Virtually every Old West aficionado is familiar with Buffalo Bill Cody’s popular Wild West shows, which traveled the United States and across the Atlantic Ocean in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. During Cody’s 1890 and 1906 European tours throngs of Italians in arenas from Rome to Bologna thrilled at the showmanship of Buffalo Bill and his revolving cast of characters. The 1906 tour was the last to Europe for Buffalo Bill, who a decade later teamed with the Miller Brothers 101 Ranch Real Wild West but by then was too frail to travel overseas.

Within decades Americans huddled faithfully around TV sets in living rooms nationwide to indulge a seemingly insatiable fascination with Western lore and dramatized portrayals of real-life cowboys, Indians, cavalrymen and gunmen. Though few channels were on the air by the mid-1950s, dozens of Western series aired weekly, at least one or more nightly. Western junkies could also take in Saturday afternoon B reruns of black-and-white “oaters” on the small screen at home or the latest Technicolor weekend matinees on the big screens at local movie theaters.

Meanwhile, another American harboring a fascination with the Old West embarked on a tour of Europe, searching for a gunmaker who could replicate the Colt 1851 Navy per-cussion revolver, the weapon of choice of Wild Bill Hickok, among other Western gunfighters. Val J. Forgett Jr.—gun collector, Civil War re-enactor and owner of the New Jersey–based Service Armament Co.—ultimately found what he was looking for in Italy. In 1957 Forgett founded Navy Arms, a subsidiary cap-and-ball revolver line within Service Armament, and a year later rolled out his first Colt Navy replicas in unison with gunmakers Vittorio Gregorelli and a young, astute Aldo Uberti from the northern Italian firearms manufacturing center of Gardone Val Trompia. Forgett’s first imports didn’t bear the later obligatory Italian proof marks but were merely stamped GU, or G&U, for Gregorelli and Uberti. In 1959 Uberti began producing replica firearms under his own trade name. He and Forgett were the driving forces behind the enduring popularity of Italian-made replica Old West firearms. It took the American entrepreneur and the skilled Italian gunsmith to make many a would-be gunhand’s dream an affordable reality.

Around the same time, with the centennial of the American Civil War fast approaching, the North-South Skirmish Association (N-SSA) found its ranks expanding. N-SSA’s competitive shooters (Forgett among them) were in dire need of usable guns, as the supply of wartime arms had begun to dry up. Blame the collector market, which had snapped up most original firearms of the era, in turn driving up prices on those remaining in circulation. Particularly scarce and expensive were Confederate firearms, which had been produced in far fewer numbers. Thus, in 1960 Navy Arms introduced a pair of percussion revolvers based on the Colt Navy and dubbed the “Yank” and the “Reb.” The steel-framed Yank adhered to the styling of the Colt Model 1851, while the brass-framed Reb faithfully recreated the Griswold & Gunnison, a Southern copy of the Colt Model 1860. Fine examples of either can reap well into the five figures today.

Uberti’s and Forgett’s respective lines continued to expand, leading to a second generation of replicas of the “smoke wagons” of old. In 1973 Navy Arms introduced copies of the Winchester Models 1866 and 1873, the first of the company’s replica lever-action rifles. Over the decades at least a dozen different Italian gunmakers have entered the replica arms market, including Davide Pedersoli and Giuseppe Pietta, introducing everything from Colt Single Action Army “Peacemakers” to Spencer carbines. Uberti’s present-day line includes dozens of models.

Another Italian export that drove the popularity of Old West replica arms was the “spaghetti Western” film subgenre, a darker take on the traditional Western, whose productions were directed and scored by Italians, co-starred Italians and were filmed in both Italy and Spain. The heyday of these popular big-screen adventures (roughly 1964–78) brought to superstardom such American actors as Clint Eastwood and Lee Van Cleef and featured full-screen closeups of the co-starring firearms.

Any sharp-eyed, gun-savvy viewer can quickly discern an Italian replica from an original. For example, many replica Colt Single Action Army revolvers are fitted with brass trigger guards—an option unavailable on original Peacemakers, though most percussion-era revolvers did have brass trigger guards. Colt 1851 Navy revolvers could be special-ordered with silver-plated guards, while the fluted 1861 Navy—another hard-to-find original Colt on the collector market—had blued-steel trigger guards. To their credit, Uberti and other Italian makers equipped later iterations of their replica Peacemakers with the correct steel trigger guards.

One thing is as sure as shooting, the Italian connection reverberates to this day in the ranks of such competitive shooting organizations as the N-SSA and the Single Action Shooting Society, not to mention on the big and small screen. Despite reports to the contrary, the decades-old transatlantic fascination with the Old West is alive and well. 

Military use of remotely piloted aircraft, or drones, dates to World War I experiments with practice targets, and guided aerial weapons were operational by World War II. But it took advances in electronics and satellite technology to realize unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) capable of being controlled from thousands of miles away. The first operational reconnaissance drone, the Predator, went on to assume a more aggressive role.  

Its inventor, engineer Abraham Karem, is an Assyrian Jew born in Baghdad—ironic, considering how much his invention would serve in Iraq. Karem’s family moved to Israel in 1951, and he built his first UAV for the Israeli Air Force during the 1973 Yom Kippur War. Immigrating to the United States, he soon drew the attention of the CIA. Karem developed a series of prototypes, the Amber and Gnat 750, for General Atomics before test flying his ultimate design on July 3, 1994. A year later it entered service with the CIA and the U.S. Air Force as the RQ-1 (recon drone) Predator.  

Coinciding with the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, the U.S. Department of Defense was developing an operational drone capable of toting ordnance. The RQ-1 proved adaptable to carrying an AGM-114 Hellfire air-to-surface antitank missile under each wing. Accepted in 2002 and promptly deployed to Afghanistan and Iraq, the armed Predator was designated the MQ-1 (multirole drone). On Dec. 23, 2002, over the no-fly zone in Iraq, an Iraqi Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-25 engaged an MQ-1 armed with AIM-92 Stinger air-to-air missiles and shot it down, winning the first encounter between a conventional warplane and a UAV.  

In 2011 the 268th and last MQ-1 left the General Atomics plant. By then it had accumulated more than 1 million flight hours and truly earned its Predator moniker. On March 9, 2018, the Air Force retired the MQ-1, which had been supplanted by General Atomics’ improved MQ-9 Reaper.

This story appeared in the Spring 2024 issue of Military History magazine.

The Boeing B-17—or its computer-generated likeness—appears front and center in the AppleTV+ series Masters of the Air. The story of the 100th Bombardment Group of the Eighth Air Force in World War II, MOTA is based on the book by Donald L. Miller. The 100th flew the B-17 Flying Fortress and some of its missions over Europe provide harrowing sequences in the series.

Here are a few classic films that feature the B-17 and are worth searching out.

Air Force (1943). Directed by Howard Hawks. Starring John Ridgely, Gig Young, Arthur Kennedy, Charles Drake, Harry Carey, George Tobias and John Garfield.
While B-17s are known primarily for their role in the European Theater, they flew in the Pacific as well. Howard Hawks’ Air Force tells the story of one such Fort, Mary Ann. After flying into the attack on Pearl Harbor, the airplane and its crew proceed to Wake Island and then on to the Philippines to take action against the Japanese. The production used real B-17B, C and D models, supplemented by model work when necessary.

The Memphis Belle: A Story of a Flying Fortress (1944). Directed by William Wyler.
Director William Wyler left Hollywood to document the war for the U.S. and received permission to film an account of a B-17 crew on a mission over Germany. He ended up flying five missions with pilot Robert Morgan of the 91st Bombardment Group, two of them in Morgan’s regular plane, Memphis Belle. Wyler used his footage to create a composite twenty-fifth mission for Morgan and the crew of Memphis Belle. (While not the first bomber to complete 25 missions, Memphis Belle was the first to return to America after having done so and earned much public attention as a result.) Released on April 15, 1944, the New York Times called the film “a perfect example of what can be properly done by competent film reporters to visualize the war for people back home.” (The real Memphis Belle is on display at the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force in Dayton, Ohio.)

Memphis Belle (1990). Directed by Michael Caton-Jones. Starring Matthew Modine, Eric Stoltz,
Tate Donovan, D.B. Sweeney, Billy Zane, Sean Astin, Harry Connick Jr., John Lithgow and David Strathairn.
The fictionalized film based on Wyler’s (and co-produced by his daughter) also tells the story of the titular B-17’s 25th mission but suffers from a willingness to embrace cliché as the crew faces a familiar litany of threats (bandits, flak, cloud cover, engine loss).

Command Decision (1948).Directed by Sam Wood. Starring Clark Gable, Walter Pidgeon, Van Johnson, Brian Donlevy, Charles Bickford, John Hodiak and Edward Arnold.
Where MOTA focuses on what the B-17 crews endured during the war, Command Decision focuses on the commanders who sent them on their missions in what Brigadier General “Casey” Dennis (Gable, who actually flew some missions over Europe) calls “the weirdest kind of war on earth.” Watching B-17s and their crews head out on a mission, he says, “In a few hours from now they’ll be fighting on oxygen five miles above Germany. Tonight some of them will be dancing at the Savoy. Some of them will still be in Germany.” The film can’t escape its roots as a Broadway play (adapted from a novel) and remains mostly set-bound. A scene where Dennis has to talk down a B-17 bombardier flying for his wounded pilot suffers from some obvious model work that stands out in comparison to the actual combat footage used elsewhere.

Twelve O’Clock High (1949). Directed by Henry King. Starring Gregory Peck, Hugh Marlowe, Gary Merrill and Dean Jagger.
Twelve O’Clock High covers some of the same ground as Command Decision but does it much better. The focal point is General Frank Savage (Peck) who takes command of the snakebitten 918th Bombardment Group after its previous commander got too close to his men and efficiency suffered. Savage plans to whip the unit into shape even if it means the crews will hate him. The 918th does improve, but the stresses of command eventually take their toll on Savage. B-17 fans will especially enjoy a legendary stunt sequence when stunt pilot Paul Mantz performs a belly landing in a real Fortress. The film later inspired a television series.

The War Lover (1962). Directed by Philip Leacock. Starring Steve McQueen, Robert Wagner, Shirley Ann Field, Gary Cockrell and Michael Crawford.
This adaptation of John Hersey’s novel tells the story of a pilot (McQueen) and co-pilot (Wagner) of a Flying Fortress and the woman one of them loves (Field). The pilot, “Buzz” Rickson, is the war lover of the tile, a man who treads the “fine line between the hero and the psychopath” in the words of the squadron doctor. Filmed with three actual B-17s (and footage, including Mantz’s belly landing, borrowed from Twelve O’Clock High), the film boasts a strong performance by McQueen but is weakened by the romance in which Field’s character is used to explain the movie’s themes. “You are on the side of life,” she tells Wagner’s character; to Buzz she explains, “You can’t make love.… You can only make hate.”

Target for Today (1944) is also of interest. This wartime documentary provides a detailed nuts-and-bolts look at what it took to plan and fly B-17 missions over Europe. Cast with real military personnel and filmed largely on location, it will provide viewers with some key background for the events of MOTA.

The Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress has found itself back in the spotlight after the January 26 debut of the AppleTV+ miniseries Masters of the Air. Produced by Steven Spielberg, Tom Hanks and Gary Goetzman—who were also behind the series Band of Brothers and The Pacific—and based on the book by Donald L. Miller, the nine-part series tells the story of the 100th Bombardment Group—the “Bloody 100th”—during World War II. The group flew the B-17 , and the big four-engine Boeings should share top billing with human stars Austin Butler, Callum Turner and Barry Keoghan, even if most of the airplanes are the product of computer-generated imagery (CGI), along with three modern replicas. (The series should include a disclaimer that state, “No real B-17s were harmed during the making of this series.”)

The United States produced nearly 13,000 B-17s during the war. Today only 45 remain and only a handful of those are in flying condition. Two have crashed in recent years, the Commemorative Air Force’s Texas Raiders destroyed after an inflight collision with a P-63 Kingcobra at an airshow in 2022 and “Nine-o-Nine,” owned and operated by the Collings Foundation, in 2019.

The B-17 flights in MOTA, as it’s known, are brutal, violent and intense. That’s not at all the experience I had when I got to fly in a B-17 some years ago. I flew in Yankee Lady, the B-17G operated by the Yankee Air Museum of Belleville, Michigan. This B-17 was one of the last built, too late to see combat. It flew for the Coast Guard for a while after the war and then was converted for fire-fighting. The museum received it in 1986, when it needed a complete nine-year restoration before it could return to the air. It was briefly grounded in the spring of 2023 when the Federal Aviation Administration issued an airworthiness directive regarding an issue with wing spars but has resumed flying.

