Battle Cry - Leon Uris [32]
Platoon One Forty Three drew quarters past E Range, the furthermost point of Camp Matthews—a knoll overlooking the firing range, some two miles from the main buildings. No electricity, running water, head, or toilets. Taps was automatic at darkness on the cold, windswept hill.
Working conditions were far better than at the Base. In sharp contrast to the cursing, the punishments, the drill, and the misery of boot camp. Although the rifle instructors were no less exacting, their tactics were different. The lessons were personalized and given with firm but kindly words. They were the most important weeks in the life of a Marine, his rifle training.
“Squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it,” a thousand times over.
“All right you people, gather around. All right, you are out of boot camp. You go to Dago on liberty and this here luscious blonde picks you up. You go to her apartment and she fills you with liquor. Next thing you know, you are in bed with her. You get ahold of her tit. Would you jerk it or would you squeeze it?”
“Squeeze it!”
“Remember that. Equal pressure throughout the right hand, squeeze like a lemon.”
From sunup to sundown they lay on the dummy range, snapping in.
“Line up your sights at six o’clock. Your sling is wrong…don’t hold your thumb up…it will push right back in your eye.”
Prone, kneeling, sitting and offhand. Who concocted the positions? They must be crazy. No one can shoot with their body twisted up like a pretzel. The Marine Corps says you can, son.
“Lay those ankles flat, spread your legs, assume a forty-five degree angle to the target, spine straight, move that elbow in closer, thumb down, cheek against the stock.”
Hours of instruction and muscles stretched into the contortionist’s nightmare of positions. It ain’t human.
Sitting position, worst of all.
“I can’t move forward,” L.Q. cried, “my stomach is in the way.”
The instructor sat on L.Q.’s neck and jammed his body down. “Like that—I’ll sit here and you snap in.”
“I’m dying—I’m dying.”
Live ammunition! Twenty-two caliber, forty-five automatics, BARs, machine guns. Not long now till you get to the big range with your rifle, Marine.
“Next relay to the firing line.” Danny Forrester buttoned his shooting jacket and placed the cotton plugs in his ears. He walked to the smudgepot, blackened the sights of his piece and lay down beside the sergeant on the firing line.
He tipped his campaign hat back, “My name is Sergeant Piper, son. Adjust your sights for three hundred yards. Put two points left windage and we’ll get your rifle zeroed in.”
The fire master at a midway point along the alley of a hundred shooters held the field phone to his ear. He picked up a huge megaphone. “All ready on the right! All ready on the left! All ready on the firing line! Load and lock! Shoot at will, ten rounds slow 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