"But, sir, I always shoot like this."
"The Virginia Military Institute taught me how to fire a rifle, Private. I'm not interested in how you shoot; I'm interested in seeing you shoot correctly."
I cast a pained look up at Donaldson. "Sir, I've made Expert every time during the last two years." Briefly I debated adding that I had just placed in the top five in the German National Match competition but decided against it. An enlisted man can only get away with being right when doing so doesn't prove an officer wrong.
Fortunately at this point Sergeant Brown approached. Closing in on retirement, he was our platoon sergeant. Like most good noncoms, he was more interested in results than gold braid, and he knew my score at the Nationals.
"Lieutenant..." It's always heartwarming to watch a professional in action; Brown sounded genuinely respectful "... Private Barnes is the best shot in the platoon. Hell, half the time he's the best shot in the company. Tell you what, L-T, if anybody in this bunch outshoots him, you can teach him to your heart's content. Otherwise, please let the man do his job."
Donaldson's lips thinned. "Okay, Sergeant, I'll do just that. But if he shoots less than an eighty-five on these bull's-eyes, for the next month you and he will have an opportunity to explore a theory of mine that suggests that the amount of time spent pulling grounds maintenance is directly proportional to a man's level of small-arms proficiency."
From somewhere down the line I thought I heard the beginnings of a snicker, muffled instantly.
"Yes, sir," replied the sergeant, sounding more confident than I felt. (I wasn't looking forward to a month of shoveling snow and rearranging rocks any more than he was—but the potential consequences of having caused it for him thrilled me even less.)
Now, shooting accurately with somebody standing behind you slapping his own leg with a cleaning rod as if it were a riding crop isn't as easy as it sounds; but I managed to get off all ten shots well before the time limit.
It didn't take any longer than usual for the range phone to ring, I'm sure.
However.
I did have to suppress a start when it rang, and remind myself to look disinterested as the scores were read. Simpkins, down on Lane One, had his usual sixty-something, and Crater barely beat him out.
Then the sergeant turned to me. In bored tones, he said, "Barnes, you're letting your group drift a little into the nine ring, low at six o'clock. You only scored ninety-seven. I don't know what's wrong with you today."
I grinned nonchalantly. "Must be the cold, Sergeant."
—and belatedly resumed breathing.
After all the scores had been read off, the lieutenant said, "Very well, Sergeant, I'll talk to both of you later about this."
He favored me with a level stare. "Be glad we didn't conduct this exercise with those damned forty-fives."
"What do you mean, sir?" I asked. (I never knew when to keep my mouth shut.)
"Well, everybody knows how inaccurate these forty-year-old pistols are."
"Oh. Uh, right." And barely remembered to add, "Sir." It never fails to amaze me how many otherwise knowledgeable people have bought that particular myth. The forty-five automatic is one of the finest combat pistols ever made.
The sergeant caught my eye. "Say, Lieutenant," he interjected, his face a mask of deadpan sincerity, "are you a bettin' man?" I didn't know what he was up to; but sometimes even I know when not to jostle somebody's elbow.
The lieutenant looked puzzled for a moment. "I only bet on sure things, Sergeant."
"Well, would you be willing to bet me twenty dollars that Barnes can't knock down three out of five of the pop-up targets from here with your forty-five?" Suddenly I understood. Quickly, though not without effort, I affected what I hoped would pass for a worried expression.
"Sergeant," drawled the L-T, "I don't as a rule steal money from subordinates; but I will pick it up when I find it thrown away."
He pulled out his forty-five, shucked the top two rounds out of the magazine, turned to me, and said, "You know how to work one of these things, boy?"
"I think so, sir." I took it from him with both hands and turned it over and around like a chimpanzee inspecting a new toy. I didn't quite stare down the muzzle; I thought that might be overdoing it.
I glanced up at the lieutenant. "Uh, sir, could I get Gary Vernon to spot for me?"
By this time Lieutenant Donaldson was visibly having trouble restraining a smile. "Sure, why not. Sergeant, have 'em stand up a target on this lane and set it for automatic reset." (Who says the gods don't have a sense of humor... ?)
I took up my stance. Rather than the wimpy one-handed pistol stance shown in "the book," I use the solid two-handed "Weaver stance." The first round thumped into the backstop one hundred meters away, a little high, I knew, because I saw the dirt fly.
Gary called out, "Looks like it was just over the shoulder on the left."
So I dropped the sights to the lower right-hand corner of the target and squeezed again, and this time when the pistol came down from recoiling the target was falling. Three seconds later the target had reset; in another three, it was down again.
While waiting for the target to reset for the fourth shot, it occurred to me that I had a golden opportunity to correct not only the lieutenant's misapprehension; but potentially even to send a message concerning common-sense methods back up the chain of command.
Twenty dollars isn't much of a lesson... .
Carefully I planted the fourth shot in the backstop to one side of the target; then pushed the safety up and lowered the pistol. Glancing over my shoulder, I said, "Sergeant, you are splitting that twenty dollars with me, aren't you?"
The sergeant's smile reminded me of a TV minister reviewing his ratings. "Long as you share it with the boys."
"Lieutenant, sir, how much is it worth to you for me to miss this next one?"
Donaldson snorted. "Soldier, I hardly think two hits out of four are reason to gloat."
"Double or nothing, sir?" Richard Nixon would have been proud to claim the look of wide-eyed innocence I achieved at that moment.
"You're on!"
I let my face relax into a grin. I slipped off the safety, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger.
While watching the lieutenant dig out his money, I noticed that Crater was handing a few bills to Simpkins. "You asshole," I blurted indignantly, "you bet against me!"
He grinned. "No, you sorry shit. I bet you'd hit four."
The lieutenant watched the sergeant hand me a twenty. He looked around thoughtfully; then said, "You know, back at Virginia Military Institute, Captain Proctor was fond of saying that hard experience had taught him that the book didn't have all the answers. He regularly advised us to keep our eyes open in the field. Maybe this is what he meant. I guess a second lieutenant can learn from his platoon sergeant. And an occasional private."
Brown's eyes twinkled as he said, "Good thinking, sir."
The lieutenant was actually grinning as he walked off.
Unfortunately, I didn't have long to gloat. A day and a half later, Sergeant Brown walked in on us as we packed our gear to head out. Wally had been telling Crater that he was flying his wife, Annie, over for the holidays, and Gary and I had been making our final plans to go on the annual tour of the HK firearms factory over in Oberndorf am Neckar next weekend, something we'd been planning for at least ten weeks.
When Brown shut the door and didn't say anything at all, I got an itch between my shoulder blades that wouldn't go away. Something about his expression made it worse.