My flight went off without incident. There was no flak, no fighters, no blood, no worries about hypoxia or frostbite, no spent shell casings littering the fuselage interior. But I did experience the ear-pounding noise generated by the four Wright R-1820-97 engines. On the runway they idled with a loud throaty purr, but when the pilot pushed the throttles forward and Yankee Lady began its takeoff run, the entire airplane vibrated to the roar of the engines. I was sitting in the bombardier’s station in the nose of the bomber, watching as the trees as the end of the runway got closer and closer…and then we lifted up and soared over them.

It was a thrill to fly in the venerable Boeing. Maybe I didn’t get a sense of air combat, but I did get a sense of the airplane, which was not nearly as big—at least from the inside—as I expected. I’m sure it felt even more cramped for aircrew wearing bulky heated suits to protect them from the subzero temperatures at altitude.

I’m glad I got my chance to fly in a B-17 but I’m even happier that I didn’t have to experience what their crews did during the war.

The Mitsubishi A6M Zero came as a shock to many in the west. Quick and incredibly maneuverable, it could outfly nearly everything in the sky. The fighter dominated its opponents in China and Burma early in World War II. It’s “introduction” to American airmen came on December 7, 1941, over Pearl Harbor. 

Petty Officer 1st Class Takeshi Hirano was part of the first wave of the Japanese attack, flying in an element of three fighters from the carrier Akagi. After strafing Hickam Field and attacking some of the B-17s trying desperately to land there, Hirano’s Zero was peppered by machine gun fire from the ground.

The pilot struggled to bring his damaged fighter down but clipped a number of trees and crashed into the entrance of Fort Kamehameha’s ordinance machine shop, killing Hirano. His was one of only 29 aircraft brought down during the attack.

This particular Zero would become the object of intense scrutiny by U.S. intelligence officers looking for kinks in the vaunted fighter’s reputation.

The Kit
Tamiya, Inc., produces one of the most accurate scale models of the Mitsubishi A6M2 Type 21. First released in 1973, the 1/48th scale kit still holds up well against some of the higher priced models. It’s an ideal kit for the beginner—simple, well-engineered and easy to build. The more experienced modeler will be tempted to add some extra detail.

Construction starts with building and painting the multipart cockpit, which comes with an optional pilot figure. Using Tamiya cockpit green (XF-71) takes the guesswork out of what to paint the floor, sidewalls and instrument panel. A decal does a good job of reproducing the dials and indicators. The seat is flat aluminum; a belt harness from an aftermarket detail set is a nice touch. (Note: Japanese naval fighters used a single diagonal shoulder strap with a standard lap belt.)

With the cockpit complete, paint the 940-hp Nakajima Sakae Type 12 engine flat aluminum, then use a black wash to bring out the details. Next, glue together the two-piece cowling and paint it with a mixture of semigloss black (FS-27031) and a few drops of cobalt blue to duplicate the cowling color reportedly seen on many WWII Japanese carrier planes. Glue the completed engine into the cowling and set it aside to dry.

Next, join the fuselage parts together. Slip the finished cockpit through the fuselage’s underside, making sure it is seated correctly before applying dabs of glue to hold it in place. Now you can add the completed wing. The fit here is very good, but there is still a small gap at the wing root that will need attention.

For this model we’ll add an extra detail. The type 21 Zero was the first version to have folding wings (more accurately, folding wingtips). It was a new addition meant to help maximize space aboard the carrier. The Czech company Eduard makes a great resin detail set of the folded wingtips. Designed for their own A6M2 Zero kit, it can easily be made to fit the Tamiya kit with a little extra surgery and sanding. It’s a great addition to the model. Cement the horizontal stabilizers in place and set the assembly aside. 

Now that the basic construction is complete, it’s time to check over your work and fill and sand any seams. Most imperfections can be smoothed over with an application of Tamiya’s surface primer.

Camouflage
The A6M2 Zeros that took part in the Pearl Harbor raid were painted Imperial Japanese Navy gray-green overall. This color is available in both a spray can (Tamiya AS-29) or bottle (XF-76). Before painting, stuff facial tissue into the cockpit and wheel wells to protect them from overspray.

The wheel wells and the insides of the main landing gear doors should be painted the same interior metallic blue-green as the cockpit. The landing gear legs are semigloss black, with dark brown “rubber” colored tires and aluminum hubs. The propellers on Pearl Harbor Zeros were unpainted aluminum, with red warning stripes near the tips. The back of the propeller was painted a flat deep brown to reduce glare for the pilot.

The fabric-covered moveable surfaces—ailerons, rudder and horizontal stabilizers—were painted a gray primer. It was thought that the weight of an additional layer of paint would alter the delicate weight and balance and effect performance. Mask off these sections and paint them a slightly darker gray.

After all the painting is complete, apply a coat of gloss varnish to provide a smooth surface for the decals to adhere to.

Bringing the Zero to Life
Hirano’s aircraft had simple, standard markings. The kit markings work well and settle into the nooks and crannies with a little decal softener. The tail number, AI-154, was cobbled together from other Zero decals that were in the “stash.” Add a mild amount of weathering, some soot from the exhaust ports and a bit of fuel and oil staining. That’s all you need. Once the decals are complete, give the fighter a light coat of a clear flat varnish and put it aside.

On to the canopy. There is an option for an enclosed one-piece canopy, but you’ll want to show off that cockpit detail so opt for the three-piece open version. Painting the cockpit canopy frames will be easier if you mask and paint the horizontal ribs first, then the vertical frames. Attach the clear parts with white glue and finish off your model by gluing the landing gear, gear doors, arresting hook and tail wheel into place. Don’t forget the pitot tube and small weights on the top and bottom of each of the ailerons. Last but not least, add that folding wingtip. Takeshi Hirano’s Mitsubishi A6M2 is now ready for its sortie into history. 

Although its initials brand it as a sniper rifle, the Snayperskaya Vintovka sistemy Dragunova that Evgeni F. Dragunov developed in 1963 falls short of the chilling precision and range of a current state-of-the-art, bolt-action weapon for the specialized sniper in the appraisal of weapons expert Chris McNab in his latest Osprey offering. Most rifle aficionados class it as a designated marksman rifle (DMR), offering talented soldiers within standard infantry units good intermediary range, durable simplicity, and the ability to get off multiple shots because of its rare semiautomatic capability.  

Since its introduction into the Soviet armed forces, the SVD has found its way into fighting forces around the world and killed untold thousands. That apparently began with a slow trickle into the People’s Army of Vietnam around 1972, and U.S. intelligence agencies allegedly placed a $25,000 reward for any captured intact. One Soviet-made SVD-63 captured from the PAVN is shown in the book, but the weapon’s expense seems to have limited its introduction at a time when North Vietnam was going to prevail with or without semiautomatic sniper rifles. There were to be a lot more sniper duels in 1979, however, when China launched its invasion of Vietnam with its infantry units equipped with reverse-engineered 7.62mm Dragunovs, designated Type 79s, joined in later border incidents by improved Type 85s.  

Ironic though it may have seemed back then, Vietnam was by no means the only occasion in which marksmen wielding SVDs traded shots with one another. The author’s comprehensive rundown of the many conflicts in which the SVD played vital roles lists many fighters, including Afghans, Chechens, and Ukrainians, whose targets were—and are—Russian. The SVD Dragunov Rifle offers an in-depth look at the technology and history of a weapon which retains its importance on the battlefield after 60 years.

The SVD Dragunov Rifle

By Chris McNab. Osprey Publishing, 2023, $23

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This review appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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Colt-Paterson Model 1836 Revolver

Patented on Feb. 25, 1836, Samuel Colt’s five-shooter—the world’s first commercially practical revolver—took its name from the factory where it was mass produced, the Patent Arms Co. in Paterson, New Jersey. It met with a lukewarm reception until 1839, when Colt added an integral loading lever and capping window that made reloading far easier and faster.

The U.S. Army purchased a limited number of Colt’s revolving pistols, rifles and shotguns for field testing in Florida during the 1835–42 Second Seminole War, but rejected them as too fragile and prone to malfunction. Colt improved the breed. By 1843 the Republic of Texas Navy had bought 180 rifles and shotguns and a roughly equal number of revolvers. When the Texas Army and Navy were disbanded that year, the republic’s remaining armed force, the 40 men of the Texas Ranger Company, bought up the surplus revolvers.

Ranger Capt. John Coffee Hays heaped praise on the weapons for their relative ease in loading from virtually any position and their effectiveness against larger numbers of Indians. By 1861 Colt’s continually improving revolvers had won their way back into the U.S. military, whose officers would soon be trading shots with each other.

Minié Bullet

In 1847 French armorer Claude-Étienne Minié developed a conical bullet with cannelures around the sides that would expand upon firing. This feature allowed a line infantryman to quickly secure the round within a musket barrel—even one with rifling—after which the hot gasses of the powder explosion caused the bullet to expand as it spun out the rifled barrel. This gave the bullet or “Minié ball” greater speed, range and accuracy than the older musket ball yet could be loaded/reloaded just as fast.

A further refinement was introduced by Capt. James H. Burton of the Harpers Ferry Armory in western Virginia, in the form of a conical concavity at the rear, aiding the bullet’s expansion. Britain’s army first took full advantage of the Minié bullet with its Pattern 1853 Enfield rifle, which entered service during the Crimean War. The American variant was incorporated into the Model 1855, whose Maynard tape primer was replaced by a copper cap in the Model 1861 Springfield, so named because most (but by no means all) were produced in that Massachusetts town. The rifled Minié bullets were devastating in both wars. Their users still clung to Napoleonic Era century doctrine, facing off in lines and at distances for which casualties to more efficient rifles increased exponentially.

Dévastation Class Ironclad Floating Batteries

The ironclad warship harkens back to the Korean “turtle ships” that helped defeat the Japanese navy during the latter’s invasion attempt of 1592 to 1598. The concept was revived when France deployed three floating batteries of the Dévastation class to the Crimean War. With their 4.3-inch-thick iron sides, 16 50-pounder smoothbore and two 12-pounder guns, the vessels weighed more than 1,600 tons each and although powered by a 150-hp Le Creuzot steam engine each or the wind against three auxiliary sails, the best speed they could produce was 4 knots. Consequently, in practice the vessels had to be towed to their targets by sidewheeler steam frigates: L’Albatros for Dévastation, Darien for Tonnante and Magellan towing Lave. The trio had their combat debut against the Russian fortress of Kinburn on the Black Sea on Oct. 17, 1855, performing well as Dévastation hurled 1,265 projectiles on the fort (82 of them shells) in four hours, sustaining 72 hits, 31 of which struck its armor and suffering the only fatalities of the three: two crewmen—plus 12 wounded. All three batteries saw further service against the Austrians in the Adriatic Sea in 1859.

That year the French commissioned Gloire, the first seagoing ironclad, ushering in a new era in warship design, which would next see practice in earnest when the Confederate ironclad ram Manassas defended New Orleans on Oct. 12, 1861 and—vainly—on April 24, 1862.

USS George Washington Parke Custis

In August 1861 Col. Thaddeus Sobieski Constantine Lowe, self-styled master of balloons, purchased a coal barge which he, in collaboration with John A. Dahlgren, commander of the Washington Navy Yard and chief of the Bureau of Ordnance, modified with a flat deck, 120 feet long and 14 feet, 6 inches in beam, capable of accommodating an observation balloon, hydrogen-generating apparatus, related equipment and tools and crewmen drawn from the Army. Although previous ships had carried balloons, Lowe’s vessel, christened USS George Washington Parke Custis, was the first designed from the hull up to maintain and launch them.

The one thing it lacked was its own means of propulsion. After trials on the Potomac River, on Dec. 10 the balloon carrier was towed downriver by the steamer Coeur de Lion, accompanied by Dahlgren and a detachment of troops led by Brig. Gen. Daniel E. Sickles, anchoring at Mattawomen Creek. The next day Lowe ascended to observe Confederate activity in Virginia, three miles away, reporting on enemy batteries at Freestone Point and counting their campfires. George Washington Parke Custis accompanied the Army of the Potomac up the York and James rivers in spring 1862. Modest though its achievements were—limited by dependance on external propulsion—it was the first aircraft carrier.

Gatling Gun

The American Civil War coincided with the development of several automatic weapon designs, of which that of Dr. Richard Gatling, involving six rotating barrels cranked by hand, proved to be the most effective. Although patented on Nov. 4, 1862, the Gatling gun was not officially adopted by the U.S. Army until 1866…which is not to say it saw no action until then. On July 17, 1863 city authorities purchased some Gatlings to intimidate anti-draft rioters in New York. During the siege of Petersburg (June 1864-April 1865) Union officers bought 12 Gatling guns with their own money to install in the trenches facing the Confederate defenses, while another eight were mounted aboard gunboats.

Although large and heavy, Gatlings made a growing post-Civil War presence in Japan’s Boshin War of 1877, the 1879 Anglo-Zulu War and the American charge up San Juan Hill in 1898. Eclipsed by gas-operated machine guns like the Maxim by the end of the century, the Gatling gun’s principle was revived in the late 20th century in electrically operated weapons such as the Vulcan minigun.

