Walther - A Piece of History

For someone that grew up on the whole James Bond series, just the name Walther conjures up scenes of adventure with spies, bad guys and beautiful women  (though Bond's Pistol was  a PPK and later, a P99 being carried in the Brosnan and early Craig films).

Walther, founded by Carl Walther, is one of the oldest firearms manufacturers in the world with a history of producing quality firearms pieces, starting with a little gun shop in the town of Zella, Germany. At first they just produced shotguns and rifles, but Carl's son brought his engineering acumen to the family business, expanding their production to pistols.

The predecessor of the P1 is one that more of you will be familiar with, the famous P38 Model HP (Heerespistole - army pistol) in the late 30's.  It's roots were in pre-war Nazi Germany, when the German Army High Command wanted German arms manufactures to develop something of the large-caliber variety to replace the  P.08 Luger. The Luger was a fine piece but it was also costly and difficult to manufacture. The goal was a pistol less labor intensive, one easy to assemble and reassemble, preferably one that could be produced by multiple manufacturers if needed, with interchangeable parts among them all.  Frankly, pistols don't have the biggest role to play in winning a war, but equipping your armed forces with a hand fitted, expensive pistol didn't make a lot of sense.  Therefore, the High Command wanted something revolutionary in design and concept that was easier and cheaper to produce.

About this time. Walther had completed its Model HP for worldwide distribution, giving them a big of a leg up on the competitors in Germany, winning the High Commands approval in 1938, with small numbers of the original HP bought by Sweden before the Wehrmacht adopted it as the Pistole 38 and took over all production guns.  The term 38 wasn't used as the designator on the commercial firearms, but was known as MOD HP until later in the war, when a few came up marked as MOD P.38, taking advantage of the identity of the military pistol.

Like the Luger, it had an eight round magazine and fired the 9 mm Parabellum cartridge. Unlike the Luger it was one of the first double action semi-auto pistols fielded to a military force. It seems commonplace to you and I but it was a unique concept back them, wherein  a soldier could carry with a round in the chamber, hammer down, and all he had to do to use his weapon was pull the trigger. Certainly it was a longer, heavier pull, than a single action, but when your life is on the line, either offensive or defensive, simple is good. (of course, after the first double action pull, the pistol cocks itself automatically and subsequent rounds are single action).

In late 1941, Mauser and Spreewerke began production of the P.38 and its place in firearm history was a matter of record, with over a million produced from 1939 to 1945 by three companies, each having their own distinct markings and variations.

We all know how the War turned out for Germany. My Dad was over in England with the 8th Air Force while they bombed the heck out of them in Liberators. After the bombing campaigns and the end of the war, manufacturing capabilities of the country were about obliterated, with the Walther factory destroyed, even as the patents, know-how and a lot of the people involved, survived. After the war, most of the ex-Walther machinery ended up in France as war reparations, and you will find that many post-war P38 pistols were actually built in France by the Manurhin factory.  But Germany was not down and out in the P38 market.

As the Federal Republic of Germany rose out of the ashes (with a lot of Allied help), Walther retooled and modified this old warhorse, replacing the all steel frame of the P.38 with a lighter aluminum alloy frame. It defied the traditional German tradition of re-inventing adesign but rather, built on a proven formula.  This "new" pistol was produced, though I don't believe it was named P1 until much later, with not only a aluminum alloy frame, but  improved sites and a few other minor modifications.

The post-war P1 versions were less than popular in the Armed Forces ( Bundesweh), given the unofficial description of “eight warning shots plus one aimed throw”. Although revolutionary, the design was also over thought, with the P38 pistol having eleven springs (most of a size that if you drop one you will never find it) which is about double what the older Luger had that it replaced. Small parts and pins that are easy to lose during full disassembly doesn't make for a popular piece. Add in an intricately shaped firing pin that easily broke, well, it was only a matter of time before other firearms replaced it.

