Unless you
stumbled across this blog completely by chance, you know about Joseph Jacob
Foss. He lived one of the most complete
lives of anyone I have ever known: a natural outdoorsman, talented aviator,
successful politician, unrepentant spokesman for Second Amendment rights,
devoted family man, and always an intensely passionate patriot.
Variously,
Joe was the top-scoring Marine Corps fighter ace (“Uncle Sam’s Misguided
Children” refuse to acknowledge that unassailable fact 70 years later),
Governor of South Dakota; commander and brigadier general of his state’s Air
National Guard; first commissioner of the American Football League; and
president of the National Rifle Association.
Among his lesser accomplishments, he helped convince the AFL and NFL
to cooperate in the first Super Bowl.
I got to
know Joe in the 1980s through our mutual friend Doug Champlin who owned a
world-class fighter aircraft museum here in Mesa, Arizona. Later I worked with Joe when I was secretary
of the American Fighter Aces Association, and in various NRA events.
Joe and
Didi practically adopted me over the decades, in much the way of other military
aviation families: Bud and Ellie Anderson; Marion and Edna Carl; Bob and Betty
Dose’; Jig and Ginger Ramage; Alex and Kay Vraciu. Sharing those relationships was an unexpected
blessing, a byproduct of research and writing.
Because of
a major frabup in the the Marine Corps bureaucracy, Joe’s age made him
ineligible for a regular commission, never mind that he was the service’s top
gun and recipient of the Medal of Honor.
Consequently, when he left the corps in 1946 he helped establish the
postwar South Dakota Air National Guard.
(He trained and led a 16-plane aerobatic team; today the limit is four gofigger.)
There’s
always been heavy cross-pollination between Airplane People and Gun
People. Doug Champlin was a prime
example—he had a custom rifle shop in Oklahoma before he began collecting
historic aircraft. As a ranking fighter
ace and devoted hunter, Joe was a prime example of the
melding of those two pursuits. It’s also
how I came to own his pistol.
As an Air
Force general officer Joe was entitled to take his sidearm with him when he
retired. He kept the M1911A1 and put it
away for decades but in 2000, he offered to sell me the last sidearm he carried
on active duty. How I acquired “Joe’s
Pistol” is detailed in the accompanying NRA article from 2012.
When I
brought Joe’s Pistol home I thoroughly cleaned it, took it to the police range
to let some of the guys shoot it for bragging rights, then stashed it in my
safe. Fifteen years passed, hardly ever
touching the Colt, as I had little intention of shooting so collectible a
firearm again.
Then on
Thursday, April 16, I realized that the next day was the 100th anniversary of
Joe’s birth. What better way to
commemorate his centennial than to shoot Joe’s Pistol again?
Early this
morning I met my shooting partner at my home range to shoot the historic .45 one
last time. My pal has known the Foss
family nearly as long as I have, and besides, it’s more fun with a likeminded
friend who shares the fusilogical pursuits. I decided
to be cautious—we would only shoot a few five-round groups with factory ammunition,
John M. Browning’s load, .45 caliber 230-grain hardball.
Precision
shooting with a “rack grade” G.I. pistol is an iffy proposition. Joe’s Colt was wartime production, made in
1942 but nearly pristine. The bore was
extremely clean. I don’t know how much
Joe had shot it but obviously not much because the bluing was still apparent.
However, in
1911 (four years before Joe’s birth) the Army Ordnance Board decided to put nearly
unusable sights on the big Colt. The
front is a mere nubbin--almost an afterthought--and the notch in the rear sight
is pretty narrow. On top of that, the
trigger is, um, challenging. I’d guess
it lets off at seven or eight pounds, and though it breaks clean with no
“creep,” that’s twice the figure of most 1911s today.
I plopped
down in a sitting position and shot the first group at a home-made hollow
bullseye at 10 yards. Despite the heavy
trigger, four rounds felt good. Upon
inspection, those four went into one inch extreme spread (that’s 0.55 inch net, deducting one bullet diameter.) The
flier opened the group to 2.25 inches (1.8 inches net.) Not bad for 30 feet: most gunfights occur at
20 or less. The only glitch: center of
the group was 3.25 inches above my aim point. As I learned, that’s not unusual.
Next I
moved back to 20 or 25 yards, shooting at an old (old) U.S. Treasury 20-yard rapid
fire bullseye. Again firing five rounds from
sitting, elbows braced on knees, I pressed off four good shots. They printed exactly two inches extreme
spread, or 1.55 inches deducting one diameter--extremely impressive accuracy.
The called flier went about four inches out toward seven o’clock. Center of the four good shots was seven to
eight inches high—consistent with the 10-yard results.
My partner
was more interested in practical than inherent accuracy, and shot two
groups. Firing one-handed at 10 yards,
he put seven rounds into less than a pie plate, as fast as the heavy trigger
permitted. Standing back at 20-25, using
both hands, he kept five high on the torso—all fight-stopping hits.
As of this
evening, Joe’s Pistol is thoroughly cleaned, oiled, and comfy back in the
safe. It’s likely to remain there
indefinitely, until the next custodian or an institution acquires it. Meanwhile, somewhere far above the contrail
level, I believe that my friend Joe enjoyed the small yet heartfelt tribute to
the centennial of a proud American.