Spencer Repeating Rifle

In 1860 Christopher Miner Spencer patented the world’s first bullet contained in a metallic .56-56 rimfire cartridge. Using a lever action and a falling breechblock, it could quickly fire off seven rounds from a tubular magazine within the buttstock. The Union Army was hesitant to adopt the Spencer because of the logistic headaches entailed in supplying weapons that virtually invited rapid, potentially wasteful firing, but eventually Spencer persuaded President Abraham Lincoln that the advantages outweighed the problems. Its earliest appearance was with Col. John T. Wilder’s “Lightning Brigade” of mounted infantry, whose privately-purchased Spencer rifles were a factor in the Army of the Cumberland’s victory at Hoover’s Gap on June 26-28, 1863.

Back East, Brig. Gen. George A. Custer equipped half of his Michigan Brigade with Spencer rifles in time for the battles of Hanover on June 30 and Gettysburg’s East Cavalry Field on July 3. The first of the shorter, handier Spencer carbines appeared in August and made an immediate hit among the cavalrymen. If logistics constituted a problem for the Union troops, it was worse among the Confederates whenever they obtained stocks of what they called “that damn Yankee gun that could be loaded on Sunday and fired all week.” Their shortages of copper and overall industrial capacity for reverse engineering rendered the captured Spencers a limited asset at best. A total of 200,000 Spencer rifles and carbines were produced before the state of the rifleman’s art advanced ahead.

Submarine H.L. Hunley

On Sept. 7, 1776 a curious little vessel called “Turtle,” designed by David Bushnell and manned by Continental Army Sergeant Ezra Lee, made history’s first submarine attack on the British 64-gun Eagle. The attempt failed and the next submarine attack on a warship had to wait until 1864. Under siege by land and by sea, Confederate-ruled Charleston, South Carolina used all manner of ingenious inventions to counter the overwhelming numbers of U.S. Navy blockaders, including the ironclad casemate rams Chicora and Palmetto State, small semisubmersible torpedo boats called Davids and a fully submersible vessel designed by Horace Lawson Hunley.

Propelled by a screw propeller turned by an eight-man crew and armed with a spar torpedo (explosive mine mounted at the end of a wooden pole), the latter was built in Mobile, Al. and shipped by rail to Charleston on Aug. 12, 1863. During testing on Aug. 29, the vessel, named H.L. Hunley for its inventor, swamped, drowning five of the crew. Raised and tested further, it sank again on Oct. 15, killing all eight crewmen including Hunley himself. Raised again, H.L. Hunley set out on its first operational sortie on Feb. 17, 1864 and detonated its spar torpedo against the side of the 1,260-ton screw sloop of war USS Housatonic, which sank. H.L. Hunley did not return, but in 1995 its remains were found and in 2000 it was raised, revealing it had ventured closer to its target than intended and swamped for the last time.

Although it took a heavier toll on its crews than on the enemy—a total of 21 killed compared to two officers and three crewmen slain aboard Housatonic—the precedent had been set by the world’s first successful submarine attack. The ill-starred H.L. Hunley is on display at the Warren Lasch Conservation Center on the Cooper River.

Dreyse Needle Gun

Developed by Johann Nikolaus von Dreyse and patented in 1840, the first breech-loading bolt-action rifle used a needle-like firing pin to pierce through a paper cartridge to strike a percussion cap at the base of the bullet. British testers were impressed by its accuracy at 800 to 1,200 yards, but dismissed it as “too complicated and delicate” to stand up to battle use—and in fact many Prussian infantrymen carried extra “needles” in case they broke. Despite the critics, King Friedrich Wilhelm IV ordered 60,000 for his army.

The Dreyse needle gun proved its mettle in the German wars of reunification, while evolving from paper to metal cartridges in 1862. The rifle was first used against fellow Prussians in the May uprising in Dresden during the Revolution of 1848, but truly proved itself against Danish muzzle-loaders in the Second Schleswig-Holstein War of 1864. The Prussians had 270,000 Dreyses for the Seven Weeks’ War of 1866, where the average Prussian infantryman could get five shots off lying prone in the time it took an Austrian standing to reload his Lorenz rifle musket. The Dreyse met its match in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71 against the superior French Chassepot, but with 1,150,000 needle guns, the better-led Prussian forces prevailed.

Whitehead Locomotive Torpedo

In the Austrian port of Trieste in 1860, naval engineer Robert Whitehead, was inspired by Fiume-based engineer Giovanni Luppis’ “coast savior,” a small self-propelled vessel run on compressed air. He designed a compressed air-powered “Minenschiff” also called a “locomotive torpedo,” patented on Dec. 21, 1866. Unlike previous stationary torpedoes, Whitehead’s was not only self-propelled, but had a self-regulating depth device and a gyroscopic stabilizer. Equally important, Whitehead devised a launching barrel, making his invention not a merely a weapon, but a weapons system. After being test mounted on the gunboat Gemse, Whitehead’s torpedo was purchased or licensed by 16 naval powers, undergoing constant refinement.

Its essential nature in one role was expressed by Adm. Henry John May in 1904 when he declared, “but for Whitehead the submarine would remain an interesting toy and little more.” The first wartime torpedo attack allegedly occurred during the Russo-Turkish War on Jan. 16, 1878 when torpedo boats from the Russian tender Velikiy Knyaz Konstantin captained by Stepan Osipovich Makarov sank the Ottoman steamer Intibah. After all the improvements the original underwent, its last combat use came in Drobak Sound, Norway on April 9, 1940 when two Whitehead torpedoes from a Norwegian coastal battery struck the shell-damaged German heavy cruiser Blücher and sank it.

Maxim Machine Gun

Prolific polymath inventor Sir Hiram Stevens Maxim is best remembered for a three-year project begun in 1882 that led to a machine gun with a recoil-operated firing system that fired 250 .303-inch rounds at a rate the Gatling could not match, plus a water-cooling system to allow sustained fire. Its durability and murderous efficiency led to its use by 29 countries between 1886 and 1959. It also earned American-born Maxim a British knighthood. The Maxims’ effect on history first manifested itself in Africa, where the British used them in their 1887 expedition against rebellious Yoni in Sierra Leone and the Germans used them against the Abushiri of their East African colony in 1888.

Its first major battle was during the First Matabele War in what is now Zimbabwe. At Shangani on Oct. 25, 1893, 700 British and South African troops, backed by Maxims, took a fearsome toll on 5,000 Matabele enemies. In 1898 the weapon’s role in European and American imperialism was archly summed up by Hilaire Belloc in The Modern Traveler: “Whatever happens, we have got, the Maxim gun, and they have not.” The European powers would be forced to revise their view in 1914, however, when they had to face the consequences of using Maxim’s invention against one another.

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The Asiatic-Pacific Theater in World War II culminated with a grueling, bloody amphibious campaign to capture one Japanese-held seabound stronghold after another. To deliver soldiers to the various beachheads along the sea route to Japan, the U.S. Navy relied largely on LCVPs—landing craft vehicle personnel, or Higgins boats—each capable of transporting up to three dozen GIs. Little more than 36-foot bargelike shells made largely of plywood, LCVPs left their human cargoes vulnerable to intensive enemy fire both en route to and on lowering their ramps onto the beaches.  

The Higgins boats did, however, have guardian angels—powerful amphibious support ships popularly known as the “Mighty Midgets.”  

In 1943, recognizing the need for a large, close-in fire support vessel that was not simply a modified troop carrier, the Navy contracted the George Lawley & Son Shipyard of Neponset, Mass., to design the first of its kind. Between May 1944 and March 1945 Lawley & Son and both the Commercial Iron Works and the Albina Engine & Machine Works of Portland, Ore., built 130 such vessels for service in the Pacific.   Each ship was given a number rather than a name. Their official designation was Landing Craft Support (Large) (Mark 3)—commonly shortened to LCS(L) or simply LCS—but on proving themselves in action the vessels became known collectively throughout the Navy as the “Mighty Midgets.” With its 158-foot-6-inch length, 23-foot-3-inch beam and a flat bottom that allowed for a shallow draft of less than 6 feet, the LCS was ideally designed for inshore fire support. By contrast, destroyers of the era, at more than twice the length with a 9- to 19-foot draft, were unable to achieve the proximity required for the sort of close-in precision fire capable from an LCS.  

With a maximum speed of scarcely 16 knots, the LCS was not fast (one chronicler describes it as “sluggish”), but it was both powerful and versatile. Designed for the dual purpose of supporting amphibious landings and intercepting interisland barge traffic, the Mighty Midget was not built for looks. “The ship in itself is nothing,” recalled Lt. j.g. Powell Pierpoint, the executive officer of LCS-61. “She is unlovely to look upon and has neither grace nor speed. She has not even the dignity of a name.” In his next breath Pierpoint sang her praises. “Her history comes from the men who are in her and the job they did with her.…Theirs was to be a fighting ship, with guns and rockets. No bow doors, no ramps, no cargo holds; just guns and rockets, a small galley and 71 men and officers. Lofty beside the squat LCIs and lopsided LSMs, she simply bristled with guns.”  

In fact, the LCS was the consummate gunboat, carrying more firepower per ton than even the Navy’s largest battleships. Recalled Lieutenant John Harper, the skipper of LCS-52, “Like her sisters, she was, pound for pound, arguably the most heavily armed gunship on the water.” At the bow was mounted, depending on the vessel, either a Mark 22 3-inch/50-caliber gun or a single or twin Bofors 40 mm L/60 antiaircraft gun. Another twin Bofors was mounted forward in the number two position. Amidships on the superstructure deck were two Oerlikon L70 20 mm rapid-firing antiaircraft guns with gyro sights, one to port and the other to starboard. Aft on the main deck, port and starboard, were two more 20 mm guns. Each of the four was capable of firing 450 rounds per minute. Astern was another twin Bofors, each barrel able to fire up to 140 rounds per minute. Available when necessary were four removable .50-caliber machine guns, which could be mounted two to a side. Steel splinter shields ringed the gun mounts, pilothouse and conning tower.  

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Finally, athwartships between the forward twin Bofors and the bow gun were 10 Mark 7 rocket launchers, welded to the deck in two groups of five at a fixed 45-degree angle. All told they cradled 120 barrage rockets, a dozen per launcher. The launchers could be fired either individually, for ranging purposes, or in a single devastating salvo. Each 4.5-inch rocket delivered a payload equivalent to a 105 mm shell, or a 20-pound bomb. Understandably, after listing its firing capacity, a wartime Navy training film dubbed the LCS a “pint-sized floating gun platform.”  

During an amphibious landing operation an LCS would generally precede the first assault wave, making three runs in line with its sister gunships to strategically unleash cannon fire and rocket barrages against the beach at various prescribed distances. After firing its third salvo, the LCS would turn broadside to the shore, in column formation with its sister ships, and open up with all available guns on such targets of opportunity as enemy troops, pillboxes and gun emplacements. On this third run it would accompany the landing craft, remaining inshore to provide fire support as troops hit the beach. One observer described the Mighty Midgets as “looking something like a Fourth of July fireworks when all weapons were blazing.” Seaman 2nd Class Virgil Thill of LCS-52 recalled the first of his ship’s three runs at the beach on Iwo Jima:    

The day has dawned clear…and we can see the beach now, slowly getting nearer. The radar man calls the yards. The 40 mm’s open with a crashing slam at 3,200 yards, and we can crane our necks to see the tiny shells make their little puff of smoke on the beach. At 2,400 yards the 20 mm’s add their chatter. A long way to go before our rockets are set off and we can port the helm to get out of here. When are the Japs going to let us have it? There is comfort in the constant pounding of our guns. Closer and closer. Each 50 yards seems interminable. Finally the signal to clear the forward twin and the single 40. Still no sign of a Jap on the rocky island. Suddenly the slamming hiss of the rockets taking off. The few seconds stretch out. Hard left rudder, port back one third. On our starboard beam is Suribachi, towering over us like a skyscraper; and that damned volcano is a giant pillbox. Well, this is where we get it—but nothing happened. Back out to the line of departure for our second rocket run, loading rockets as we go.  

Spotting enemy positions ashore was often difficult. As LCS-52 skipper Lieutenant Harper recalled, the Japanese generally held their return fire, at least initially. “LCSs had not been fired upon when they had approached the landing beaches either the first or second time,” he recalled of the Iwo Jima assault, “because the Japanese defensive strategy was to not give away their gun positions until the landing craft were well on toward the beach.”   Sometimes, however, a gun crew got lucky. While approaching the Iwo Jima landing beaches Ensign Laurance McKenna, the gunnery officer of LCS-31, watched as an observation plane flew low near the beach. “I happened to be watching the particular batch of bush that suddenly moved aside, clearing an AA battery to take the plane under fire, knocking it down with a single burst. Within 30 seconds the camouflage was back in place. I had the spot marked, and we had it wiped out in 60 seconds.”  

