Monsieur Haricots et la Milice

Beans and the Militia. (For those who don't read French and are too lazy to use google-translate.)


NOW WITH BIGGER TEXT!!! 
 (I hate the preview feature of Blogger, you never really know how big the text is going to be until it actually publishes, the bastiges.  So sorry about that.)


Oh, yeah, start laughing now, flyboy.  You know who you are.  But this was real!

A couple of days ago, when OldAFSarge was mumbling about leaving to go see The Nuke get married, but didn’t leave, because he’s like that, I mentioned that I had kinda gone to a militia meeting. And, yes, I sure did. And here’s the tale…

Back in the dark days of 2009, remember those days?  They were dark. We had an avowed socialist take over control of the country, put in power via evil means. He was already further stirring up racial problems as President that he and his goons had stirred up before the election. And His administration started a national rat-line for people to report anti-his administration talk. Shades of the beginnings of Nazi Germany.  Heil Whatsisface!

On top of that, Florida was still recovering from being hit 3 times by hurricanes in 2004. A lot of backwoods places still hadn’t totally recovered, and everyone remembered some of the ‘issues’ that erupted in inner cities, not well reported by media, but if you think widespread looting and other stupidity, well, you ain’t wrong.

So, all across America, people were actually kinda scared or worried, at least those in conservativish areas. Inner cities were blowing up in stupidity and racial issues. A president and his staff were calling a good ½ or more of the nation ‘racists’ and other not-nice things. The economy sucked rocks, and was getting worse by the day. All issues which make people think of banding together in self-protection societies.

Beans and Mrs. Andrew have also just acquired their first real firearms. Mr. Remington 510 single shot bolt-action .22 (short, long, long rifle) was good enough for raccoons, but not good enough for 2 legged pests. We already had built up our ‘bug-in’ supplies, lots of canned foods and the means to cook them without power, but we were lacking in self defense (well, except for a sword, a huge collection of knives (Mrs. Andrew really likes knives. Pocket knives, folding knives, non-folding knives... yeah, some nights she worries me…,) some low-power bows (30lb pull or less, good enough for hitting eyes, not good enough for punching through body armor) and such, but lacking in bang-stick power. We just got a couple .40cal Springfield XDs (one compact, one full size – the compact would take full size mags, really neat) and a Remington 870 bought from a coply friend (we had to make the exchange in the dirt on the other side of the road from the building I worked in, as a member of the PD, because I was a ‘civilian’ and I couldn’t have firearms on city property.  Alachua County is definitely not Brevard County, where the Sheriff said he'd not enforce gun-free zones in county buildings.) Both Mrs. Andrew and I had some previous firearms training way in the past, but we were looking into getting our CCWs and needed to take a class.

Fortuitously, one of our friends said he was having some friends over for some weapons talks  and some prepping and basic storm survival talks, and there was going to be a CCW teacher there. Being a weekend, not already filled by our busy schedule, we accepted.

So one Saturday, we loaded up Beans, Mrs. Andrew, our service dog Liesl, Mrs. Andrew’s powered wheelchair at the time, and wended our way down to the forest haunt of our friend, in order to fulfill the classroom requirements of the CCW permit, and to talk survival and firearms and social unrest and NOT TREASON and such. A fine fall day, and we are getting close to the house and we see a sign saying “Militiafest” with an arrow pointing roughly the direction of where we were going. “Hmmm,” we say to each other. “Seems like other people are having a fun time also this weekend.  Oh, well, let's go to X friend's house”  (Insert ominous foreshadowing music here...)

We get even closer to friend’s house, and see another “Militiafest” sign, and we get that weird feeling that this day was going to turn into a Twilight Zone episode (doodoo-doodoo-doodoo-doodoo.)

We pull into our friend’s yard, and see yet another “Militiafest” sign, and a whole buncha people, around 30 or so, couples mostly, standing around talking, and our friend and his wife. Okay, we’re here, hmmmm…. (Being that we both worked for local government, and the media had been really beating the bandwagon about 'Teh Ebil White Mulitias...' and TEWMs resistance to 'a valid elected government' well, this could be... interesting.)