My Dad survived the war, came back, got married, and late into the Cold War, was taken off guard when my Mom said "let's adopt some kids". The Cold War didn't seem so bad after taking on two redheaded little ones in middle age, but I don't think his generation ever let their guard down. The Cold War certainly changed some things, where the Soviets, formally allies (of convenience perhaps, sort of like your cat) were now a threat. West Germany was a new country needing many things, but not needing a million communists strolling through the Fulda Gap without as much as a RSVP, and a well equipped military force was suddenly on the agenda again.

Somewhere in there, it came time for a new sidearm and the P1 was surplussed. Many were rebuilt, given a slide and hex pin upgrade and found their way to the United States as "obsolete" firearms, where a firearm buyer can get one for a surprisingly low price, many not seeing a lot of action, not even that well aimed throw, and being in decent shape.

Buying One - P38 versus P1.

There are a lot of P38's out there, several governments gaining  possession of large quantities of them for their own military and police agencies post WWII.  Many of these have been reworked with both original and new component parts, with the former USSR being the primary source of reworked P.38's. Many of them have similarly been refinished and re-proofed by a number of other countries.  If you're looking at a collectors piece, you need to examine the firearm very carefully to determine if it's original German military issue before you pay the price for one. (Hey, here's an "original" German P.38 painted in the colors of Paraquay for only $159.99!)

Post War, the P.38 and P.1 both designated pistols for the police forces and armed forces and post war, they were pretty much identical, including the frame. It's a common misconception that the .38's all have steel frames, as far as I know, only those manufactured under the Third Reich and a small handful assembled by the French immediately after the war using "boosted" German parts did so. With just one exception, I've heard, the post war Walther P.38's have the same basic frame as the P1. If you're not careful you can spend $200 more just for the name P.38 when it still has the aluminum frame without the steel reinforcing lug in the frame, better slide, and other improvements made in later model P1's.

The Range Report:

This little model is NOT one of the bashed together Soviet remakes. It was born sometime in the 70's.

Frankly it is more accurate than expected. With an aluminum frame, five inch barrel and a slide that's not all that long, there's a bit more "snap" to it than the old all-steel .38. Still, with a feel that's a bit "bottom heavy", the muzzle flip will be less than you expect. This one does have the reinforcing steel 'hex pin" in the frame to provide additional strength (it was found that the aluminum frame developed cracks in the most highly stressed area, where the locking piece and barrel were slamming against it on recoil, so the frames of late production pistols were reinforced with the addition of this hexagonal cross-pin) but that is more for overall strength than stability.

If you have small hands, you might find the grip a bit wide, but that being said, it does spread the recoil out nicely.

Would it win a target contest with a Makarov PM? Maybe not, but you won't embarrass yourself wondering how your target jumped out of the way of your bullet. I wouldn't recommend +P high pressure self defense ammo through this firearm; if you want something in 9 mm you can boss around, belittle and make it get you a beer, get a Glock. If you want something inexpensive with a taste of history that's all warm and fuzzy with a box of white box ammo, you'll like it.

This is indeed your grandfather's double action: The trigger has an exposed hammer and trigger bar (the link between the trigger and sear) unusually located outside of the frame at the right side. It's not a modern design, so while it's pretty smooth, there is a bit of stacking and I'd guess the trigger pull of double action is near 10 pounds.  The single action is nice and crisp and about half that by way of trigger pull, making it a decent "service pistol" though. Feeding between the magazine and chamber is fairly shallow, but it ate a white box of .115 without burping.

Sight Picture - if I didn't get a great grouping it wasn't due to the sight picture.

Safeties: The standard safety also functions as a decocker and is located at the left side of the slide. It's easy to manipulate and reach with your thumb. That being said, if you are used to a 1911, you may well find yourself flipping it to safe and  then pulling the trigger as the positions are backwards.(or so I've heard :-)

I'd give my left arm to be ambidextrous: The mag release, one of those European anomalies we Yankees just don't get used to (sort of the bidet of releases) is the long standing heal clip type. Maybe one eventually gets used to it, but it certainly didn't do wonders for reloads (but then again compared to a  Czech CZ52 it's positively Speedy Gonzales).