Covering an invasion was only one of the Mighty Midget’s roles. In the words of author Donald L. Ball, the LCSs were “combatant seagoing ships capable of serving on patrols of all kinds, of escorting and protecting larger and smaller vessels in coastal waters and on the open sea, of destroying enemy targets on the beaches themselves and by directing the heavy gunfire of larger ships, of serving with destroyers and other ships on radar picket patrol on the high seas, destroying scores of enemy kamikaze planes and suicide boats and swimmers.” They are also credited with having saved the lives of thousands of sailors, plucking them from the sea after their respective ships had been damaged or sunk.  

There was a great deal more to an LCS’s superstructure than its impressive armament. On the stern anchor winch it carried a strong steel cable suitable for salvage or towing damaged vessels. Four stout pumps and a network of hoses, as well as a monitor and hose on the bow, were capable of delivering some 1,500 gallons of seawater per minute at 200 pounds per square inch, ideal for fighting fires at sea. An onboard smoke generator, particularly when employed in coordination with those aboard sister ships, could create a virtually impenetrable smokescreen to conceal landing craft on approach, convoy vessels from air and sea attack or demolition teams working on or near shore. Finally, the LCS was equipped to spot and destroy open-ocean mines.  

The LCS fleet provided effective close-in support in the Philippines, Iwo Jima, Okinawa and Borneo campaigns. They also served as radar picket line ships. For LCS crews the latter was the most unnerving and perilous duty, as it left ships particularly vulnerable to Japanese kamikaze attacks. Such attacks came in various forms—manned torpedoes, suicide aircraft, boats and swimmers—and as the war drew to a close, they came with increasing frequency and ferocity. LCS-52 skipper Harper recalled in detail the first night attack on his ship by a suicide plane:

It was so dark we could see nothing at all to shoot at most of the time, though the DDs [destroyers] were firing almost constantly. Suddenly a plane came out of the north and leveled off on a run directly at us. The little light from the gun flashes glittered on his prop so that we see him pretty well. By turning the ship a little we kept him on our beam so we could fire all our guns at once. It was hard for the gunners to see him when they once started shooting, so the gunnery officer and I had to keep telling them where to look. We knew he was heading for us for sure, so we kept up a hail of fire for his reception. The plane finally nosed down right on the fantail of our ship, and it looked like curtains for us. The after gunners looked right into the whirling prop to let go a last burst at point-blank range. This burst of fire caught the bomb load that the suicide plane was carrying, and the resulting explosion was terrific. Needless to say, the plane, bombs, pilot and all were blown to bits right in our faces. Plane parts, engine fragments and shrapnel swept our ship from bow to stern. The quartermaster had stopped the engines without further orders from me, since I had been thrown to the deck by the blast. When I reached the fantail of the ship, I found the damage control party already at work. [Engineering officer Ensign Spencer] Burroughs had been killed instantly by shrapnel from the blast. A gunner forward was killed, and many men and Ensign [Adler] Strandquist, the first lieutenant, were seriously injured.  

On another occasion LCS-83 barely escaped a night attack by a Japanese bomber. Despite bringing all its guns to bear, the crew failed to bring down the enemy plane, which flew so close to the deck that, according to the wide-eyed signalman, “It left tire marks on the radio antenna.” Suddenly, an explosion from below rocked the ship, as the enemy plane’s payload detonated underwater. Fortunately, it had exploded well beneath the surface, causing no damage to the vessel or crew. Notes author Ball, “It may have been the only instance when an LCS serving with the fleet on the high seas saw its flat bottom as an advantage.”  

From the moment a Mighty Midget left port, life aboard could be trying. Prior to their initial embarkation most crewmen had spent little if any time on the ocean, and the LCS’s flat bottom certainly didn’t enhance their introduction. At the outset seasickness was rampant, as Larry “Pops” Cullen, storekeeper aboard LCS-52, described in an epic poem on the subject (see sidebar below).  

Even after the crew had adapted to the challenges of an ocean passage, other sources of discomfort awaited them. “The hardest part of all was not getting enough sleep,” Cullen recalled of the period his ship spent providing fire support at Iwo Jima. “We were on watch four hours on and four hours off, with general quarters for firing, aircraft watch and smoke duty thrown in. We got to where we paid no more attention to shell fire than we would a fly.…
We could even sleep while our own guns were firing, with thousands of Japs a few hundred yards away and Japs and American Marines fighting and dying.”  

While under way other sources of danger lurked. Not surprising, the Mighty Midgets used up tremendous amounts of ammunition, and they often re-armed by tying up alongside considerably larger vessels while ordnance was transferred by hand—with great caution—from ship to ship. This outwardly simple procedure was made hazardous by rough seas, as one LCS-33 crewman experienced firsthand. “We were ordered alongside the battleship Texas to replenish our ammo supplies,” he recalled. “Texas was considerably higher and more ruggedly constructed than 33. Wind and waves combined to smash us unmercifully against the larger vessel, causing considerable damage to our superstructure.”  

Sometimes ammunition was passed from one LCS to another, but the sea could prove every bit as unmerciful. On one such occasion LCS-35 was receiving munitions from sister ship LCS-56 but had to halt the procedure after having three of its docking hawsers broken, two gun tubs damaged, stanchions bent, recognition lights knocked out and 30 of its 101 frames (hull ribs) either broken or stressed. LCS-35 had to separate from 56 on a second occasion, again due to rough seas. The luckless vessel would be damaged twice more, once during a munitions transfer from the heavy cruiser Salt Lake City, the last time while taking on supplies from an amphibious assault ship.  

The greatest threat to the LCS fleet, however, remained attackers from the skies and sea. Lieutenant Harper of LCS-52 recounted one close call while his ship was lying off Okinawa on April Fools’ Day 1945. “At dawn,” he recalled, “we were greeted by that popular Jap calling card, a suicide plane. The war was very close to us, we realized, when a neighboring ship caught the diving plane on her decks and went up in flames.”  

During the course of the Pacific War five LCSs were sunk—three by suicide boats off the Philippines, and two by suicide planes off Okinawa. Of the 24 that took either major or minor damage, suicide planes and boats were responsible for 14. In contrast, enemy shore batteries accounted for only minor damage to three vessels. In all, 164 crewmen were killed, another 267 wounded. In recognition of their service between April and June 1945 eight LCS crews received the Navy Unit Commendation, while three were awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for their service at Okinawa and Iwo Jima. Lieutenant Richard M. McCool, skipper of LCS-122, received the Medal of Honor.  

Today the Landing Craft Support Museum [usslcs102.org] of Vallejo, Calif., serves as the home of the restored LCS-102. “Our purpose,” reads its mission statement, “is to maintain her as a floating museum ship. We aim to educate and inform the public about the role that the 102 and other landing craft support vessels played during the war. LCS-102 is being preserved as a memorial to all LCS sailors, officers and men who made the ultimate sacrifice in service of their country.”

Ron Soodalter is a frequent contributor to several HistoryNet publications. For further reading he recommends Fighting Amphibs: The LCS(L) in World War II, by Donald L. Ball, and Mighty Midgets at War: The Saga of the LCS(L) Ships From Iwo Jima to Vietnam, by Robin L. Reilly.

‘The Maiden Voyage of the 52’

On Nov. 6, 1944, LCS-52 steamed from San Diego Harbor in the company of sister ships 31, 32, 33 and 51. During those first days at sea their crews were, to say the least, abjectly miserable. Among the many stricken with seasickness, Storekeeper Larry “Pops” Cullen of 52 was later moved to eulogize the experience in verse.

I’m telling you of the 52,
That went to sea with her hapless crew.
Not two hours out the waves got rough—
Half the crew had had enough.
They were piled knee-deep in the crowded “head,”
And bodies strewed the deck like dead.
And everywhere the vomit’s stench
From bowsprit back to the anchor winch.
Quite a mess was the 52,
And quite a mess her groaning crew.
All day long the 52
Ploughed the seas with her seasick crew.
And into the night when the waves got high
Most of the crew now wanted to die.
The ship would hit in the trough with a smack
And shudder and roll and grunt and crack.
And shiver and rumble from stem to stern.
The seasick crew for land would yearn.
But undaunted still the 52
Butted the seas the long night through.
The night somehow passed, and some of the men
Felt just a little like living again.
A few still moaned and lay in their sacks
Or stretched on the fantail flat on their backs.
The seas had calmed to a steady roll,
But a day and a night had taken their toll.
And most of the crew was prepared to say
They didn’t know sailors lived this way.
They still felt like they’d always be sick
And would like to be out of the Navy, but quick.
With unslackened speed the 52
Southward carries her seasick crew.
This must go on for three days more
Before the 52 heads for the shore.
Sail on, sail on, O 52,
For I am one of that seasick crew!

This story appeared in the Winter 2024 issue of Military History magazine.

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The war hammer, as crude as it seems, was a practical solution to a late-medieval arms race between offense and defense. From the 14th century, steel plate armor spread amongst the warrior classes. The angled and hardened surfaces of plate armor were highly resistant to thin-edged blows from swords and axes. The war hammer was one solution to defeat this protection.

War hammers relied on concussion rather than penetration to fell armor-clad opponents. Although there are ancient examples of war hammers across cultures, the weapon became commonplace in Europe from the second half of the 14th century.

Design

The basic war hammer design consisted of a long haft (one-handed or two-handed versions were developed) terminating in a metal hammer head. Swung with force, the hammer would deliver a crushing blow to the head, limbs or body of an armored opponent, inflicting enough blunt force trauma to stun, disable or kill.

Between the 14th and 15th centuries, war hammer design was improved for both functionality and lethality. In addition to the hammer head, the weapon acquired various designs of sharpened picks on the opposite side, these designed to penetrate armor or to act as hooks for pulling warriors off horses, or to grab reins or shield rims. Some war hammers also acquired a thin top spike for stabbing attacks; warriors soon learned to stun the opponent with the hammer, then finish him off with the pick or spike.

Developments

The Swiss refined the hammer head into a three- or four-pronged affair, which with a long spike and pick plus a 6 1/2-foot haft created the terrifying ‘Lucerne’ war hammer. Hafts were often strengthened with all-metal langets. War hammers were mainly used by cavalry, although they did find widespread service amongst infantry ranks.

In Western Europe, they continued in use into the 16th century until the introduction of firearms rendered plate armor obsolete, but in Eastern Europe they were wielded by Polish hussars through the 17th century and into the early 18th century.

Hammer

The hammer head had a cross-section of only about 2 inches square, to concentrate the impact of the blow into a small area, increasing the concussive effect.

Pick

Spiked heads could be straight, hooked, thick, thin, short or long. If the weapon was swung with full force, the pick was capable of puncturing plate armor.

Haft

The haft of a war hammer varied anywhere between 2 feet to 6 1/2 feet in length, the short variants used for close-quarters combat, the longer variants for deep swinging attacks from the back of a horse. 

Langets

Metal reinforcement strips running up the side of the haft prevented the weapon from being shattered by enemy sword blows.

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The concept of the general-purpose fighter—a long-range, heavily armed airplane capable of achieving air superiority while at the same time shouldering other tasks, such as bombing and reconnaissance—came into vogue with the development of the twin-engine Polish PZL P.38 Wilk (wolf) in 1934.  Over the next few years, that design would inspire a variety of twin-engine fighter designs in other countries, such as the French Potez 63 series, the German Messerschmitt Me-110, the British Westland Whirlwind, Japan’s Nakajima J1N and Kawasaki Ki-45, and the American Bell YFM-1 Airacuda and Lockheed P-38 Lightning.

If the versatility of a multi-role fighter seemed attractive to the major powers, it was even more so to small or intermediate powers such as the Netherlands, offering the prospect of wringing more usefulness per airplane from their limited defense budgets.  When the prototype of the Dutch-built Fokker G.I twin-engine fighter was first unveiled at the 1936 Paris Salon, however, it caused an international sensation. 

Conceived in 1934 by Fokker’s chief designer, Dr. Erich Schatzki, as a twin-boom heavy fighter with a central nacelle that could be modified to fulfill a variety of tasks, the G.I made its first flight on March 16, 1937, and entered service with the Dutch air force in 1938. Powered by two 825-hp Bristol Mercury VIII nine-cylinder radial engines, the G.1, as the air force designated it, had no fewer than eight 7.9-millimeter FN-Browning M36 machine guns in the nose of the nacelle, as well as a ninth gun in a rotating tail cone. In addition, it could carry an internal bomb load of 880 pounds. Fokker also produced 12 somewhat smaller G.1s to be powered by two 750-hp Pratt & Whitney R-1535-SB4-G Twin Wasp Junior 14-cylinder radials and packing a nose armament of two 23-millimeter Madsen cannons and two 7.9-millimeter FN-Brownings for Republican forces in the Spanish Civil War.

