STORY
BEHIND THE POEM THE DUEL
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On April 11, 2000, all four
districts of Squad 9 personell were scheduled for a regular training and
qualification day at the range. It started out like any other day,
the weather was beautiful. I had qualified, we moved inside for weapon
retention training and lunch.
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After lunch a group of us
moved up to “the pits” where specialized training for shooting from cover
was taking place. We moved into the location for a two person “quick
draw” competition. The range was set up with two metal silhouette,
knock down targets. Julie Prosser, a young policewoman, had just
beaten her first two challengers, Al Palmer and Nathalie Parel-May, and
I was up next.
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The whistle went, and we
both drew and fired, Julie was slightly quicker and I got off two shots.
All bullets scored and the targets were all starting down. Suddenly
just in the blink of an eye I saw something coming at me off of Julies
target. I couldn’t move it was so fast. It hit me on the face,
just to the left of my chin. It didn’t hurt at all. I finished
my course of fire, holstered my gun and snapped up the holster.
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By this point I could feel
something on my face and reached up with my left hand to touch my cheek.
It came away, completely covered in blood. I immediately realized
I had been hit by a richochet. I grabbed my face to put pressure
on to stop the bleeding, and turned around. At this point Nathalie,
Al and the Instructor looked quite worried and tried to get me to sit down.
I remember saying, “it’s nothing, I’ve been hit harder than that playing
hockey”.
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It was then that I realized
that the blood was not only pouring out between my fingers, it was running
down my arm and pooling on the ground. Apparently, at this point
I was white as a ghost and getting unsteady on my feet. Several people
grabbed me and got me to sit down, where I promptly passed out. When
I came to, there was a crowd around me and there was lots of yelling and
people running.
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Shortly after, I was loaded
into an ambulance and taken to hospital. X-Rays showed that the bullet
fragment had penetrated and lodged itself near my neck. Another half
inch or so, and they said it would have hit my carotid artery or jugular
vein, and then I really would have been in trouble.
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Several specialists debated
overnight as to the merits of removing the bullet. It was finally
decided that it would be more dangerous to remove it, than to leave it
in. So the following afternoon, I was sent home from hospital.
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While in the emergency ward,
people teased me and wondered who would be the one to write this poem.
I immediately told them, that I was already thinking of it. So, while
lying in my hospital bed and using scraps of paper, this is the poem that
I came up with.
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