Everyone else is dressed in some sort of camo. Some are openly carrying weapons, some aren’t. All of them seemed mostly normal, only one or two that seemed ‘off.’ In other words, basically normal folk. We trudge (and wheel) to the backyard where the opening of the ‘Fest begins, with a Pledge of Allegiance and a prayer, and then the friend says somethings interesting, basically to not take peoples’ photos as at least 1-2 of the participants are going to be reporting everything to the authorities, whether FBI or someone else, and a few of the other participants have government jobs and don’t want to get in trouble for being there.

Well, let the fun begin!

We, Mrs. Beans and I, and one other repaired to the front of the yard to take our CCW class from a LEO who was his agency’s firearms instructor, and we all had a ripping good time. Funny, informative, and just a good time. Not all CCW classes have to be boring. Ours wasn’t, especially as the instructor had quite a few examples of what the class was about. Yeah, guns. Small ones, medium ones, large ones, single shots, revolvers, semi-autos, funky-weird ones that he cautioned us to never ever buy (like a Lorcin .25ACP, more likely to get you killed or kill you directly than anyone you’re pointing the thing at, or a late period Nambu that he said was a great way of committing suicide if you used it.) Heck, he even talked about how to safely carry a friggin bazooka, which is let someone else carry the ammo. All fun, all games, good times, really good times. We paid our teacher fee and got our signed forms saying we took the class and that was that (unfortunately, illness and in-laws sucked our fun money away so we never got our CCWs before the class time expired, and, well, dang-it, money hasn’t exactly been falling from the sky, now, has it and why should I have to pay to exercise my 2nd Amendment rights, right?) (I mean, who doesn't want to carry a  bazooka or panzershreck once in a while when you go downtown to go shopping.  Makes getting a parking spot much more funner!)

After lunch, we then entered into the more serious part of Militiafest, which was discussing when the poop hit the rotary air moving machine, what we all were to do. Discussions about ‘bugging in’ vs ‘bugging out’ (staying in place vs getting out of Dodge) and how to tell, if you are bugging out, when to bug out. And where to bug out. Which was to (REDACTED – REDACTED – REDACTED – REDACTED)

Then there were some instructional. Basically the women and the one or two men not ‘combat ready’ all hung around in the shade talking and gabbing and boring the carp out of Mrs. Andrew. The ‘combattants’ started doing classwork. Most of the ‘students’ were supposedly somewhat trained to goodly standards already via various Government services or martial arts styles, supposedly, with only a few complete newbies to combat training. Hey, militia, right? Militia aren’t supposed to stand around and hand out pamphlets, they’re supposed to do militia things, right? Like stand up against tyranny and fight bad guys and stuff, right?

Like, bayonet fighting. Not actually sticking a bayonet into a target, but how to use a bayonet mounted on a rifle. The friend, who was a Marine and Army Nat-Guard NCO who spent lots of time overseas, tried to get the other people to understand how to stand and how to use a bayonet. They didn’t quite get the picture, so the friend called on me. And we went at it like gangbusters. (The friend was also in the SCA, and a good fighter, and very good at pole-mounted weapons, as was I.) We gave a rather brilliant demonstration of how to approach, stab, feint, butt-strike, trip, stab, continue. And then we did individual training.

Oh, boy. I’ve seen better fighting by those foam sword weenies with elf ears at a Ren Faire. Dang. What part of ‘feint stab to the eyes, step in, punch the butt of the weapon into the goon’s guts, push him over, stab him on the way down, or better yet, shoot him on the way down, then stab him’ can’t you friggin understand? I mean, I swear the disembodied spirit of a napping R. Lee Ermey would have slit his own astral throat watching these guys and a gal try to play at soldiers. Yikes!!!!  (Can I do bayonet maneuvers?  Duh, and doubly duh in using an AR15ish as a shield while you chop sumdood up and down with your field knife, like a Kukri or short sword or machete or bolo knife or chopper or...  That's just sword and shield work, rather than polearm fighting, where the pole is both offense and defense.)(I mean, geez, I can teach SCA dweebs and geeks how to fight, and these people just.. well... you know...., some got it.  Some got it good, some not so much, some were of the 'put down the dull knife and back away before you hurt yourself or someone else.)