You might want to stand over there -You will find extractor is on the left side of the gun, so the brass gets flung in the opposite direction of most autos. "Fore!"

Magazines were single-stack, with the magazine release located at the heel of the grip. This came with one, I'm not sure how hard it will be to find additional ones.

The pistols were also fitted with a loaded chamber indicator in the form of a small pin that projected from the rear of the slide, above the hammer, when a cartridge was loaded in the chamber. It wasn't distracting, and it seemed to work.

Clean up: it appears to be fairly easy to clean and maintain, but keep tabs of the parts of you're doing a full disassemble. .But don't let it mate with your Mark III, the resulting offspring, might be a handful to field strip..

 Does This Make my Slide Look Fat?  In the 70's, when this particular firearm originated, Walther incorporated several important design improvements into the P.1 in addition to the hex pin.  This included a somewhat thicker sidewall on a section of the slide (commonly referred to as a "fat slide" though frankly, at a glance, I couldn't tell the difference). If you have bigger hands (mine are quite large for a female, with long slender fingers) with a high thumb grip - watch the bottom edge of the  slide. It won't  bite you but it will try and give you a hickey.

The fit and finish of the pistol is as what one expects from Walther, with a level of care in the machining, and a nice even finish, though it's more of a utilitarian parkerized finish than the high polished blued finish of the PP and PPK's that was second to none.  It's also not particularly concealable, but it's not going to be a piece for that.  It's not likely to be my favorite firearm either.  But for a little spot of history to practice pistol basics such as trigger squeeze and sight alignment in the $300 range, it's worth a spot in the safe.

If you're interested I'd be on the lookout for one now. The firearm is said to be eligible as a Curio and Relics by the BATF, though they have said they have not updated the list to include it.  That would be worth checking out if you  have a FFL03 license, especially given current rumor has it that Germany is destroying the remaining stocks of P1's as part of the UN arms agreement.. I have no source to verify the rumor but if it's true, these inexpensive little curios might sell like an AR15 after a filibuster.  If your only plans for it are a little piece of history to remind us of what fighting is all about, it might well be a nice little addition to your collection while they are still available at a more than reasonable price.

Treat Your Dog's Tail as if it's Loaded

Lorelei Lab has the broadest strongest tail of any Lab I've owned.  Seriously she just about took down Mrs. Og once with a swift whack to her kneecap when she was all excited to see her,

But it's not just the tail you have to watch out for, when she shakes her head vigorously, those ears can not only knock a coffee mug out of your hand, they can HURT you.

I have the only dog with Nunchuck ears (pictured here with Safety ON)

Guffaw in Arizona - Firearms, Fish, and a Memory

I know a number of you remember George A. - otherwise known as blogger Guffaw in AZ. A retired PI, he could be found at the gun range where he had been a certified firearms trainer or in his tidy Arizona home until his health in later years took a downturn. He didn't  say much about it, but he was badly injuried in a vehicular accident that took the life of his only child, his daughter Molly and the affects of that were with him always. George and I became very good friends over the years, and after he was not able to live on his own, continued to talk weekly at great length. When lymphona reared his ugly head (again) we continued our chats, and I remember our last phone conversation where he was complaining that the nursing staff wouldn't let him eat any "real food". So I found a place near his care facility that made bacon popcorn (not flavored but with the real thing) and had a bunch delivered. He wasn't able to eat it, but his sister (who called me upon his passing) said it made his day. Hard to believe he's been gone for four years. 

I was thinking about him when in my archives I found this email where he FINALLY agreed to give him his "secret" goldfish snack recipe. Trust me George, it's probably not as good as yours but it's still greatly enjoyed in your honor every holiday season,.

"Actually, they were assembled by yours truly, in a couple hours standing at the iron skillet, Worcestershire, Blue Bonnet margarine and garlic powder at-the-ready. Then slow baked until dry and toasty. 

 (For the uninitiated, this is a snack I’ve made traditionally for years. Originally, I made standard Chex Mix, with the requisite addition of peanuts, pretzels and the like. With a tablespoon of this, a dash of that. I determined two things – people singled out the Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Crackers for consumption so the other ingredients were wasted, and screw this tablespoon-dash thing!) 

