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There's countless books on Japan's atrocities in WWII, but these three books.............Japan got away easy with just Nagasaki and Hiroshima.....and Emperor Hirohito should have swung off a gallows.

There is an urban legend that if you stare into the bathroom mirror and say "45ACP sucks" three times, John Moses Browning will appear and scold you for not shooting God's caliber.

My birthday

Thanks. I watched the first movie around '03 or '04. Never been tempted to do it again.

LOL I could have so much fun with this post. I do carry a 9mm 1911 at this point because it just works for me. As to shot shell reloading, one will still need to load a few and test for pattern. For all the rigidity in the formulas (I do see it), if the gun shoots a donut, work from there. I am close to trying brass 12 GA hulls with APP. I have everything to do so, except time. I bless starting as close to a specific recipe as possible, then work from there. Maybe what is missing from shotgun loads is guidance for how to tweak. More or less shot, or powder, or how to adjust the wad if changing one or another. I suspect (without sufficient experience to be sure) that the final stack has to come out to the right height for a proper crimp. With something like a .38 spl, a little air space is not a problem as long as the primer sparks reach the main charge. Normally would not even post in a thread like this (not truly qualified). Consider this contributing questions, not guidance.

I've seen several M-60 operating Rod Springs fly.

Tojo or Hitler wouldn't have stopped at just two, if they'd won the atom bomb race.

Yeah, they should've just said 80k of ammo. Some people could probably shoot it up in no time.

Hoity Toity

GJ You listed the contact info for Nate twice instead of info for Boomstick Jay Scout

Free ammo for life? 80,000 rounds? I’ll pass. I plan to live past 2027.

I've had a number of GFL brass in my stash, all seems to be good.

Your prayers worked, amen, thankfully arrived today! Now...we wait...

I like what the General said about golf in the movie Taps, "beating the hell out of a little white ball with an iron club while wearing a polo shirt with an alligator on the teat." The only other time shot competition of any kind was when I worked at an indoor range down in Tucson and staff were encouraged to shoot with the customers in matches, helped flesh it out. I was terrible.

Press forward!

...and I don't own a 45ACP...I know, unAmerican commie pinko junkie...but I might get one. Back to the OPs questions - I have never loaded 20 ga, but I know my Lyman's has a BUNCH of load data. I do find it interesting that load data for shotguns is very rigid, "you MUST use this wad, this powder in this exact amount, with this primer, in this hull, without exceptions!", whereas loading, say, 38 Special is, "do you have primed brass that says 38 Special? Ok, use a bullet kinda close to this one with this powder, but you can start here and go alla way up to here, and seat it somewhere around this COAL, you pick..."

I am so stealing this! Had a buddy over to learn from my first attempt in building an AR upper. Not a spring, but there is a pin to drive into the gas block to secure the gas tube. It was at this moment I learned I needed something called a pin starter punch... I struck my (not starter) punch with the hammer, and the pin disappeared. I heard it strike the wall, then another wall, then here and there several more times. I instantly froze and tuned my ear for wherever it might be going... And then I was able to turn around, reach over less than three feet, and pick up the pin off the windowsill behind me. This time I held it with a pair of pliers while starting it. I researched, learned about, and ordered a set of starter punches the next day. But the feeling of spring in the air? Yes, I get that, I have had that feeling.

Exactly!

I don't shoot sass. But if the hand spring mod visible is a no go, sas best start busting out all the non factory grips, a visible mod, filed sights, cold blue touch ups it could get ugly like a home owner association!

