fire, prone position!”
“Go on, son, let’s see if you remember your snapping in lessons.” Danny gritted his teeth. “Relax, boy—calm down,” the mentor soothed.
He forgot everything.
Rigid, he jerked the trigger with his right thumb up. The rifle recoiled meanly and smashed into his stiffened shoulder, his thumb jammed his eye. He was shaken. The target setters in the pits looked for a puff of dust from the hill behind them to indicate a round had been fired; instead they were greeted with a shower of dirt from the pilings up front. They happily waved a Maggie’s Drawers in retaliation for the bath. Target missed.
Danny lay there crimson faced and trembling.
“Ever fire a rifle before, son?”
“No sir, just the stuff out here.”
“Forget everything?”
“Kind of looks like it, sir.”
“Let’s try another round. Real easy…that’s right…got it lined up at six o’clock…get that thumb down…take a breath and hold it…squeeze her off easy like.”
BLAM! “A four at nine o’clock, that’s better, take another shot, lad. Another four at nine…now you’re shooting…take two more.” The target was lowered and raised after each round, the last two shots going into the same group.
Piper took the rifle from his student and Danny studied, in awe, the flawless position of the master. The sergeant laid five shots in quick succession. All fell into a neat little group…four at nine o’clock. “Nine shots laying in the same place, know what that means, lad?”
“I think we need just a shade of right windage for zero, sir.”
“That’s right, half a point, maybe lower your elevation ten yards and I think we have it.”
He adjusted his sights and fired more rounds. The initial fear gone…and he saw the thrill of a cartwheel, a bull’s-eye, flash over his target. He looked at his rifle, patted it and grinned from ear to ear.
“Feels good, doesn’t it, lad?”
“It sure does.”
“About a week and you’ll be doing it in your sleep. All right, pick your brass up and stand by. Next relay to the firing line.”
They pumped lead from dawn to dusk. Under Piper and a hundred others like him, the recruits soon turned the firing line into a dead-eye duck shoot. More cartwheels, more happy grins. The last phase. Clean it, march with it, kiss it, sleep with it, exercise with it, bayonet with—and now, shoot it.
Each day they ran the course:
Five Hundred Yards :
Ten rounds slow fire, prone.
Three Hundred Yards:
Ten rounds rapid fire, prone.
Five rounds slow fire, kneeling.
Five rounds slow fire, sitting.
Two Hundred Yards:
Ten rounds rapid fire, sitting.
Ten rounds slow fire, offhand.
Possible score of five points on each round. Two hundred and fifty points for the “perfect possible.” It had never been done.
To qualify for the Marksman’s Badge: a hundred and ninety points. Sharpshooter’s Cross: two hundred and fifteen points. Expert: two hundred and twenty-five points.
The rivalry was on as thousands of rounds poured down the gulley. Evenings they practiced positions until darkness fell, in the tents.
The cleaning chore after firing. Hot soapy water…steel brush…dry…lighter bore brush…oil…linseed the stock…Lay her under the bunk with loving hands.
A rain halted firing one day. By evening, after late chow, it had gone. L.Q. Jones approached Corporal Whitlock’s tent, stepped in, and snapped to attention.
“Sir, Private Jones requests permission to speak with the drill instructor.”
“At ease, what is it?”
“Sir, it is too late for firing and still light. We’ve all cleaned our rifles…er…er…several fellows suggested I speak to you because they feel I’m the only one crazy enough to bring you such a strange request.”
“For Chrisake, Jones, get off the pot. What is it?”
“We’d like some close order drill, sir.”
“You’d WHAT!”
“Well sir. We’ve been here over two weeks and we haven’t drilled. With graduation coming up we
“Go on, son, let’s see if you remember your snapping in lessons.” Danny gritted his teeth. “Relax, boy—calm down,” the mentor soothed.
He forgot everything.
Rigid, he jerked the trigger with his right thumb up. The rifle recoiled meanly and smashed into his stiffened shoulder, his thumb jammed his eye. He was shaken. The target setters in the pits looked for a puff of dust from the hill behind them to indicate a round had been fired; instead they were greeted with a shower of dirt from the pilings up front. They happily waved a Maggie’s Drawers in retaliation for the bath. Target missed.
Danny lay there crimson faced and trembling.
“Ever fire a rifle before, son?”
“No sir, just the stuff out here.”
“Forget everything?”
“Kind of looks like it, sir.”
“Let’s try another round. Real easy…that’s right…got it lined up at six o’clock…get that thumb down…take a breath and hold it…squeeze her off easy like.”
BLAM! “A four at nine o’clock, that’s better, take another shot, lad. Another four at nine…now you’re shooting…take two more.” The target was lowered and raised after each round, the last two shots going into the same group.
Piper took the rifle from his student and Danny studied, in awe, the flawless position of the master. The sergeant laid five shots in quick succession. All fell into a neat little group…four at nine o’clock. “Nine shots laying in the same place, know what that means, lad?”
“I think we need just a shade of right windage for zero, sir.”
“That’s right, half a point, maybe lower your elevation ten yards and I think we have it.”
He adjusted his sights and fired more rounds. The initial fear gone…and he saw the thrill of a cartwheel, a bull’s-eye, flash over his target. He looked at his rifle, patted it and grinned from ear to ear.
“Feels good, doesn’t it, lad?”
“It sure does.”
“About a week and you’ll be doing it in your sleep. All right, pick your brass up and stand by. Next relay to the firing line.”
They pumped lead from dawn to dusk. Under Piper and a hundred others like him, the recruits soon turned the firing line into a dead-eye duck shoot. More cartwheels, more happy grins. The last phase. Clean it, march with it, kiss it, sleep with it, exercise with it, bayonet with—and now, shoot it.
Each day they ran the course:
Five Hundred Yards :
Ten rounds slow fire, prone.
Three Hundred Yards:
Ten rounds rapid fire, prone.
Five rounds slow fire, kneeling.
Five rounds slow fire, sitting.
Two Hundred Yards:
Ten rounds rapid fire, sitting.
Ten rounds slow fire, offhand.
Possible score of five points on each round. Two hundred and fifty points for the “perfect possible.” It had never been done.
To qualify for the Marksman’s Badge: a hundred and ninety points. Sharpshooter’s Cross: two hundred and fifteen points. Expert: two hundred and twenty-five points.
The rivalry was on as thousands of rounds poured down the gulley. Evenings they practiced positions until darkness fell, in the tents.
The cleaning chore after firing. Hot soapy water…steel brush…dry…lighter bore brush…oil…linseed the stock…Lay her under the bunk with loving hands.
A rain halted firing one day. By evening, after late chow, it had gone. L.Q. Jones approached Corporal Whitlock’s tent, stepped in, and snapped to attention.
“Sir, Private Jones requests permission to speak with the drill instructor.”
“At ease, what is it?”
“Sir, it is too late for firing and still light. We’ve all cleaned our rifles…er…er…several fellows suggested I speak to you because they feel I’m the only one crazy enough to bring you such a strange request.”
“For Chrisake, Jones, get off the pot. What is it?”
“We’d like some close order drill, sir.”
“You’d WHAT!”
“Well sir. We’ve been here over two weeks and we haven’t drilled. With graduation coming up we
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