 I cover roughly 9/10 of the bottom of the skillet with Worcestershire, add 1/2 a stick of margarine, and sprinkle garlic powder generously. Then marinate a pan full of crackers until they soak it all up. Transfer all to a turkey roasting pan and bake @ 300* or so, turning every 10 minutes of so to check for burning, until they are all dry and crispy. (I use Blue Bonnet because it’s cheap and takes the high heat.) I used to make these in massive quantities for Christmas when I was employed and bring them into work. It became such a tradition that folks would start asking me in September if I was bringing in goldfish that year! :-)

 Consumer Warning – they are QUITE addictive and go great with beer! People consuming these snacks needn’t be concerned they will be molested by vampires, or members of the opposite sex. (Unless they, too, have partaken of the garlicky treats!)"

Salmon Enchanted Evening

 Partner in Grime came home from a couple weeks on the road with a gift for me.

Covid.

He got it first, the fever hitting him Sunday.  He slept most of 2 days, then roused at the scent of meatloaf (not my favorite but he LOVES my crockpot meatloaf recipe), blue corn cornbread, and macaroni and cheese with Tillamook cheddar.  It hit me yesterday.

This is my second time with this, the first after I flew through the Petri Dish that is O'Hare when Dad died last summer.  That was a lot worse as far as symptoms.  This round is fever, a blazing headache, and a runny nose.  We had some test kits here so we both tested, I'm' either pregnant or it's COVID (darn pink lines) 

My fever broke last night and though I still have the headache we're both on the mend. 

This really wasn't how I planned to spend my birthday, a massage got canceled, dinner out got canceled, no trip to the grocery for baking supplies -I made desserts for 75 people for a church function last weekend and am out of everything but flour, sugar, and salt, but there's some wild caught salmon in the freezer in the basement.  Maybe I'll stick a candle in it :-)

The Secret Lives of Engineers

Partner in Grime is Mechanical Engineer.  Or at least he TELLS me he is.  :-)  For you see I've never actually seen his workplace or a paycheck, but large amounts of money just show up in our savings account.  I tease him a little about it.

I had returned a day early from a short business trip and on the clothesline downstairs where my husband had done some laundry while I was away, were all these gloves.  Dozens of gloves, all stained with dark rust-like colors that wouldn't come out.

I hear the back door open, then footsteps in the kitchen followed by a creak at the top of the stairs .. . I peer up and ask him as I hold up one of the creepy stained gloves.

"So babe - tell me again - mechanical engineer . . . or serial killer?"

I think I made him snort his beer.

On Choices

It was almost 10 years ago, one of those flawless winter afternoons, the sky crisp and heavy with thought. Coming back from work, I was hurrying to get home. Even though the day wasn't late, it had started very early and I wanted to get home to my black lab before he was doing the Barkley Bladder Boogie. So I took the shorter route on the freeway to get towards home, anticipating the glare of the setting sun when the sky turns to diamond brilliance for a few minutes, intensifying the sound of the truck engine bouncing off the cooling pavement. I was just below the speed limit, as speeds traps were rife through here, the windows up, YoYo-Ma playing Vivaldi quietly on the stereo. So many thoughts going through my head.

The scene I had just left was not a good one and knew I would be carrying the sights and smells of the day with me on the drive, perhaps hanging those thoughts of them up somewhere this evening so I could get some sleep. I needed to think about other, happier things. I needed to stop at the store and get some milk and paper towels on the way home. I needed to give a friend a call back. But I wasn't thinking about my home and my Barkley home on the couch.

He's the keeper of the sofa, guardian of the throw rugs, and something I never planned on getting, but I did, suckered in by the litter of black fur. The first night home, he slept on my chest as I lay on the couch next to his prepared little kennel of which he wanted no part. I felt the gentle thump against my chest, for he began to give me his heart that very first night, and he, mine.

