Quote Of The Year

…never mind the day.  From Sheriff Darryl Daniels of Clay County FL, in an open message to the BLM/anarchists:

“If we can’t handle you, you know what I’ll do?  I will exercise the power and authority as the sheriff, and I will make special deputies of every lawful gun owner in this county.  And I’ll deputize them for this one purpose:  to stand in the gap between lawlessness and civility.  That’s what we’re sworn to do, and that’s what we’re going to do.  You’ve been warned.”

If I lived in Clay Co FL, I’d be volunteering my services as we speak.  I bet their phone lines are jammed.

D-Day

We’ve all seen the grainy black-and-white pictures of D-Day in June 1944.  Here are some more recent ones, in color.

Matt Cardy/Getty Images
AP Photo/Claude Paris

Matt Cardy/Getty Images
Matt Cardy/Getty Images

 

We will remember them.

Okay, Boss

At last, a law enforcement officer with balls:

Polk County Florida Sheriff Grady Judd is recommending armed residents in his county blow looters “back out of the house.”
Fox 13 reported that Judd saw social media “rumblings” suggesting that riotous behavior could strike Polk County. He warned anyone who was planning such behavior in his county, saying:
“If you value your life, they probably shouldn’t do that in Polk County. Because the people of Polk County like guns, they have guns, I encourage them to own guns, and they’re going to be in their homes tonight with their guns loaded, and if you try to break into their homes to steal, to set fires, I’m highly recommending they blow you back out of the house with their guns. So, leave the community alone.”

Can’t put it more plainly than that.

And far be it for us citizens to disobey a law enforcement recommendation, right?  (I know, I’m in Collin County TX not Polk County FL, but I suspect that our sheriff probably has similar views.)

Like I said yesterday, at some time We The People are not going to care anymore — and when that happens…

Murka

If this doesn’t make you proud to be American, go and live in Switzerland*:

The Cannonball Run record has been broken seven times over a five-week period after illegal road racers took to the empty streets during coronavirus lockdown to drive from New York City to Los Angeles.
The newest record holders, who have not been named, completed the 2,800-mile cross-country journey in less than 26 hours, beating last month’s record of 26 hours and 38 minutes.

That’s only a little less than twenty extra hours’ time spent flying from NYFC to LFA (taking into account the total time needed to get to the airport early, waiting around, boarding, taxiing to the takeoff point, and the flight itself, about six hours usually).

It’s also a whole lot more fun withal.

The rally has also become a lot easier to evade traffic cops, seeing as said fuzz are too busy ejecting families from parks, enforcing lockdowns on bars and florists, and all the other useless shit the various government entities are amusing themselves with.

All these new records — essentially breaking the law each time — make my chest swell with pride.  More, please.


*Switzerland, despite having some of the best roads in Europe, absolutely hates cars, and most of all fast driving.  Swiss speed limits are the lowest in Western Europe, and are savagely enforced with astronomical fines, confiscation and even imprisonment for transgressors.  Oh, and all motor racing is banned.  Fucking pissant wankers.

Memorial Day

Charles Loxton was a small man, no taller than 5’6”, and was born in 1899.  This means that when he fought in the muddy trenches of France during the First World War, he was no older than 17 years old — Delville Wood, where he was wounded, took place in July 1916.

Seventeen years old.  That means he would have been a little over sixteen when he enlisted. In other words, Charles must have lied about his age to join the army — many did, in those days, and recruiting officers winked at the lies.  After all, the meat grinder of the Western Front needed constant replenishment, and whether you died at 17, 18 or 19 made little difference.

Why did he do it?  At the time, propaganda told of how the evil Kaiser Wilhelm was trying to conquer the world, and how evil Huns had raped Belgian nurses after executing whole villages.  Where Charles lived as a young boy, however, the Kaiser was no danger to him, and no German Uhlans were going to set fire to his house, ever.

But Charles lied about his age and joined up because he felt that he was doing the right thing.  That if good men did nothing, evil would most certainly win.

It’s not as though he didn’t know what was coming:  every day, the newspapers would print whole pages of casualty lists, the black borders telling the world that France meant almost certain death.  The verification could be found in all the houses’ windows which had black-crepe-lined photos of young men, killed on the Somme, in Flanders, in Ypres, and at Mons.

He would have seen with his own eyes the men who returned from France, with their missing limbs, shattered faces and shaky voices.  He would have heard stories from other boys about their relatives coming back from France to other towns — either in spirit having died, or else with wounds so terrible that the imagination quailed at their description.

He would have seen the mothers of his friends weeping at the loss of a beloved husband.  Perhaps it had been this man and not his father who had taught him how to fish, or how to shoot, or how to cut (from the branches of a peach tree) a “mik” (the “Y”) for his catapult.

But Charles, a 16-year-old boy, walked out of his home one day and went down to the recruiting center of the small mining town, and joined the Army.