Fokker negotiated sales to Finland, Estonia, Sweden, Denmark, Hungary and war-torn Spain, but none of them panned out before World War II broke out, leaving all the G.Is built to guard the Netherlands’ neutrality. The Reaper’s first victim was British: a Whitworth Whitley Mark V of No. 77 Squadron, Royal Air Force, that strayed into Dutch airspace on the night of March 27, 1940, and was brought down by a Fokker G.IA flown by First Lieutenant Piet Noomen, of the 3rd JachtVliegtuig Afdeling (fighter squadron), or JaVA.

A total of 62 Fokker G.1s are believed to have been built to one degree of completion or another, but only 23 were available to the Dutch—11 with the 3rd JaVA at Waalhaven and 12 with the 4th JaVAat Bergen—when the Germans invaded. Considering the circumstances, they gave an outstanding account of themselves, shooting down at least 13 German aircraft in their first chaotic two hours of combat. Heavily armed and easy to fly, though too slow to compete with single-engine fighters, the G.1 lived up to its nickname of Le Faucheur (‘the reaper’), but it only had five days in which to do its reaping before the Germans overran the Netherlands. After that, most surviving G.1s—including 12 Twin Wasp powered versions still under construction for possible export to Finland, which the Germans completed for their own use—became part of a growing trove of war booty serving the Luftwaffe as twin-engine fighter trainers. No Fokker G.Is survive today, but a replica can be seen on display at the Nationaal Militair Museum in Soesterberg.

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Often overlooked in the history of firearms out West was the H&R line of revolvers, innovative spur-trigger models with origins back East. In 1871 Massachusetts-based gunmakers Gilbert H. Harrington and Frank Wesson (brother of Daniel B. Wesson of Smith & Wesson fame) formed a short-lived partnership under the name Wesson & Harrington. Four years later Wesson branched out on his own and sold his shares to Harrington. By 1876 Harrington and former Wesson employee William A. Richardson had forged the namesake partnership destined to become one of the longest surviving firearms manufacturers in the region, though not until 1888 did Harrington & Richardson Arms Co. formally incorporate in Worcester, Mass.  

Starting up production in 1877, H&R produced untold millions of revolvers, from early single-action models using rimfire cartridges to later double-action models using .32 and .38 Smith & Wesson centerfire cartridges. The H&R line expanded and improved over time, making both solid-frame and top-break revolvers.   

Small-frame pocket “wheel guns” were popular in the Old West, most often as an extra measure of life insurance. By the late 1870s the double-action revolver came into vogue. As a shooter no longer needed to cock the hammer before each shot, such revolvers were considered the “semiautomatics” of their day. H&R entered the scene with its five- or six-shot Model 1880 solid-frame double-action revolver in .32 and .38 S&W calibers. By decade’s end the company’s top-break models had become the mainstays of its line.  

Among H&R’s leading competitors, Smith & Wesson had pioneered the top-break action in the United States with its larger .44 S&W Russian and American and .45 S&W Schofield models, which ejected empty cases out of the cylinder on opening to reload—a welcome time (and, potentially, life) saver. Another of S&W’s revolutionary double-action revolvers was its small-frame safety hammerless revolver. Introduced in 1887, the design caught on.  

Already at work on a similar design, H&R soon patented its own hammerless revolver with enough internal differences to avoid any infringement on S&W’s model. The latter’s version was nicknamed the “lemon squeezer,” a moniker eventually applied to all hammerless double-action models.  

As the Old West gave way to the turn of the century, such small-frame double-action revolvers appealed to many a ranch hand who, given weight considerations and tamer times, had grown weary of lugging around heavier hardware. In photographs of settlers bound for the Cherokee Strip land run in 1893 one can spot, in addition to the standard Sharps or Spencer rifle, small-frame double-action revolvers in many a holster. Messengers and detectives with Wells Fargo & Co. and other favorite targets of highwaymen were also fond of carrying a top-break small-frame double-action revolver or two. A period of especially brisk sales for H&R accompanied the 1896–99 Klondike Gold Rush to the District of Alaska and Yukon Territory. Presumably for protection against such ne’er-do-wells as notorious con man Soapy Smith and cohorts, scores of gold seekers carried the low-cost H&R hammerless double-action revolver. By then the company had plenty of competition in the small-frame revolver niche from such respected makers as Hopkins & Allen, Forehand & Wadsworth, Iver Johnson and Thames Arms. Among other noted users, Frank Hamer—the famed Texas Ranger who finally stopped Depression-era outlaw duo Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow, killing them from ambush near Gibsland, La., on May 23, 1934—carried a small-frame, five-shot, .38-caliber double-action pocket revolver in addition to full-size sidearms.  

Though the patent for H&R’s hammerless safety revolver dates from 1895, it is difficult to date individual guns, as the company used run-on serial numbers and didn’t keep meticulous records. In addition to its popular revolvers, H&R also produced single- and double-barrel shotguns, including the first American-made hammerless double-barreled shotgun based on the British Anson & Deeley action, as well as the single-shot “Handy-Gun,” a short-barreled shotgun with a pistol grip that was dropped from production in 1934 following passage of the National Firearms Act, which outlawed such “gangsterish” configurations. H&R was among the few American firearms manufacturers with unprecedented longevity. It continued to produce well-made, no-frills guns for the money until shuttering its doors in 1986 after more than a century in business.

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Shortly after 2:00 a.m. local time on June 4, 1972, just a few miles off the North Vietnamese coast, U.S. Navy Lt. Melvin S. Dry and three naval special warfare personnel departed the USS Grayback (LPSS-574) aboard a Mark VII Swimmer Delivery Vehicle (SDV). Dry intended to reconnoiter the beach area where his team was to rendezvous with a group of escaped American prisoners-of-war (POWs). But a combination of stronger than expected offshore currents and the Mark VII’s limited battery capacity forced him to abandon the mission 1,000 feet from shore. A Navy helicopter ultimately sunk the SDV with miniguns to prevent it falling into enemy hands [see our story on p. 20], before delivering Dry and the rest of the operations team to USS Long Beach (CGN-9), the command ship for Operation Thunderhead, America’s last POW rescue attempt of the Vietnam War. The Mark VII SDV lacked the power and endurance to overcome the currents and sea condition. Operation Thunderhead was aborted.  

The U.S. Navy’s first production model Swimmer Delivery Vehicle, the Mark VII derived from a post-World War II review of Underwater Demolition Team (UDT) operations. The study called for a covert underwater delivery means for UDTs when water conditions, depth, and distance made it unwise or impractical for the teams to reach the target by swimming directly from a submarine. UDT made do with the Italian-developed World II-era Mark 6 Sea Horse until 1967, when the U.S. Naval Coastal Systems Center modified the General Dynamics Convair 14 midget submarine.  

The resulting Mark VII Mod 0 was a free-flooding design with a reinforced fiberglass hull. Nonferrous metals and sound dampening insulation were used throughout to minimize the SDV’s magnetic and acoustic signatures, respectively. A gyroscope constituted its only navigation aid. It had a single rudder and propeller, the latter driven by a small electric motor powered by a single bay of silver-zinc batteries. It had a 40nm range under ideal conditions but considerably less against powerful currents and seas.  

The Mark VII underwent several improvements after 1972. The Mod 6 variant of 1975 featured a larger hull, greater payload capacity, and a high frequency sonar for precision navigation underwater. It also incorporated an emergency surfacing capability. Still, it remained underpowered and in 1983 gave way to the Mark VIII SEAL Delivery Vehicle that remained in service until 2023.  

Mark VII Mod 2 SDV

Crew: 4 UDT & SEALs
Length: 5.7m/17ft 8 inches
Beam: 1.6m/5ft 6 inches
Surface Displacement: 2,200lbs
Propulsion: Electric Motor Driving 1x Propeller
Max Speed: 5kts
Max Range: 40nm
Operating Depth: 50–60ft

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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By 1830, Christian Sharps, born in New Jersey in 1811, had gone to work at the Harpers Ferry, Va., Arsenal, helping to produce firearms for the U.S. Army. In 1848, Sharps received his first breechloadingfirearms patent. By 1851, the gunmaker had struck out on his own and formed the Sharps Rifle Manufacturing Company in Hartford, Conn., to produce his simple and sturdy weapon design that remained relatively unchanged throughout the Civil War. It featured a breechblock that dropped down when the trigger guard was unlatched and moved forward.

Then, a linen or paper .52-caliber cartridge would be inserted into the breech. As the trigger guard was raised, a sharpened edge on the breechblock would shear off the end of the cartridge, exposing the powder. A common percussion cap was then placed on the cone, and the gun was ready to fire.

The first Sharps carbines were issued to U.S. troopers in 1854, and they remained the most widely issued cavalry shoulder arm throughout the conflict. One admiring Union officer remarked: “A cavalry carbine should be very simple in its mechanisim, with all its…parts well covered from the splashing of mud, or the accumulation of rest and dust. Sharps carbine combines all these qualities.”

Breechloaders allowed soldiers to load easily while lying prone, and the rifle version of Sharps was favored by the marksmen in the 1st and 2nd U.S. Sharpshooters, who used a custom model that included a hair trigger.

Debate about which guns actually “won the West” will probably go on indefinitely. The Colt, Winchester, Sharps, Springfield and other arms all have their advocates. But one firearm played a critical role in the West more than two centuries before Samuel Colt or Oliver Winchester saw the light of day. In the hands of Spanish frontiersmen—frontiersmen no less than Jim Bridger or Kit Carson—the comparatively primitive harquebus counterbalanced often overwhelming odds.

The vaunted Spanish expedition under Francisco Vásquez de Coronado that marched from New Spain (present-day Mexico) through parts of what today are Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas between 1540 and ’42 left scant evidence of its passage, and for the next four decades Spanish colonial authorities showed little interest in the region. In 1580, however, Friar Agustín Rodríguez, a Franciscan lay brother eager to convert heathen souls to Christianity, convinced the powers that be that many such souls were waiting to be saved north of the existing mining settlements in New Spain. So, in the largest of the northernmost settlements, Santa Bárbara, Chihuahua, an expedition took shape. As a friar (or three, as it turned out) could hardly travel through hostile country alone, eight soldiers and a captain joined the party.

For such a venture a detachment of nine soldiers was remarkably small. But its captain, Francisco Sánchez—nicknamed Chamuscado (“scorched”) for his flaming red beard—was a veteran of frontier service and knew his business. He made certain his men were well armed and well mounted, with a remuda of 90 horses at their disposal. For arms and armor the soldiers had harquebuses, swords, chain mail coats and breeches, and steel helmets. Armor also shielded their horses. Paramount were the harquebuses. Hernán Gallegos, who kept a journal of the expedition, wrote of a telling encounter with Indians soon after the party set out. “We fired quite a few harquebus shots,” he recalled, “at which the natives were very much frightened and said that they did not wish to quarrel with the Spaniards, but instead wanted to be our friends.”

Harquebuses of the late 16th century were of two basic types: the simple matchlock and the more advanced—albeit more complex and more expensive—wheellock. Writing in the early 1580s, Baltasar Obregón, another veteran of the frontier, offered this advice to explorers:

“Good harquebuses with supplies and duplicate parts should be carried. Most of them should be operated by fuse [match] because it often happens that the damp powder makes the firing of the flintlocks [wheellocks] difficult. Moreover, the harquebuses with fuses are easier to handle. The ones with flintlocks [wheellocks] often need a mechanic to make repairs and to replace the pieces that get out of order.”

In practiced hands a matchlock harquebus could fire two shots a minute. That wasn’t nearly as fast as a man could discharge arrows from a bow, but with six or eight armor-clad soldiers alternately loading and firing, harquebuses could be formidable weapons—or so the Spaniards hoped.

Chamuscado Heads North

On June 5, 1581, equipped with the requisite arms and armor, Chamuscado’s party—nine soldiers, three Franciscans (Friars Agustín, Francisco López and Juan de Santa María) and 19 Indian servants—rode north from Santa Bárbara, driving 600 head of stock before them. Descending the Río Conchos through rough country to its junction with the Río Grande (the site of present-day Presidio, Texas), they followed the latter northwest past the site of present-day El Paso. By August they had entered what today is central New Mexico and encountered the first of the multistory Indian pueblos. Such pueblos had no exterior doors at ground level. “The natives have ladders by means of which they climb to their quarters,” Gallegos observed. “These are movable wooden ladders, for when the Indians retire at night, they pull them up to protect themselves against enemies.” Meetings with the inhabitants proved peaceful, and the Spaniards were careful to keep things so.

In early September the party arrived at a cluster of pueblos along the Río Grande north of the site of present-day Albuquerque. Eager to return to New Spain with news of the expedition, Friar Juan set out alone from there on September 10, only to be killed by suspicious Indians. The party wouldn’t learn of his fate for weeks. 