Then the days became weeks, and then months, and before you knew it he was my protector, not the other way around. On those days, when the reality of another sanguinary day takes hold, I could escape into the loving affection of a simple game of fetch or a nap for two on the family room couch. That safe spot buffered me, hid me, helped me distance myself from anything that troubled me, while he and I both left the past in bounding leaps of faith and joy. But, that night, as I drove along the freeway, I wasn't thinking about the doggy greeting I would get when I got home, Barkley yipping for joy at the sound of my big black Chevy truck coming up the drive.


I used to have a VW Jetta, until I moved to where the drive to work involved two lane highways, head on traffic, and little to no plowing before getting to the main freeway into the city. Looking at oncoming traffic as I fought for traction on a road not always plowed, it hit me. Not the subtle detection of nature's wrath I've sensed in the woods when I've picked up my gun and moved quickly to shelter. It was something that had been lurking in my mind for some time, even as I made my way in haste through the dark. It was that perception of a large grill of a semi truck about to spring full clawed on me if it crossed the center line. I realized suddenly how tiny my little VW was and how little chance I had of living if I hit something bigger than I.

Then a couple days later I hit black ice. I was alone on the road, going pretty slow, but I still found myself suddenly facing 180 degrees from the direction I was headed but still in my lane. I'm really not sure how that happened. I know all the rules in a rear end skid, don't brake, steering in the direction of the skid, so that the momentum of the vehicle will straight you out. I think though, in this case, I simply closed my eyes and muttered increasing loud four letter words as my hands did something with the steering wheel from muscle memory.

The next day I bought the bat truck. Four wheel drive isn't my personal savior but I now looked down ON some of the other trucks. It had an extended cab and four doors and big tires. It's as nimble as a Humpback whale. But I bought it to haul stuff and for protection around me, not to play Speed Racer on the interstate.


What we drive is a deeply personal thing. For some, a car is nothing more than transport, Point A to Point B. For some it's a need to show off to the world some image of yourself that only you carry. For some it's custom license plate with a useless Humming SUV that is no better at serious off road antics or warfare than the Smart Car.

I've a truck for squirrel usage when needed, also 4 wheel drive, to get into places that people just don't want to go. I've gotten used to a big truck, and find myself feeling strangely small and vulnerable in anything else.

I feel the same way when I go out without a weapon on my hip. I notice how small I am compared to most men, and certainly most criminals. I've felt it in places where I could not legally carry, walking faster, head up, trying to look confident as I swim in a river filled with sharp toothed predators. Kick and stroke, kick and stroke, no fear of drowning, just a fear of the sharks out there as I move, vulnerable as a small minnow in a deep river.


There's nothing worse than the feeling of being small prey, when you have nothing of tooth and claw to protect yourself. I was walking in the woods one night, unarmed before that day I fully understood just how far down on the food chain I was. As I walked down a trail towards my car, I got the sense of something following me. There were no big cats in this part of the Midwest, though I'd heard a coyote way off in the distance, but it set my feet on edge. I heard something behind me, sudden, soft, movements. I stopped. It stopped. It didn't sound big, but still the hairs on my arms stood up. I moved, it moved. I stopped, it stopped. Coyote? Evil Penguin from Wallace and Gromit? Feral cat? Elf on meth?

I couldn't help share the survival instincts of the coyote and a small rabbits quivering role in our precarious world. A world in which the soft and innocent can get snatched out of at any time, grabbed in an explosion of pain. I had no defense, nothing more to protect myself than a set of car keys.

How old is fear? How acquired? And when do we stop listening to it? Somethings running through me that defied predation. The night gathered, rabbits run away, and behind me something moved, a fuzzy harmless woodland creature, or something with eyes as flat as dried blood. It was not a good feeling. I may be college educated and a citizen of the most powerful nation on earth, but on that dark night, I was simply a young woman alone, flesh and blood.


I turned around and turned on my flashlight, scaring the absolute stuffing out of a tiny little porcupine. Hardly more than a baby, he was more afraid of my big form, than I was of his little one and quickly scurried away with a shrill squeaky noise. But after that, I didn't walk the woods unarmed.