Fun Fact about SCA Fighting:  When you get 'authorized' to fight, authorization being the ability to actually fight in SCA tourneys or battles, rather than just practice, you have to prove to the authorizing marshals and fighters (admin pukes who can beat you up, and another fighter to serve as the target) that you, the authorizing fighter, are not a threat to yourself or others due to your lameness and pure stupidity.  Rise above abject lameness and painful stupidity?  You can get authorized.  Authorization doesn't mean that someone won't beat you like a rented pell the minute you step onto the tourney field or in a battle.  Just that they won't hurt themselves beating the dogsnot out of you, and you won't hurt yourself when you fall down screaming like a guuuurl whether you get hit or not (Yes, I have seen one person, in the middle of a battle, just stop and have a flaming breakdown and pee themselves in fear because 'I'm Scawed!!!'  Dude/Dudette/Whatever- this is a full contact contact sport.  Man/Woman/Whatever up or get off the field.  Some People's Kids!!!!)


Then we moved to ‘field exercises.’ Like how to patrol, as a unit. So my friend sticks one of the more reliable guys up front, and tosses me at the end of the flank of the group, and proceeds to instruct us how to move as a patrol unit, while covering all 360 degrees with eyes and paying attention to what was going on.

Okay, side note, I was in blue jeans and a polo shirt, and a stick. Everyone else was in full camo outfits and web gear and stuff, and had real weapons (cleared and checked with no mags by my friend, but, dangit, I would have felt better if there were some obvious breach locks or tags showing.) Comment about my fellow militia members to follow…

Why me at the far end of the flank? Well, in the SCA, in the group I hung with, I was always the left end guy of the shield wall. So? Well, in a shield wall, the most important member of the Wall is the right guy, the Shield Prime. He or She (heck, nothing neater than seeing a sexy gal with lipstick in the line next to you. I tell you, really gives you a reason to stand up and fight!) is the one that steers the Wall unit, moves it forward, to the left, right, to stand, to prepare to receive a charge, to kneel (easier to receive a charge and hold it down if you kneel and brace, plus the long weapons behind you can poke the enemies in their eyes easier if your fat head isn’t in the way.) But the driver of the wall, the one that keeps the spacing, swaps in new shield members, keeping the Wall moving as a single unit, is the far left guy. He’s the guy who has to be big and good enough to hold off two or three enemies at once, while normal wallers only have to hold off one at a time. He’s the guy who screams for help when he notices a big friggin hole between him and the next left unit that a bunch of enemy rhinos are about to plow through. Stuff like that. And I, not really being overly proud here, just truthful, was a really good Shield Second.

So, well, shield wall, gun wall, only difference is weapons and spacing, but the basics are the same. The far flanker has to watch more area, while watching the spacing of the unit, while doing just about everything else, while moving about twice as far as everyone else in the unit. All things I was a known component. And my friend could trust me.

Here we are, doing a patrol line with me on the far left, or doing a patrol line with me on the far right, or whatever with me on the far end doing my job, keeping up with everyone, maintaining spacing, etc. V formation, inverted V formation, whatever.

After a few run-throughs, the friend ‘let’ the guy he’d assigned as the ‘squad’ leader run the unit, and he disappeared. Here we are, trudging through the exercises, again, with the same guys screwing up, again, and suddenly we all here one of those screaming firecrackers come flying towards us. Everyone else stops and looks. Me, the SCA fighter (who watched way too much “Combat” and “Rat Patrol” and other really good war shows, dang, I miss those) immediately, without knowing what my friend was doing, screamed “Incoming” and dove for the deck, ass-to-the-blast. All those ‘prior service’ and ‘serious survivalists’? Standing, slack-jawed, wondering what was up.

Friend comes out, screaming like the sainted R. Lee Ermey (or should it be cannon-ized in recognition to prior service. Badda-boom, kshish…) and hollering how everyone was dead or wounded, except for the only person who didn’t come here with a gun, pointing at me.

