Battle Cry - Leon Uris [33]
“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 feel as though we have a good chance of being the honor platoon and we’d like to brush up. Maybe some fancy stuff…we aren’t too good on rear marches from left and right obliques.”
“I’ll be a sad bastard—all right. Tell them to fall out.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The tent area was pitched in darkness. Danny, Ski, and L.Q. lay under the deluge of cover, enjoying a late cigarette.
“It won’t be long now. One more week of boot camp.”
“Yeah, one happy Polack is going to kiss this goddam place good-by.”
“How did the practice round go?”
“I shot one ninety. Jesus, I got to qualify, Danny. Three extra bucks a month is going to help a lot.”
“How did you go, L.Q.?”
“My stomach still gets in the way on sitting position.”
“I got to make at least Sharpshooter,” Ski repeated.
“Try and relax more,” Danny said. “You can’t shoot when all you’re thinking about is getting her out here. It makes you too nervous.”
“I got to get her out here, Danny. It’s going rough back there. She ain’t saying much, but I can tell.”
“You can’t help her much by shooting Maggie’s Drawers.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I got to relax. Trouble is, Danny, every damned thing I do is hard for me. I just can’t pick up stuff like some guys. When I was playing football it was the same. The same in everything I do. I got to practice like hell.”
“Anyway,” Danny said, “we were sure lucky to get Piper for an instructor. He’s one of the best in the Corps.