I do think I walk differently when I'm armed. I don't open carry. That's a deeply personal choice as well, but just as you don't advertise a punch, I don't like to advertise what my capabilities are. I don't carry in my purse either. I'd probably find my gun in there as quickly as I do my keys and the perp would have already stepped over my body, pawned my gold necklace and had a beer, by the time I got my firearm free from the bowels of my oversized purse.

But I do walk differently, with more confidence, head held higher, hands as free as I can make them. I normally carry, even whether I have a large dog with me or not. More than one woman has disappeared with a dog by her side. All of my Labs are deeply protective, but I don't know if the Labrador retriever, by general nature, would sink his teeth into someone trying to grab me. Should my attacker be asthmatic and have issues with pet dander, well, the bad guy would be toast, but I'm not willing to run an experiment to find out. So when I'm walking the dog in the early morning, when the neighbors aren't out and about, I carry. On those early mornings, just before daylight, when that dark and solitary suspension of night shifts and brightens with the tentative wakings of both birds and men, we are out. He with his teeth, and I with mine.

But I wasn't thinking about that on that drive home that day long ago, or Barkley. As I left a small road to get onto the freeway, as trees released the load of snow from sagging shoulders onto a road spotted with ice. Four wheel drive won't help me with ice, but I was aware of the might of steel around me, should I end up in a ditch.

The freeway is busy, but not backed up, cars zipping past me at 70 mph. Then there, up ahead, half a mile or so, the flash of numerous red tail lights, and with them my pilot brain went into "master caution" mode. Less than a quarter mile ahead of me, a delivery truck swerved a bit, the car next to it did likewise as if trying to see what was happening up ahead. I eased off the accelerator. There was a young girl in a tiny car behind me, I'd noticed her as I'd passed her, twenty something, chatting on the phone, not a care in the world. I couldn't see anything abnormal ahead either, only experience on the road caused me to take my foot off of the accelerator and tap the brake light, hoping she would see and get away from my bumper.

That phrase "it happened in a blink of an eye", didn't take into account how fast an eye could actually blink. Some one had lost a chair from the back of a truck, a recliner, laying there now in the middle of my lane up ahead. There was truck running just ahead and to the right of me in another lane. If I hit the brakes hard, I could tuck in behind him, but then the girl in the tiny car behind me would likely smash into me if she didn't see the brake lights, or simply plow into the chair. I think the chair was bigger than her car. My only other choice, to hit the horn and swerve around the chair into the left lane, hoping she would see or hear and do the same; hoping I didn't lose control on a slippery road. She was likely still on her phone, not paying the slightest attention to what was unfolding.

My truck was in tip top shape and the brakes are as reliable as they can be. After years as a pilot, my reflexes were developed to make instant movement, with my brain able to calculate time, speed and distance in a way honed by landing a large chunk of metal onto a tiny surface at 123 mph.

In that blink, I was not thinking about driving into my driveway, happy to be home. I was not thinking about where all these vehicles were headed, and so fast. I was thinking about the rest of my day, of fractured steel, and fragile lives, the structure of bone and skin and tears. I've seen fate dive down from the heavens and felt the disastrous beating of its wings. As a pilot, I myself have fought it off with the advance of a throttle, or the jamming of a brake, split second choices that result in clear sunny skies or shattered ruin.


I did not think of my beloved Barkley waiting for me there at home. I thought of blood and bone and tiny fragile vehicles that carried someones heart. I thought of nothing and everything, as simply and ungracefully, I swerved around the debris in the road.

Fortunately, the girl behind me did too, and it was just another bad day of driving in the Hoosier State. But there, in only instants, lives can change. The world may appear to go by as leisurely and randomly as cattle or clouds, but within it are moments in which one single decision may save or break us. It's there in that moment where fear becomes action, as we gauge a threat as if there was nothing else in our vision or our future, save that.

As my heart slowed, I looked at a photo of a black dog in the visor of my big black truck. I pat the gun on my hip, small things, big choices, that keep the chance of being hurt from finding us.