The Rifle Range

 

Our platoon marched several miles every day for two weeks to the infamous “rifle range.” We would get up every morning at 4 a.m., get dressed in full uniform eat breakfast and be in formation by 5 a.m. My base, Fort Jackson, South Carolina, afforded 30 degree weather in the early morning in March. We wore drab green fatigues, gloves and heavy field jackets every morning.  By noon the weather turned hot --around 80 or 90 degrees. We stripped down to our t-shirts and fatigue pants.
 

We had spent the prior week getting acquainted with our M-16 semi-automatic rifles. We learned how to disassemble them, clean them and put them together again. They weren't loaded then. 
 

I should have been ready for the rifle range that first day. I wasn't . I was afraid of firing my weapon with live ammunition.  (Don't call it a "gun" or that would earn you twenty sit ups. Do it again and you would earn 20 push-ups).

 

It was around 8 a.m. when the first group of eight women entered their foxholes and began shooting at the human-shaped targets. Even though we wore government-issued earplugs, the noise was overwhelming. 

 

After three or four groups of women finished their rounds, Drill Sergeant Johnson, standing at the side of my delegated foxhole yelled, “Private,  get into the foxhole! Then I’ll hand you your weapon.” 

 

I carefully jumped in, but since I am only 5 feet even, I couldn’t see over the top of the foxhole. The Sergeant then threw in several sand bags for me to step on until I was high enough to see the targets. He then handed me my M-16. I froze.

 

“Any time, Decker,” he said as he stood at my side.

 

I had never before shot a  gun (there goes 20 sit ups),  although I came from an avid hunting county back home.  With my M-16 in my hands, I turned toward the Sergeant to ask him a question, not realizing my weapon was pointed toward his meticulously shined boots.

 

“Do NOT ever point a weapon at anyone except the enemy, Private.”

 

“Sorry Drill Sergeant,” I said meekly.

 

I placed my M-16 on top of the provided mound of dirt meant to keep the rifle steady. I closed my eyes and I fired in the direction of the target.

 

The mound of dirt in front of me exploded and my face and hands were covered in grit. (I nicked only the top of the pile, so I escaped serious injury).

 

My drill sergeant tried to stifle a laugh as he managed to say, “Point your weapon a little higher, Private.”

 

I shot and hit the target a few times. An M-16 has a pronounced "kick" and my shoulder was a little sore from it hitting my shoulder each time I shot.

 

After two weeks I qualified as a Marksman. 

 

After vanquishing the rifle range, I mused that I had followed in the footsteps of soldiers before me who bravely fought in wars in their foxholes; those whose boots I am not worthy to shine. I never had to shoot a rifle after basic training.