DIDN'T EXPECT THAT! Jacob Keller considered the pasture. Jacob Keller loafed comfortably against the white board fence, one polished boot up on the bottom rail, arms folded across the top. Jacob's pale eyed Pa, in an identical pose, stood beside him. Two tall, lean men in polished boots and black Stetsons, two hard-muscled Sheriffs in tailored black suits, regarded horse flesh and humanity. Marnie and Angela was standing dead center in the pasture's northern third, straight out from where father and son watched. "You know," Jacob said thoughtfully, "in an earlier era, they'd be hanged as witches." "I said that about my Mama," Linn replied softly. Normally the horses, both saddle stock and the firehorses, were pretty well distributed through the long pasture: they were approaching Marnie, every last one of them, they were on approach and they were coming with purpose. Marnie Keller, daughter of a pale eyed Sheriff, had lifted her skirts and stepped carefully out into the pasture, her younger sister following: they'd turned and smiled at their father, and at their brother, Two genuinely beautiful women caressed the mare that came head-bobbing up to say hello, then they turned and looked the length of the pasture. Each had a hand on the Appaloosa mare's mane. Each extended her other arm, palm up: feminine faces turned toward the sun, eyes closed, as they took a deep breath of air that smelled like home! They sang. Their voices were gentle, harmonized: they grew in volume, and as they sang, horses the full length of a genuinely huge pasture stopped: heads raised, ears swung and pricked, focused like fleshly radar dishes. Victoria watched the live feed on her computer's screen, Michael beside her: Victoria rested her chin on her fist and gave a disappointed little sigh. "I'll bet I could do that," she said quietly. "I'll bet you could," Michael agreed. "We could go to ... which planet has the biggest herd?" "They're all about the same," Michael admitted. "We've been moving mares and stallions from Earth and back to keep a good genetic cross section." Victoria gave her brother a sly look. "Which one would get me in less trouble?" Michael grinned. The Ladies' Tea Society populated the choir loft that Sunday. Angela sat among them in a proper McKenna gown with a matching hat; Marnie, beside her, in a veil, as it might cause questions if someone known to Earth as last seen as Sheriff of the Second Martian Colony, was suddenly seen back on Earth, without having arranged some means of transportation ahead of time. Angela and Marnie sat side by side in the rearmost row; they were the apex of a human triangle, with nobody seated beside them. "Did you get that girl's dress finished?" Angela asked, her lips barely moving. Marnie's gloved hand formed the sign-language letter Y, then relaxed: Yes. "Why the rush?" Angela asked. Marnie's whisper was pitched to reach Angela's pink-scrubbed ear, but no further. "Her fiancée is returning from service next week. She wanted a special dress. I told her to test drive it today." The congregation rose at the Parson's request. Angela saw the back door open, then close. A lean young man in class A's stepped inside, eyes busy. An usher raised a finger, stepped three rows ahead, stopped at a particular pew and winked. A young man in uniform nodded once, his cover under his arm: he slipped into the near-vacant pew, stopped behind a particular young woman. "You arranged this," Angela whispered accusingly. Marnie's gloved hand, still on her lap, formed the sign-language letter Y. She watched as a silent young man sat with a hunter's patience behind a pretty young woman wearing a handmade dress, a dress she'd had custom made with intent to wear it in one week, for a very special occasion. Marnie and Angela stood with the rest of the congregation after the final benediction, stood and watched from their elevated vantage: Marnie's grin of absolute delight was hidden by her concealing veil, but Angela's face was not at all hidden, nor was her wide-eyed, hands-to-her-mouth expression of feminine delight. A young woman turned to leave. She glanced to her left, looked ahead, looked left again, shocked -- She froze -- A strong young man, just returned from overseas, caught his intended under the arms as she LAUNCHED up onto and then over the hardwood pew. A cloaked camera drone caught her at her ballistic apogee, her hair just starting to float behind her, a pair of strong and masculine hands firm under her arms, her arms wide and her mouth open, just before each crushed the other into the embrace that made other women jealous and other men proud. Angela looked at Marnie. "You arranged this, you witch!" she hissed accusingly. "You sing in the horses, you witch!" Marnie replied quietly, and Angela could hear the laugh hiding under her words. The couple waited until the center aisle was almost clear before the young man swung her over the back of the pew and down beside him, then he went to one knee and raised a small box, slipped a shining ring on a feminine finger. Angela felt Marnie's surprise and laughed quietly at her veiled sister's surprised, "I didn't expect that!"

And the 509th is still "winning" war!

Understated? Foundational error. Toeing the line?