Moving on to San Marcos Pueblo (in the Galisteo Basin, south of the site of present-day Santa Fe), Chamuscado questioned its inhabitants about rumored mines and about wild cattle (buffalo), of which the party had heard mention since leaving the Río Conchos. Taking up handfuls of earth, the Indians pointed eastward and said such beasts were as numerous as the grains they held. Days later, after crossing the higher, pinyon-dotted country to the east, the Spaniards came to a river—the upper reaches of the Pecos. In the distance downriver rose a column of smoke. Perhaps recalling Obregón’s caution that Indians used smoke signals to warn one another, the party approached guardedly and, in Gallegos’ recollection,  came upon “50 huts and tents made of hides with strong white flaps after the fashion of field tents. Here we were met by more than 400 warlike men armed with bows and arrows who asked us by means of signs what we wanted.”

Chamuscado and his men had come face to face with Plains Indians. Far outnumbered, they handled the situation with a proven tactic, as Gallegos recalled:

“We called the attention of all the Indians and then discharged a harquebus among them. They were terrified by the loud report and fell to the ground as if stunned.…We [then] asked them where the buffalo were, and they told us that there were large numbers two days farther on, as thick as grass on the plains.”

So, with an Indian guiding the way, they pressed on and soon encountered their quarry:

“At the water holes on the plains we found many buffalo, which roamed in great herds or droves of more than 500 head, both cows and bulls.…We killed 40 head with our harquebuses, to be used as food.…Indeed, it seemed as if the will of God had planned that no one should fire his harquebus at the cattle without felling one. This greatly astonished the guide who had led us to the said cattle. After leaving us, he told [others] of what he had seen us do.”

Around the campfire that evening the Spaniards agreed that efforts to find the buffalo had been well worth it. “Their meat is delicious,” Gallegos wrote, “and to our taste as palatable as that of our [beef] cattle.” They dried the remainder into jerky for the journey ahead.

For another week or two they explored the surrounding country, possibly reaching the headwaters of the Cimarron River. Finally, in mid-October they made their way back to San Marcos Pueblo. There they faced a challenge that called for a decisive response. “While we were at [San Marcos] some Indians from another settlement, which we named Malagón, killed three of our horses,” Gallegos recalled. Chamuscado promptly ordered five soldiers to saddle up and bring back the culprits, by force if necessary. When the soldiers reached Malagón, a pueblo of three to four stories with plazas and streets, they called out to its inhabitants, who had sought refuge on the rooftops, and asked who had killed the horses. When the Indians replied they had committed no such deed, the Spaniards again made a show of force, as recorded by Gallegos:

“We discharged the harquebuses to make the Indians think we were going to kill them, although we incurred great risk in doing so, for we were only five men facing the task of attacking 80 houses with more than a thousand inhabitants. When we had fired our harquebuses, the natives became frightened, went into their houses and stayed there.…We challenged them to come out of their pueblo into the open so that we might see how brave they were; [then] some hurled themselves from the corridors into the open in an attempt to escape, whereupon [two soldiers] rushed after them [on horseback], and each seized an Indian by the hair. The natives were very swift, but the horses overtook them.”

With the captives under their gun muzzles, the soldiers took them to San Marcos for punishment. The proposed penalty was grim indeed—public execution by beheading. Then one of the soldiers came up with an ingenious plan.

“It was agreed that at the time when the Indians were to be beheaded the friars should rush out to free them—tussle with us and snatch the victims away from us in order that the Indians should love their rescuers.…All was so done. At the moment when the soldiers were about to cut off the heads of the Indians, the friars came out in flowing robes and saved the captives from their perilous plight.”

The plan worked. On Indian assurances of the friars’ well-being, Chamuscado and his men then set out to explore more of the pueblo country, first riding west to fortresslike Acoma Pueblo, atop a mesa some 50 miles beyond the Río Grande valley. Rumors told of riches somewhere in the region, but time was running out due to the approach of winter. Finding no gold near Acoma, the soldiers pushed farther west, riding another 70 miles to Zuni Pueblo (in present-day west-central New Mexico). There they heard of yet more fabled mines and pueblos. But provisions were running low, and their supply of horseshoes was nearly exhausted.

So, amid falling snow, they turned back for the Río Grande. When they reached the pueblos and announced their intention to head home, Friars Agustín and Francisco demurred. After all, in their eyes the whole purpose of the expedition had been to convert lost souls. Thus, despite the since-discovered murder of Friar Juan, they insisted on remaining with the Indians. Reluctantly, Chamuscado agreed, and on the last day of January 1582, after setting aside tools and trade goods for the friars’ use, he and his men started south for New Spain.

The return trip down the Río Grande was no easy journey. “We were beset by many difficulties,” Gallegos recalled, “[and] we had to stand guard every night wearing armor.” Chamuscado fell ill to the point his men “decided to build a litter, which, slung between two horses, could take him quickly to Christian lands.” Having no tools, they had to cut the timber to construct a litter with their swords. Days later, despite their efforts, Chamuscado died. His men buried him—among the first of many graves Spaniards would dig along that trail in years to come. Finally, on April 15, 1582, the party straggled into Santa Bárbara, firing their harquebuses to alert townsfolk of their arrival.

Espejo’s Expedition

Among those who witnessed the homecoming of Chamuscado’s men was a prosperous cattle rancher from central New Spain named Antonio de Espejo—who, at the time, was hiding from the law. Months earlier, near Aguas Calientes, Antonio and brother Pedro had confronted two vaqueros for having shirked their labors during a roundup. Pedro had killed one of the men and wounded the other, whereupon local authorities had jailed him and imposed a heavy fine on Antonio. Unwilling to pay it, Antonio had slipped away and ridden north, reaching Santa Bárbara shortly before Chamuscado’s men. Espejo listened carefully as the soldiers described the region they had explored. He also noted grumbling from local Franciscans that two of their number had been left behind in pueblo country.

Like other adventurers who had found success in the New World, Espejo was intelligent, observant and willing to take risks. After weighing the circumstances, he proposed to organize, finance and lead an expedition north to “rescue” the Franciscans. With a willing friar and 15 soldiers—the latter armed and armored as Chamuscado’s party had been—Espejo left Santa Bárbara in November 1582. Accompanying the party were Indian servants, interpreters and a remuda of 115 horses and mules.

Down the Río Conchos they went, then up the Río Grande, retracing Chamuscado’s route. On reaching a point just south of the site of present-day El Paso, the horses were spent, so the men halted for a week to reshoe their mounts and craft stocks for their harquebuses. Diego Pérez de Luxán, who kept a journal of the entrada, described their gunsmithing work:

“[The Indians’] mode of fighting is with Turkish bows and arrows and bludgeons half a yard in length made of tornillo wood [screwbean mesquite], which is very strong and flexible. We all made stocks for our harquebuses from this tornillo because the wood was very suitable for the purpose.”

Their guns restocked and horses rested, the men pressed on. By mid-January 1583 they had entered future New Mexico in weather cold enough to freeze the water holes. Moving steadily north along the Río Grande, they halted in early February at a pueblo near the site of present-day La Joya and there received grim news. “The Indians told us by means of signs that the friars had been killed,” Luxán wrote, likely for the tools and trade goods Chamuscado had left with them. Girding for battle, Espejo and his men rode north to Puaray Pueblo (mistakenly referred to by expedition members as Puala, just north of the site of present-day Albuquerque), where the friars had been slain. It lay abandoned.

At that point Espejo could have, and perhaps should have, turned for home. En route, however, he’d heard the usual rumors about rich mines and resolved to seek them out. Breaking away from the Río Grande, the party headed northwest along the Jemez River and then turned west, passing Acoma Pueblo and riding through intermittent snowfalls. As the Spaniards rested their horses just beyond Zuni Pueblo, an Indian came into camp. The man, Obregón recalled, picked up a Spanish trumpet and “said that 60 days from his town toward the northwest was something shiny like that.” When pressed for specifics, the Indian said the people of that region wear the shiny metal on their arms and heads.

That was enough for Espejo’s men. Saddling up, they rode hard west. Days prior Zuni elders had assured them they would have no trouble, Obregón noted, as their harquebuses “shot fire and made the stones crumble like the lightning from heaven.”

There was no Indian trouble, at least initially, but their journey was long, and the country rugged. Just west of the Little Colorado River (near the site of present-day Winslow, Ariz.) the party negotiated a narrow, dangerous trail through a dense, rough woodland. “We descended a slope so steep and perilous,” Luxán recalled, “that a mule belongingto Captain Antonio de Espejo fell and was dashed to pieces.” Regardless, the Spaniards pressed on and finally found the mines “in a very rough sierra, and so worthless that we did not find in any of them a trace of silver, as they were copper mines and poor.” By then it was early May, and they had traveled some 260 miles west of the Río Grande.

So, they turned back, retracing their steps to Zuni by month’s end. At that point the party split, half the soldiers having agreed to escort the discouraged friar back to New Spain. Espejo and eight others continued east without incident until approaching a rancheria near Acoma. There real trouble started. “[The Indians] surprised us with a shower of arrows and much shouting,” Luxán recalled. “We rushed at once to the horses, firing our harquebuses. For this reason they wounded only one horse.”

The reason for the attack soon came to light. Days earlier one of Espejo’s men, Francisco Barreto, had “acquired” an unwilling Indian woman as a servant, and she had managed to slip away and forewarn her people. Determined to get her back, Barreto sought a parley with the attackers, offering to exchange other captive women. He asked Luxán to cover his back. As a gesture of good faith, Barreto left both his sword and harquebus on his saddle. He beseeched Luxán to do the same. Against his better judgment, Luxán laid down his arms and approached the Indians afoot with Barreto and the captive women.

Luxán’s misgivings were justified, as the group walked into another shower of arrows, two of which hit Barreto in the cheek and arm. In the confusion the captive women escaped. Meanwhile, Luxán and Barreto promptly retreated to their horses to recover their weapons. Considering the odds against them, the Spaniards decided it best to leave the field and continue toward the Río Grande.

There more trouble awaited them, for Puaray Pueblo, the site of the friars’ murders, was no longer abandoned. As the Spaniards approached, some 30 Indians hurled insults at them from the rooftops. In no mood to negotiate, Espejo ordered an attack. “The corners of the pueblo were taken by four men,” Luxán recalled, “and four others with two servants began to seize those natives who showed themselves.” Placing their captives in a kiva, the Spaniards set fire to the pueblo. “At once we took out the prisoners, two at a time, and lined them up against some cottonwoods close to the pueblo of Puala [sic], where they were garroted and shot many times until they were dead. Sixteen were executed, not counting those who burned to death.”

With that murderous matter settled, the party continued east across the Río Grande, still on the lookout for mines. Food was getting scarce, so they halted at Pecos Pueblo to ask for provisions. But word had spread of their depredations at Puaray. When the terrified Indians at Pecos retreated to their rooftops, the Spaniards edged into the pueblo, Obregón recalled, “with much precaution and care [and] discharged some of the harquebuses while passing through the plaza and streets. When [the Indians] saw that they were so determined and well equipped with arms, they became so frightened that hardly one of them dared to appear.” Finally, an old man showed himself, begging the intruders “not to fire the harquebuses, nor to start fighting, because they wished to be their friends and would give everything they desired and needed.”

Thus reprovisioned, Espejo’s men turned south for New Spain, following the Pecos River. On Sept. 10, 1583, after 10 months on the trail, they arrived home. Espejo’s exaggerated account of the entrada made no mention of the disappointing mines or the 16 Indians executed at Puaray. But it did include a note that practically guaranteed other expeditions would follow:

“In the greater part of those provinces, there is an abundance of game beasts and birds.…There are also fine wooded mountains with trees of all kinds, salines and rivers containing a great variety of fish. Carts and wagons can be driven through most of this region; and there are good pastures for cattle as well as lands suitable for vegetables or grain crops, whether irrigated or depending on seasonal rains. There are many rich mines, too.”

Other expeditions did follow, one in 1590 and another in 1598, both larger and more heavily armed than Espejo’s. The era of the frontier firearm had begun. 

this article first appeared in wild west magazine

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For further reading on this topic author Garavaglia recommends The Rediscovery of New Mexico, 1580–1594 and Obregón’s History of 16th Century Explorations in Western America, both translated and edited by George Peter Hammond and Agapito Rey.

Among the bitter lessons learned during the costly American seizure of Japanese-occupied Tarawa in November 1943 was the need for ship-based close support in the interval between bombardment and a landing. Using the hull of the LCI (landing craft infantry) as a basis, the Navy devised the Landing Craft Support (Large) (Mark 3), or simply LCS. Entering service in 1944 and combat at Iwo Jima in February 1945, it packed the heaviest armament per ton of any warship, earning the sobriquet “Mighty Midget”. British Commonwealth forces also used it in Borneo, at Tarakan and Balikpapan.  

