tracks. They could cut their way through a thigh-sized limb in short order, swinging the Ponga with the practiced ease of a competition-level lumberjack. When I tried I didn’t have so much luck.
Hunting in Africa is fascinating, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself as another day dawned and we took up a fresh buffalo trail. This time there were only three, but the tracks looked big like old bulls had made them. As we walked, following the trackers along the sign, my mind drifted back to the evening before.
We had followed a herd of bulls all afternoon, finally coming up with them just as the sun set over the distant hills. Crawling on our bellies, we closed the distance to just under 100 yards and set up against the boles of a tree clump. Ian, my PH, studied the buffalo for what seemed like forever before proclaiming them all too ugly or too young to shoot, even the impossibly wide one whose giant horns spanned perhaps 43 inches.
Then Ian did something remarkable; he stood and allowed the bulls to see us. Strangely, the normally-spooky buffalo simply looked us over and then formed a large semi-circle, heads high and facing us as we walked obliquely along, inspecting their ranks. All those massive bulls standing regal, unafraid and dangerous, were an incredible sight. They had finally turned, to thunder away into the growing dark. It was a magical moment, and one that Ian later told me was the finest buffalo encounter he’s ever had in Mozambique.
My rifle felt good on my shoulder as I followed Ian through the Bush, remembering those ranks of big bulls. I hoped we would come up on some more today, and that this time there would be an old one, wide and massive, with deep, curving horns. The tracks led on, and we walked deeper into the Sandveldt.