We do this about 30 more times, and I swear, my friend was just getting angrier and angrier, as the slack-jawed idiots were only slowly getting the idea of dropping to the ground or reacting to a shooter (roman candles…) or whatever obvious sign of bad-stuff-coming-our-direction. And, yeah, the fat guy who’s never served was consistently the only one to react appropriately.

Oy vey.

As to analysis of some of the other people there? I think they were invited in order to serve as cheap supply from their dead bodies. Seriously. One guy was so out of shape he wheezed just walking. Had about $5k or more of gun, second gun, third gun, supplies etc. on him. I think my total SCA kit, with all my weapons and shields and extra armor (like an armor dickey, gotta have an armor dickey if you’re getting shot at by blunted arrows) weighed less than all the kit and caboodle that guy was wearing.

And, funny, Monday after Militiafest my lieutenant asked me if I had a good weekend. He never ever asked me about my weekends before. Couple days later he asked me how I liked the (REDACTED) National Forest.

A month later, the Southern Poverty Law Center (hwack-sptoie) published a 3 line burb in their hater newsletter about Militiafest.

So my friend was right. Amongst 30ish people who showed up, at least one was a rat and reported to some authorities who reported to my chief-of-police who reported to my boss (the LT) by Monday that I was there. Which means that some really darned footwork and research was required to identify me, who I worked for, and notified thusly, within 48 hours, on a weekend.  Which was really interesting, considering Big Brother, under the guise of the DOJ under the worst president ever, doing a darned good job of tracking down terrorists and known criminals, like those carrying guns at a polling place to scare away one party’s voters or something.

Also, in my friend's defense, he was doing this to kinda stick it into the spying government's eye and to piss off the people at the SPLC.  At the gathering we had blacks, whites, hispanics, native americans, orientals, males, females, Christians, not-Christians, married, unmarried.  It was decidedly not a 'White Mulitia, hurhur, banjo-playing KKK loving supremacists.'  Yet that is the spin that the SPLC and 44's gov kinda put on it, along with other 'self-aid groups.' 

It was also a way of scaring into these people's heads as to how much they need to learn and practice and prepare just in case of 'End Times' or 'Da Hood' (quite a few lived near St. Petersburg, which has a rather 'vibrant' minority population.  Vibrant in muggings and shootings and wide-spread lootings.  So there's that aspect.

Thus ends my Militia tale. Well. A fun time was had by all. And Mrs. Andrew and I decided to ‘bug-in.’ Still haven’t gotten my CCW yet. Though I’m still hoping Florida will go ‘Constitutional Carry.’

I mean, they weren't bad people.  They were honestly afraid of what their country was becoming after "Hope and Change and Other Ambiguous but Highly Socialist Words" took over.  Just... not people I would want to trust my life to.  YaknowwhatImean?  Decent folk, some slightly off their rocker, but decent folk.  Some who would not survive 5 seconds once the ball dropped.  Hopefully they all at least did some basic prepping and stocked a week or two of food and drink away, maybe more. (Seriously, if I had the money, I'd have a place big enough that I could have a year's worth of supplies like the Mormons try to do.  Hey, I live in Hurricane Country, and having a year's stock of X means you can ride the fluctuating prices of X much easier than if you just rely on replacing X the next time you go to the grocery store after using X.  Seriously.  I'd have a horde of supplies from TP to paper towels to soap to all sorts of food items along with backup generators and backups for the backup.  If'n I had the money that is.)(And both an indoor range in the basement or shop, and an outdoor range (300' to 500', dirt-filled gambion backstop with covered shooting shed, no, I haven't ever thought about this...) and an Action TrackChair (look it up, really friggin cool) for Mrs. Andrew and a up-powered golfcart or ATV for me (because it's not always practical to break out the M113...) and no I have never had fanciful thoughts about my survival bunker facility, nope, nuhuh...)

(Seriously, as much as I’d love to go hide in some forest location, with my allergies and Mrs. Andrew’s lack of 2-legged mobility and both our bodies’ requirements for various drugs, well, going out in blazing glory from the comfort of our home is much more realistic and better way of becoming dead than death-by-allergies and death-by-lack-of.)