Of the 130 built, only five were lost—three sunk by Japanese Shinyo suicide motorboats in the Philippines and two falling victim to kamikaze aircraft off Okinawa. After supporting the Okinawa landings, the LCSs were fitted with radar and joined destroyers on picket duty against kamikaze attacks. It was while so engaged that Lieutenant Richard Miles McCool Jr., commander of LCS-122, saw the destroyer William D. Porter mortally stricken on June 10, 1945, by an Aichi D3A2, yet managed to rescue its crew without loss. The next evening two D3As hit LCS-122, but the seriously wounded McCool rallied his men to save their vessel and was subsequently awarded the Medal of Honor.   In 1949 the LCS was reclassified the LSSL (landing ship support large), and it continued to serve in Korea, Vietnam and other conflicts in foreign hands until 2007. One of two survivors discovered in Thailand is undergoing restoration to its World War II configuration at the Landing Craft Support Museum [usslcs102.org] in Vallejo, Calif.  

This story appeared in the Winter 2024 issue of Military History magazine.

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In his new book Duel in the Deep (Naval Institute Press), author David Sears tells a story that he subtitles “The Hunters, the Hunted, and a High Seas Fight to the Finish.” The central incident is the tale of an outmoded four-stack destroyer, the USS Borie, and its intense fight with the German U-405 on October 31, 1943, a “swashbuckling, no-holds-barred brawl of cannons, machine guns, small arms, and even knives and spent shell casings.” Sears builds up to that that epic struggle by outlining the ebbs and flows of the Battle of the Atlantic, when Germany’s submersible craft attempted to starve Britain into submission and keep the Allies reeling by sinking the ships carrying necessary food and supplies across the Atlantic. In a high-stakes game of technological cat and mouse, both sides attempted to gain the upper hand in the contest with advanced technology and, on the Allied side, intensive codebreaking work.

Sears, who served in the U.S. Navy aboard a destroyer himself, uses diaries, letters, and contemporary newspaper interviews to bring his story to life. In this interview with World War II editor Tom Huntington, Sears talks about his book.

No larger collection of artillery had ever been brought to a war’s battlefields in the Western Hemisphere before the Civil War. More than 200,000 men, trained and educated like no other subset of soldiers in this war of amateurs, handled and operated these big guns.

The story continues that the Civil War changed the standards, rules, and results of artillery use, advancing technological, tactical, and other norms forward from the Napoleonic wars, with their smoothbore guns and inaccurate round shot, toward a present and future determined by rifled guns that could be expected to hit their targets with regularity. Artillery would dominate from here on, and the side that figured out how to use it best would surely be victorious.

Not so fast, says Earl J. Hess. The professor emeritus of history at Lincoln Memorial University and author of 30 books on the Civil War argues in his 2022 study Civil War Field Artillery: Promise and Performance on the Battlefield that these advances were overrated in determining the war’s outcome as well as the proper place of its artillery on the timeline of military history.

Let’s get right to the heart of it: The Civil War is often considered the “first modern war.” You argue that it was mostly a traditional one. Please explain. 

Anyone who views the Civil War as the first modern war has a very hard case to prove. In my view it overwhelmingly was closer to warfare during the Napoleonic era 50 years before than to World War I 50 years later. A Napoleonic soldier would have been quite comfortable on a Civil War battlefield, while a Civil War soldier would have been stunned by the battlefield created by the Great War of 1914–18. 

In light of that, what were the differences between the artillery forces of previous wars and those of the Civil War? 

Civil War artillery saw only relatively slight improvement over that used in the Napoleonic era. The biggest difference was rifling, which applied to only about half the pieces used during the Civil War. Yet, because mostly of problems with igniting long-range ordnance and problems with seeing targets at great distances, there is no proof that rifled artillery produced any noticeable results on Civil War battlefields other than the odd long-range shot that hit its target because the gun crew happened to be particularly good. 

What were the main improvements over the past? 

Another difference between Civil War artillery and that of previous decades was adding heavier ordnance to the mix. Six-pounders were phased out during the first half of the Civil War in favor of 10-pounders and 12-pounders. Also, the trend was toward eliminating all decorations and handles on the artillery tube because they caused weak points that could not resist the stress of firing as well. Sleek-looking designs, heavier ordnance, and lighter pieces for easier moving around were the trends evident by the 1850s and 1860s. All this amounts to an improvement on the age-old system of artillery, but not a revolutionary break from it. 

What were the greatest disappointments of Civil War artillery? 

Probably the greatest disappointment was the failure of rifled pieces to prove their worth on the battlefield. Their limitations became apparent to many. That is why about half the pieces used by both sides during the war still were smoothbore. Many gunners were convinced they were at least as good as the new rifles, or better. 

How much did the improvements and disappointments have to do with winning and losing the war? 

Civil War artillery failed to achieve more than a supporting role to infantry. It did not come to dominate the battlefield as would happen along the Western Front during World War I. Even in static campaigns like that at Petersburg, and despite the heavy concentration of artillery pieces along the 35-mile-long trench system at Petersburg and Richmond, the guns failed to provide a campaign-winning edge for either side. That does not mean they were unimportant, by any means. They could and did on occasion elevate their role on the battlefield to something like a decisive edge under the right circumstances. One could argue that Union guns did so on January 2, 1863, at Stones River, and Confederate guns did so at the Hornet’s Nest at Shiloh, for example. But far more common was their accomplishment in helping infantry hold a position, a much less prominent, though important, role. 

One of the issues you cover in your book is the conflict over control of the artillery between the artillery itself and the infantry. How important was that, and how did it resolve? 

Artillery was a supporting arm of the infantry, and to a lesser extent of the cavalry. It did not have the ability to operate independently, always needing support from foot or mounted troops. That is one of the reasons army culture considered it best to vest infantry commanders with the authority to command artillery. Batteries were assigned to infantry brigades and were under the infantry brigade commander’s orders and relied on his infantry brigade staff for their supplies as well. 

Some artillery officers complained of this arrangement for several reasons. The most prominent one was that it inhibited the concentration of artillery on the battlefield and thus robbed it of its potential to play a decisive role in combat. But more importantly, they complained that infantry brigade staff simply did not know how to supply batteries very well. Another important reason for their complaint was that dispersing the batteries to infantry units greatly limited advancement for artillery officers, most of whom could look forward to holding nothing higher than a captaincy of a battery. 

While historians have widely accepted the opinion of artillery officers without question, I argue that their complaint has only limited validity. The complaint about the inability to concentrate the guns to play a prominent role on the battlefield does not hold water. The most visible concentrations of guns, at Shiloh and Stones River, took place in armies that practiced dispersion of batteries to infantry brigades. The system was flexible. If infantry officers wanted to, they had no difficulty concentrating batteries for a specific job on the battlefield.

There must have been something to their complaints…

Their complaints were quite valid when it came to administrative control, rather than battlefield control. They needed their own staff to supply the batteries and to constantly train the men. 

By the midpoint of the Civil War, the major field armies of both sides began to group field artillery into units of their own, called artillery brigades in some armies and artillery battalions in others. Between battles, these units were under the control of an artillery officer appointed to his position, and he was responsible for supply and training. But during a battle, control of those units reverted to infantry commanders at the division or corps levels. This was not everything the artillery officers wanted, but it was more than they ever had before in American military history. Moreover, it essentially was the system used during the 20th century wars as well.

In the Civil War this arrangement improved the administration and upkeep of the artillery force, but it did not noticeably improve its battlefield performance, which was as good early in the war as it was later in the conflict. Even though some infantry officers foolishly ordered the guns about even though they knew nothing about how to use them, an equal number were keen students of artillery practice and could use the guns well on the battlefield.

There was a third group of infantry officers who knew little if anything about how to use artillery but were wise enough to allow their battery commanders a completely free hand in operating under fire. In other words, there is not such a clear-cut difference between the dispersion policy of 1861–62 and the concentration policy of 1863–65.

How should we think of the Civil War as it occupies the space between Napoleonic warfare and World War I? 

I do not see the Civil War as a transitional conflict between the Napoleonic wars and World War I so much as a minor variation on the Napoleonic model. The things that made the Great War the first truly modern conflict were largely or wholly absent in the Civil War. If that is transition, then one could say there was a huge leap across a big chasm between 1865 and 1914, but an easy step back from 1861 to 1815.

this article first appeared in civil war times magazine

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Land mines were used by all sides during the Vietnam War and caused significant casualties. In 1965 alone, more than one-third of U.S. Marine Corps casualties were caused by mines and explosive booby traps. A modern land mine is a concealed explosive device emplaced under, on, or even above the ground to kill or wound enemy troops, or destroy or disable vehicles.

The land mines of the Vietnam era were triggered by direct contact or command-detonated by wire. The most common contact triggers were pressure or pull (tripwire). Anti-personnel mines used a combination of blast and fragmentation effects. Most anti-vehicular mines used blast effect. Land mines are most effectively used in fixed defenses or for “area denial.” Rather than serving as a barrier to enemy movement, the purpose of a defensive minefield is to disrupt and slow an enemy’s advance and channelize him into pre-planned fields of fire and kill-zones.  

Why Land Mines?

Land mines were used by both sides in contested and remote areas. The U.S. deployed millions of air-dropped small anti-personnel “button mines” as part of the McNamara Line strategy to deter NVA infiltration into South Vietnam from North Vietnam and Laos. The explosive charge in the button mines decomposed quickly. Only slightly more effective were the BLU-43/B and BLU-44/B “Dragontooth” mines. The VC made extensive use of anti-personnel mines and booby traps in likely American/ARVN assembly areas, high ground, hedgerows, tree lines, shady areas, trail junctions, and fence lines and gates.

The VC normally did not have enough material to mine an entire fence line. U.S. troops quickly learned to bypass the gates and batter down the fence at some distance from the gate. Yet all too often a later patrol would assume that an already battered-down section of the fence was clear.

The VC, however, were highly disciplined about keeping their mines under surveillance. As soon as one patrol passed through a cleared area, the VC would move in and mine the gap. The VC were methodical about marking their mines so that their troops or local villagers would not walk into them. The markers were cleverly concealed, but known to locals. American and South Vietnamese patrols generally tried to secure cooperation of one or more locals before initiating an area sweep. That was not easy. Villagers might be VC sympathizers or intimidated by other sympathizers who would hold them accountable later.  

this article first appeared in vietnam magazine

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Types of Land Mines

Command-detonated anti-personnel directional mines were widely used. The U.S. M-18 “Claymore” mine blasted 700 steel balls in a 60-degree arc, 6-feet high, out to a range of about 150 feet. The Claymore was triggered by an electrical blasting cap via a wire with a hand generator.

The VC used any Claymore they captured. The VC and NVA were also supplied with the Chinese-made DH-10 Directional Mine, known as the “ChiCom Claymore.” Crudely made but larger and more powerful than the U.S. M-18, it was devastatingly effective when emplaced in a tree, pointed down a jungle trail. The VC also used the DH-10 to mine anticipated helicopter landing zones.  

The standard U.S. anti-personnel mines were the M-14 and M-16. Called the “Toe Popper,” the M-14 was a pressure-triggered blast mine with a relatively small charge. The M-16 was a fragmentation mine designed after the World War II German S-mine, called a “Bouncing Betty.” When triggered, either by stepping on one of the exposed pressure prongs or pulling a tripwire, a short delay fuze detonated a secondary charge which blew the main body of the mine 5 to 6 feet into the air. A second, slightly longer-delayed fuze then detonated the main charge, spraying fragmentation out to 25 meters.  

An Enduring Menace

Anti-vehicular mines were used to destroy or disable trucks, armored personnel carriers, and sometimes tanks. They were either pressure- or command-detonated by wire. Road-clearing became an almost daily ritual, especially around major bases. Sweep teams of combat engineers with mine detectors worked the roads each morning, while flank security teams screened both sides of the roads looking for evidence of digging, detonating wires, and even ambushes. It was slow and tedious.  

Although North Vietnam manufactured mines and some were supplied by China, the majority of mines used by communist forces in Vietnam were improvised. Enemy forces in Vietnam were exceptionally innovative at turning anything into a mine—including captured or unexploded ordnance such as hand grenades and mortar and artillery shells; ammunition cans; oil drums; beer and soda cans; and even bicycle frames. Triggering devices included flashlight batteries, wristwatches, field telephone hand cranks, and mousetraps.

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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Fishkill, New York was arguably the fulcrum of espionage efforts by Patriots in the American Revolution. Fishkill is where Founding Father John Jay coordinated counterintelligence efforts around undercover agent Enoch Crosby. Crosby’s successful efforts to infiltrate Loyalist militia networks during the war inspired the first best-selling novel in U.S. history, The Spy, by James Fenimore Cooper, published in 1821. Cooper had gleaned the exploits of Crosby from his handler, Jay, over many dinners and created a composite spy character named Harvey Birch. Crosby eventually published his own memoirs several years later, The Spy Unmasked, though unfortunately the sales of his original accounts paled in comparison to Cooper’s smash novel. 

