Good Things For A Hero

This is a Good Thing:

A Republican representative [Jim Lucas] from Seymour, Indiana, has created a GoFundMe account for 22-year-old Elisjsha Dicken, the young man who stopped a mass shooting at a mall earlier this month.
Dicken has retained legal counsel, Lucas noted. “I ask for your contribution to help with Eli’s legal and financial challenges that lay ahead of him,” the Republican said. “EVERY PENNY of your donation goes to Eli to be used for his legal defense, counseling, potential time off of work or whatever financial challenges he may be faced with.”
The account, which has been confirmed by The Republic, has already raised more than $62,000 for Dicken.

I gave $20;  I only wish it could be more.  And one last thought: 

Sometimes, good things come in a plain wrapper…

Dept. Of Righteous Shootings

Is there a man alive* who doesn’t get the Warm ‘N Fuzzies from reading this?

The St. Louis Post-Dispatch notes that the alleged robber entered the store and “announced a robbery.” He then allegedly put a knife to the clerk’s throat and demanded money from the cash register.

At one point during the incident a customer who had just exited the store looked through the window and saw the suspect allegedly dragging the clerk “while she was screaming.”

The customer grabbed a pistol from his vehicle, went inside, and confronted the suspect.

The suspect then allegedly walked toward the customer, holding a backpack in outstretched arms and saying, “I have something for you.”

The customer opened fire and the suspect collapsed.

The suspect was pronounced dead at the scene.

When all you can complain about is the grammar (“exited the store”?), it’s a happy day indeed.

Well, except for the “alleged” goblin, but fuck him.


*unless you’re in the Uvalde Police Department, that is.

Dept. Of Righteous Shootings

Most of the time, Righteous Shootings take place inside a house, as a homeowner protects life and home against the predations of goblins intent on unauthorized property redistribution and / or unwanted sexual advances, etc.

But this is America, where a mall can also feature such an event:

Breitbart News reported that a suspect opened fire in the Greenwood Park Mall food court around 6 p.m.

The attacker was able to kill three people before a 22-year-old armed citizen intervened, shooting the attacker dead.

Bravo, kid.  We’re all proud of you.  As are the police:

Greenwood, Indiana, police chief Jim Ison described the 22-year-old who shot and killed a mall attacker as the “hero of the day.”

You betcha, Chief.  Only in some disgusting country (e.g. New York) could someone be arrested for doing something like this.

However:

The Simon Property Group, which owns the mall, states in its code of conduct that no weapons are allowed at their shopping centers. The policy was last updated in April 2020.

Bet they’re glad someone broke their pissy little rule now.  And they are:

“We grieve for the victims of yesterday’s horrific tragedy in Greenwood. Violence has no place in this or any other community. We are grateful for the strong response of the first responders, including the heroic actions of the Good Samaritan who stopped the suspect.”

Uh huh.  I’ve seldom obeyed the “no weapons” signs anyway, unless there are metal detectors inside.

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

Dept. Of Righteous Shootings

This one has everything:  a naked man, a riding mower, an elderly couple and an excellent outcome.

A Georgia homeowner fatally shot a naked man who tackled his 67-year-old wife off a riding lawnmower and then began attacking both of them.

One would think that any goblin would think twice before trying this on in rural Georgia, but then again, goblins are not generally PhD candidates.

 

Dept. Of Righteous Shootings

There are just not enough “alleged”s in this happy story, so I’ve added a few:

An alleged intruder was fatally shot Thursday morning in Houston, Texas, after entering a home and [allegedly] opening a bedroom door.   The [alleged] incident occurred around 1 a.m., ABC 13 reported.

Police indicated the homeowner was sleeping on the second floor when he [allegedly] heard glass break. The alleged intruder then entered the home, came upstairs, opened the bedroom door, and the homeowner shot him in the neck.

The alleged intruder fled the home and went to a neighbor’s house, telling them he had [allegedly] been shot and seeking medical help.

I can already hear your groans, because the paramedics arrived in the nick of time and saved the alleged scrote’s life, right?

Nazzo fast:

However, time ran out while he was at the neighbor’s house and the alleged intruder died.

He didn’t die, he just ran out of blood.

Needless to say, even though this allegedly happened in Houston, Our Hero is not facing any charges.

And had this happened anywhere else in Texas, there’s a good chance the neighbor would also have shot the bastard, dripping blood all over the Persian like that.