Payback.....A Colt WW1 1911

When I was a boy of two, my father died. He was a sportsman and owned a variety of firearms and fishing equipment. Regrettably, my mother was forced to sell much of his belongings to keep our family afloat. Of course, she did not know the fair market value. She trusted the buyers, my father's former friends, to be fair with her. Some were men of honor, others had no scruples about taking advantage of a widow and two toddlers. Such is often the case when a gun owner passes to the 500 yard range in the sky where bulleyes are granted by divine intervention.

Ever since Colt decided to reproduce a WW1 1911 replica, I have lusted after one. I have kept an ear to the ground to no avail trying to find a used one, and the price of the pistol new was hard to justify. Two weeks ago, when I expressed my condolences to a co-worker over the loss of her husband, we got to talking about him. It seemed he was a sporadic gun accumulator, and the lady eventually asked me to have a look at his things. A few days later, I drove over with the expectation of finding a Glock or two, and perhaps a Steven's shotgun.

As I held Vicki's young uncomprehending son in my lap, I knew that someday, he would be where I once was. He would wonder if his father's friend who shook his young hand at church and ruffled his hair on the basketball court really was a friend. There are so many things lost to a boy raised without a father, not the least of which is the guidance needed to determine a true friend.

After a bit of coffee, Vicki and I finally got around to the reason I was there. She told me she had taken David's guns to a dealer in town and sold most of them. She said the pawn broker accepted what the dealer would not. I immediately regretted that I had not asked her to wait for me to evaluate the firearms, but I held my tongue. I knew what had happened. Vicki went on to tell me she had saved me one because she had overheard me talking about my Colt between cases at work. She then removed a white box from atop the refrigerator and handed it to me. On the outside was an orange sticker warning that the pistol inside lacked a firing pin safety. Vicki did not know what that meant, but it did not sound good to her. I could hardly conceal my anticipation as I removed the blue box within, and then the stamped pasteboard box within that.

Inside was the Colt pistol I had long desired. It was pristine, unfired. It appeared to be untouched, except to place it on top of the brown wax paper. I was likely the first to open the slide and check the chamber. It was empty. I looked the Colt over knowingly, having spent a couple of years researching the cosmetic flaws that sometimes appeared on them. The recoil tunnel was spot on. The rollmarks were precisely done. The finish was immaculate and beautiful.

Then Chase waddled up and said "Cawful cawful bang bang!" I laughed. I let him back in my lap and told Vicki to hold the pistol until I returned from the bank. About an hour later, I returned and purchased the pistol. I doubt I will ever say what I paid for this Colt. That is up to Vicki to relate as she wishes. I will say that I repaid a debt left by unscrupulous men to a fractured family almost half a century ago. Mama, you would be proud.

Colt's World War I U.S. Army Replica