What is largely unknown even today is the existence of the site of an invisible ink laboratory located in what is now East Fishkill. Operated by John Jay’s brother, Sir James Jay, it produced the unique, magical ink that Gen. George Washington heavily relied on for use by many of his spies. This included not only both the Culper Spy Ring of Major Benjamin Tallmadge and the Dayton Spy Ring of Col. Elias Dayton of Elizabeth, New Jersey, but also some very sensitive correspondence of diplomat Silas Deane of Wethersfield, Connecticut and Elias Boudinot of Elizabeth, New Jersey. 

Washington’s Secret Lab

The first of 32 letters involving Gen. Washington, the spymaster, and James Jay (including 10 between Washington and Jay) is an introductory letter about the invisible ink between these two Founding Fathers—to Washington from John Jay:

Fish Kill 19th Novr 1778

Sir

This will be delivered by my Brother, [James] who will communicate & explain to your Excellency a mode of Correspondence, which may be of use, provided proper agents can be obtained. I have experienced its Efficacy by a three Years Trial. We shall remain absolutely silent on the Subject. I have the Honor to be with the highest Esteem & Respect Your Excellency’s most obedient Servant

John Jay

James Jay (1732-1815) was a physician and amateur chemist, who studied and practiced medicine in Great Britain from the 1750s until the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. James was knighted by King George III in 1763 for his efforts in raising money for King’s (Columbia) College of New York as well as Ben Franklin’s projected college, now the University of Pennsylvania. James was described as “haughty, proud, overbearing, supercilious, pedantic, vain, and ambitious” as well as being a notorious over-charger; eventually his medical practice “became entirely confined among his own relations.” His writings included a pamphlet written in 1772, Reflections and Observations on the Gout. James developed his invisible ink in 1775 and used it throughout the war in correspondence with his brother, John. He never disclosed the chemistry of the ink.

The Problem With INk

Invisible ink letters were already being composed using any liquid that dried to a clear color. The liquid also needed to be slightly acidic such as milk, lemon, lime or grapefruit juice as well as vinegar. When it was heated by fire, it would redevelop and allow for reading of the intended content. This reaction was able to happen because the heat weakened the fibers in the paper, thereby turning the ink brown and visible. 

James’s invisible ink, however, was unique. The skilled chemist was able to create an ink that would not react to heat. This would prove to be the bane of British leadership in New York which was headed by Gen. Sir Henry Clinton and his intelligence officers, Maj. Henry Beckwith and Major John André.

By April of 1779, the Culper Ring had possession of Jay’s invisible ink and developer, as evidenced by the fact that Abraham Woodhull, aka Culper, wrote on April 12th to Tallmadge that he had received a vial of the invisible stain. 

Washington soon after informed Boudinot he could share James Jay’s secret concoction in a May 3, 1779 letter: “It is in my power, I believe, to procure a liquid which nothing but a counter liquor (rubbed over the paper afterwards) can make legible—Fire which will bring lime juice, milk & other things of this kind to light, has no effect on it.” 

The recipe for this special ink centered around gallotannic acid. This is found in the galls of many species of oak trees. As Washington indicated to Boudinot, anyone wish-ing to develop any letter written in Jay’s invisible ink had to have the counterpart liquid, or developer, also known as the reagent.

Summer 1779 proved to be an important turning point in secret correspondence in the American Revolution. Unbeknownst to Washington, his favorite battlefield commander, Maj. Gen. Benedict Arnold, had just begun correspondence with Maj. Andre in May, the month after his wedding to the fetching Peggy Shippen, daughter of a prominent Tory family. Also, that summer the British intercepted a letter of June 21st from Caleb Brewster to Tallmadge, revealing that Anna “Nancy” Strong, wife of Justice Selah Strong, was part of the Culper Ring.

Improving Secrecy

Another hapless event happened on July 3. Tallmadge was embarrassed to report by letter to Washington that he had lost his horse, some guineas and some important papers in a British surprise attack on his camp during the early morning of July 2. Washington replied to his case officer of the Culper Ring: “I have just received your letter of the 3d—the loss of your papers was certainly a most unlucky accident—and shows how dangerous it is to keep papers of any consequence at an advanced post—I beg you will take care to guard against the like in future—If you will send me a trusty person I will replace the guineas.” 

As if all this was not enough, on July 5, a letter from Woodhull in Setauket, Long Island advised his childhood friend Tallmadge that he was under suspicion and therefore could no longer go into the British army camp in New York City. He further informed of his plan to move from the city back to Setauket, adding, “I shall endeavor to establish a confidential friend [Robert Townsend] to step into my place if agreeable direct in your next and forward the ink.”

Over the next several weeks, both Washington and Tallmadge scrambled to improve the tradecraft and the secrecy of the Culper Ring. Two letters on the same day, July 25, attest to these mutual efforts. Washington wrote to Tallmadge from West Point: “All the white Ink I now have (indeed all that there is any prospect of getting soon) is sent in Phial No. I. by Colo. [Samuel] Webb. the liquid in No. 2 is the Counterpart which renders the other visible by wetting the paper with a fine brush after the first has been used & is dry—You will send these to C——r Junr as soon as possible & I beg that no mention may ever be made of your having received such liquids from me or any one else—In all cases & at all times this prudence & circumspection is necessary but it is indispensably so now as I am informed that Govr Tryon has a preparation of the same kind, or something similar to it which may lead to a detection if it is ever known that a matter of this sort has passed from me.” 

Making the Laboratory

That same day, a letter from Tallmadge to Washington demonstrates Tallmadge’s rushed efforts to create his famous code book, which is actually only four pages. The letter was written from Ridgefield, Conn., and enclosed the codes of numbers and words to correspond with the Culper spy ring. The intent was to have a reference guide for key players in the Culper espionage efforts that would not identify the participants to anyone who might intercept a letter. This way, despite interception and decoding, the opposition would still not know key individuals referred to by code names.

By spring 1780, the volume of letters between Washington and James Jay increased, as Washington had suddenly run out of the invisible ink in April. Washington wrote to Jay, who was with his brother John in Fishkill, in a bit of panic on April 9: “The liquid with which you were so obliging as to furnish me for the purpose of private correspondence is exhausted; and as I have found it very useful, I take the liberty to request you will favour me with a further supply. I have still a sufficiency of the materials for the counterpart on hand. Should you not have by you the necessary ingredients, if they are to be procured at any of the Hospitals within your reach, I would wish you to apply for them in my name. I hope you will excuse the trouble I give you on this occasion….P.S. If you should not be able to prepare the liquid in time for the bearer to bring, & will be so good as to commit it to the care of Colo. Hay he will forward it to me.”

James Jay replied to Washington on April 13, “I have the honor of yours of the 9th instant and I do myself the pleasure to send you the medicine you desire, in a little box, which I hope you will receive with this letter. I wish I could furnish you with a greater quantity, because I am afraid you may be too sparing of the little you will receive…This little however is all that remains of what I brought with me from Europe—I have now the principal ingredients for the composition by me, & the rest may be procured: but the misfortune is, that I have no place where a little apparatus may be erected for preparing it…” 

The letter goes on about his need for an appropriate laboratory to reproduce the ingredients. Jay concluded: “I shall soon have the satisfaction of sending you such a supply that you may not only use it freely yourself, but even spare a little to a friend, if necessary, without the apprehension of future want.” 

Washington’s Favorite Ink

Washington was delighted to receive more of Jay’s ink by special courier. It would be interesting to know who was entrusted with such a special, sensitive duty. A likely candidate would have been one of Tallmadge’s colleagues in Col. Elisha Sheldon’s Second Continental Light Dragoons, an elite cavalry unit in which Tallmadge was an officer.

In a letter to Jay, Washington expressed his improved state of affairs—and also his support for having an invisible ink laboratory constructed for Jay. Instead of being obvious about the content in question, Washington cloaked his wording to Jay: “I have had the pleasure of receiving your favours of the 13th & 20th of April. The Box of Medicine mentioned in the former came safe to hand, and was the more acceptable, as I had entirely expended the first parcel with which you had been kind enough to furnish me. I have directed Colo. Hay to assist you in erecting a small Elaboratory from which I hope you will derive improvement and amusement, and the public some advantages.” 

Washington then wrote to Lt. Col. Udny Hay, deputy quartermaster general, who was located at Fishkill because of the town’s supply depot for the Continental Army and patriot militia. He informed Hay that Jay asked for a day or two to build a small “Elaboratory, as he purposes making some experiments which may be of public utility and has already furnished me with some Chymical preparations from which I have derived considerable advantages I think it proper to gratify him.” 

Untraceable

Following a year and a half of “on again, off again” secret correspondence, Maj. Gen. Benedict Arnold and Maj. John André met on the shoreline in the woods south of West Point on Sept. 22, 1780. On that same fateful day in 1776, Capt. Nathan Hale had been hanged as a spy by the British in Manhattan. Several days earlier, on Sept. 19, James Jay wrote the last of any existing letters between himself and Washington before war’s end. He apologized for not supplying the “medicine” sooner due to financial constraints. It was evident from the letter and its warm closing that Jay held Washington in high esteem. Years later, in 1784 Jay wrote to Washington, asking him to validate his secret service, which he did. This letter was penned from London, where he lived out the rest of his life.

The invisible ink and Tallmadge’s code book proved largely effective. None of the agents or couriers, nor Tallmadge the case officer, were positively identified or captured by the British. Details of the efforts of James Jay and the Culper Ring did not come to light until the 1930s research of Long Island historian Morton Pennypacker. The team effort of Washington as spymaster, coupled with the many brave agents and couriers (as well as Tallmadge), blended with a talented chemist in James Jay to become a formidable force against the mighty British military. They used ingenuity and creativity in their quest for freedom and independence from the British global empire.

The location of Jay’s secret laboratory is adjacent to the temporary home of John Jay which was the 1740 Judge Theodorus Van Wyck House, located in the Wiccopee hamlet of what is now East Fishkill. This was for many years on the property of today’s large IBM campus. The lab was lost to history sometime after the war, while the Van Wyck House was unfortunately demolished by IBM in the 1970s.

this article first appeared in military history quarterly

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The year 1873 saw the introduction of two game-changing firearms—the Winchester Model 1873 lever-action rifle and the Colt M1873 Single Action Army (aka “Peacemaker”) revolver. What set them apart from the array of available arms was that they were among the first chambered for center-fire metallic cartridges to be used in tandem.

Each firearm initially used its own proprietary round. The Model 1873 was chambered for the .44-40 Winchester cartridge, which went on to become one of the most popular rounds in firearms history. Purpose-built for the U.S. Cavalry, the Peacemaker was initially designed with a 7½-inch barrel, for accuracy at longer ranges, and chambered for use with the hard-hitting .45 Colt round. Not to rest on its own laurels, Colt then offered civilian versions of its revolver chambered for Winchester’s increasingly popular .44-40 cartridge, as well as the latter’s .38-40 and .32-20 rounds, thus sparing anyone who owned both firearms from having to carry two different calibers of ammunition. As attested by the images on the following pages, everyone from lawmen and outlaws to everyday cowhands and shepherds to headline entertainers were soon snapping up both manufacturers’ Model 1873s.

Another aspect that set apart the 1873s was shrewd marketing, including testimonials from famed Westerners of the era. Winchester and Colt each advertised its guns through such motivated Western dealers as E.C. Meacham, of St. Louis, and Carlos Gove, of Denver. Winchester’s 1875 catalog featured praise from Wild West showman Buffalo Bill Cody, who wrote the company on behalf of prospective buyers, “For hunting, I pronounce your improved Winchester the boss.” Writer Ned Buntline, whose florid dime novels birthed many of the legends associated with Buffalo Bill, tirelessly hyped both the Winchester ’73 and the Colt Single Action Army. For much of his career Texas Ranger Frank Hamer, the man who in 1934 brought outlaws Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow to ground, carried a Colt Peacemaker he dubbed “Old Lucky.” Bill Tilghman, the famed U.S. marshal out of Oklahoma, was known to carry both a Winchester ’73 and a Peacemaker, as did notorious outlaws Billy the Kid and Pearl Hart, though clearly not to either manufacturer’s detriment. 

Winchester produced a whopping 720,000 Model 1873 rifles through 1923, while Colt rolled out more than 357,000 first-generation Single Action Army revolvers through 1940. By then both companies had claimed the title “The Gun That Won the West” for their respective Models 1873. The Peacemaker is still in production, and modern-day replicas of both firearms remain popular among present-day cowboy action shooters. They’ve certainly earned their reputation. 

this article first appeared in wild west magazine

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