Dad was the CO of a National Guard company, and managed to get me onto the pistol range on "qual" day after his MPs had fired for record. I was nine or ten, and a burly sergeant gave me a quick safety briefing, then handed me what seemed like the biggest, grayest pistol in the world. Naturally, it was a 1911A1 .45.
I shot it at 25 yards -- I don't think I hit much -- and clearly remember the recoil pushing my little arms up so far that my forearms rapped the GI steel pot on my head. I got to shoot two mags of five rounds each.
Never did get over it. Twenty-one years later, my carry gun is a Commander .45.
Mike