When years later I asked him why he’d done it, he would just shrug, get a faraway look in his blue eyes, and change the subject.  Words like duty, honor, country, I suspect, just embarrassed him. But that didn’t mean he was unaware of them.

So Charles joined the Army, was trained to fight, and went off to France.  He was there for only four months before he was wounded.  During the attack on the German trenches at Delville Wood, he was shot in the shoulder, and as he lay there in the mud, a German soldier speared him in the knee with his bayonet, before himself being shot and killed by another man in Charles’ squad.  At least, I think that’s what happened — I only managed to get the story in bits and pieces over several years.  But the scars on his body were eloquent witnesses to the horror: the ugly cicatrix on his leg, two actually (where the bayonet went in above the knee and out below it), and the star-shaped indentation in his shoulder.

The wounds were serious enough to require over a year’s worth of extensive rehabilitation, and they never really healed properly.  But Charles was eventually passed as fit enough to fight, and back to the trenches he went.  By now it was early 1918 — the Americans were in the war, and tiny, limping Private Charles Loxton was given the job as an officer’s batman: the man who polished the captain’s boots, cleaned his uniform, and heated up the water for his morning shave every day.  It was a menial, and in today’s terms, demeaning job, and Charles fought against it with all his might.  Eventually, the officer relented and released him for further line service, and back to the line he went.

Two months later came the Armistice, and Charles left France for home, by now a grizzled veteran of 19.  Because he had been cleared for trench duty, he was no longer considered to be disabled, and so he did not qualify for a disabled veteran’s pension.

When he got back home, there were no jobs except for one, so he took it.  Charles became, unbelievably, a miner.  His crippled knee still troubled him, but he went to work every day, because he had to earn money to support his mother, by now widowed, and his younger brother John.  The work was dangerous, and every month there’d be some disaster, some catastrophe which would claim the lives of miners.  But Charles and his friends shrugged off the danger, because after the slaughter of the trenches, where life expectancy was measured in days or even hours, a whole month between deaths was a relief.

But he had done his duty, for God, King and country, and he never regretted it.  Not once did he ever say things like “If I’d known what I was getting into, I’d never have done it.”  As far as he was concerned, he’d had no choice — and that instinct to do good, to do the right thing, governed his entire life.

At age 32, Charles married a local beauty half his age.  Elizabeth, or “Betty” as everyone called her, was his pride and joy, and he worshipped her his whole life.  They had five children.

Every morning before going to work, Charles would get up before dawn and make a cup of coffee for Betty and each of the children, putting the coffee on the tables next to their beds.  Then he’d kiss them, and leave for the rock face.  Betty would die from multiple sclerosis, at age 43.

As a young boy, I first remembered Charles as an elderly man, although he was then in his late fifties, by today’s standards only middle-aged.  His war wounds had made him old, and he had difficulty climbing stairs his whole life.  But he was always immaculately dressed, always wore a tie and a hat, and his shoes were polished with such a gloss that you could tell the time in them if you held your watch close.

Charles taught me how to fish, how to cut a good “mik” for my catapult, and watched approvingly as I showed him what a good shot I was with my pellet gun.  No matter how busy he was, he would drop whatever he was doing to help me — he was, without question, the kindest man I’ve ever known.

In 1964, Charles Loxton, my grandfather, died of phthisis, the “miner’s disease” caused by years of accumulated dust in the lungs.  Even on his deathbed in the hospital, I never heard him complain — in fact, I never once heard him complain about anything, ever.  From his hospital bed, all he wanted to hear about was what I had done that day, or how I was doing at school.

When he died, late one night, there was no fuss, no emergency, no noise; he just took one breath, and then no more.  He died as he had lived, quietly and without complaint.

From him, I developed the saying, “The mark of a decent man is not how much he thinks about himself, but how much time he spends thinking about others.”

Charles Loxton thought only about other people his entire life.

In Memoriam

Bravo, Sheriff

Here we go:

“All these years, you have told us that you want law enforcement that thinks before arresting, doesn’t violate your rights and treats their citizens with decency,” he wrote. “Now you have that and are asking us to regress into what you didn’t want and didn’t deserve. Please let us be the law enforcement you always asked us to be. Non-oppressive. We are not stormtroopers. We are peacekeepers.”

And there’s still more excellent American-ness and Constitutionalism in the link.  For those not familiar with the geography, DuPage County is kinda like Collin County here in Texas:  a Republican district on the border of a large Democrat-controlled city shithole (Chicago and Dallas, respectively).

So here’s to you, Gov. Pritzker of Illinois:

I can’t wait for Fatboi to mobilize his Panzergruppen  (a.k.a. state police) to deal with this upstart sheriff.  He may first want to check where most of those staties come from (hint:  not Chicago), but wisdom is not a characteristic of Democrat state governors (see:  Vito Corleone Cuomo in NYFS, Vladimir Lenin Newsom in Kalifuckingfornia and Irma Grese Gretchen Witmer in the Michigan Sonderlager ).

And here’s to you, Sheriff Jim Mendrick, from all of us Real Americans: