by Carlton Clayton
I held a rifle for the first time ever during M-16 training at Air Force basic training in 1977. Although I had nothing to compare it to, the rifle felt lighter than I’d expected. I’d never seen a rifle in real life before, only on television, usually in the hands of a sniper in an action movie or a soldier in a war film.
Under a gunmetal-gray sky, my fellow Airmen and I waited on the gravel, boots crunching, our eyes fixed downrange on the target line. We embraced our weapons—one hand on the stock, the other on the handguard, the barrel aiming skyward—like the infants we were told they were: “These are your babies for the next four hours,” the instructor decreed.
July in San Antonio, Texas. By 10:00 a.m., the firing pavilion already sweltered under the heat. I hoped the looming rain would show no mercy—flood the range, wash it clean. Even so, it would only have postponed it
I stood among Airmen who knew more about the parts of a rifle than they did the anatomy of their own bodies. Some were hunters of deer, rabbits, squirrels, waterfowl—and sometimes worse. Others were farmers who kept rifles close to ward off predators. A few used road signs, beer cans, watermelons, and tree trunks for roguish target practice. They were raised around pistols, rifles, and shotguns and could tell you the differences—and similarities—between each. Until then, I didn’t know the difference between a rifle and a shotgun. Unlike those Airmen, my intimacy with firearms, beyond the shoot-‘em-up westerns on television, was limited to the cap gun and BB gun.
After each of the two preliminary firing sets, we ran downrange, collected our targets, and circled the certified hits with black markers. After two sets, I had only 12 hits out of 30 rounds. I would need 43 qualifying hits out of the next 60 to pass.
The Airman posted next to me, who would later be awarded the marksmanship ribbon, didn’t waste a bullet. His shots were all clustered in the head and chest of his target, as if he’d put them there one-by-one with tweezers. After we retrieved our targets, he glanced at my barely wounded paper while drawing two circles around single overlapping holes on his own, showing he’d put two bullets through the same hole, like an archer splitting an arrow.
The instructor inspected our targets after each set. After the first, he glanced at my neighbor’s target and said, “Damn good shot, Airman.” Then he studied mine. His face changed. He took my rifle and squinted down the barrel, visualizing the sights’ alignments, my trigger action, the recoil, the firing pin striking the primer casing causing the explosion that sends the bullet spinning through the barrel, and finally, its trajectory to the target. “You’re scattered,” he said. He blamed the rifle. “Maybe your sights are out of alignment.” He inspected the rear and front sights assemblies, the grip, and the stock, then nestled the heel snugly against my shoulder. “Hold your breath as you s-q-u-e-e-z-e the trigger. That will help steady your weapon.”
Then, as if I were a combat mannequin on display, he adjusted my head and elbows, squared my shoulders and hips, and widened my stance. “Right there,” he said, satisfied with his concept of a combatant. “Better.”
I didn’t think it would make a difference. Even at 25 yards, I could barely see the target; it looked like a standard-size sheet of bond paper at that distance. The bulls-eye faded into the target.
I inserted the last of my two 30-round magazines into the rifle. I had 17 hits after the first qualifying set and needed 26 hits out of the remaining 30 rounds to fully qualify. I wouldn’t have bet on it; the 17 hits surprised me. I couldn’t even muster the faith to pray on it.
I have amblyopia or “lazy eye,” in my right eye. The brain favors the stronger eye and neglects the other, leaving it functionally dim, even with correction lenses. An eye patch might help if it’s caught early. Mine wasn’t. Right-handed, I aimed with the eye that couldn’t see.
I compensated by shifting my head to the right of the rifle so my left eye could peer through the sights. The weapon, now cradled awkwardly between my left shoulder and side of my face, knocked me in the cheek with each recoil. I began to anticipate it, flinching away as I pulled the trigger. The result was predictable: scattered shots, most of them missing the target entirely.
It would be several years before I’ll learn to fire the M-16 left-handed, and when I did it made a world of difference.
During the last set, I lay in the prone position, my elbows pressing into the warm dirt and the spit-shined toes of my combat boots scratching against the coarse gravel. As I adjusted into position, I imagined myself a sniper, like those I’d seen on television crawling lizard-like, hugging the ground.
I was being trained—like any other military man—to kill other military men in war. I was no longer a child drawing a cap pistol from a holster or touting a BB gun playing cowboys and Indians. This training was to kill people, precisely. Because in time I will not be aiming at a neutral geometric pattern—the abstract outline of a body—but a human being. Someone who could be me. The shapes of my life will change, like gusts of wind shifting direction. I will examine my conscience before raising the barrel over the enemy’s head, aiming instead at a random crease in the clouds where gray meets white, waiting for something other than the trigger to click. I will hesitate at first, the trigger heavy against my finger, the flexor digitorum profundus tensed and my eyes searching for a dream. The reality will strike me when the enemy’s bullet whizzes by my forehead, its heat stinging like a hot needle. I will aim—no longer at random shapes, but breathing flesh, bone, heart, and blood—and s-q-u-e-e-z-e the trigger.
After the command to commence firing, I held my breath. The backstop, mount, and target blurred into a watery mass. With my ears muffled, the overlapping rifle blasts sounded like popcorn popping in a pot.
I s-q-u-e-e-z-e-d the trigger.
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“ALL CLEAR!” sounded a few seconds after the force of my last round drove the stock hard into my armpit. The barrel was hot; a curl of smoke drifted from the muzzle. The bitter smell of gunpowder blanketed the pavilion, so heavy we could taste it.
I trailed the other Airmen as they raced downrange like schoolboys in a field-day dash. When I reached my target, I froze with the same wonder that stifled me upon seeing a double rainbow for the first time when I was a boy. I imagined there were also two pots of gold as well. More bullet holes than I could count in one breath dotted my target, many of them clustered near the center. When I finished circling them, I counted 25. I could barely swallow. I wiped my stinging eyes with the heels of my palms and counted again.
I needed 26.
I counted 25 again.
The other Airmen reveled, comparing targets as they jostled back to the firing line, waving their bullet-ridden papers like battered flags of gallantry.
I was soaked as if the rains had come without my knowing. My white PT shirt, smeared with gravel and dirt, clung to my body. I lifted it and wiped my eyes again.
I studied my target and began a third count, this time writing numbers inside the circles to ensure I didn’t miss any.
“Looks good,” my neighbor said, admiring my target. A faint blush marked his right cheek where it had pressed hard against the rifle. His circles were again clustered in the head and chest of his target. He winked as he circled the slightly wider bullseye hole on mine.
“Two bullets went through this one.”
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Carlton Clayton is a thirty-year Air Force retiree with tours in South Korea, England, and Saudi Arabia, among others. A graduate of the Queens University of Charlotte MFA program with a concentration in creative nonfiction, he has essays published in Pembroke Magazine and Ironhorse Magazine as well as story published in As You Were: The Military Review, Vol 15. His essay, “The Sound a Hum makes when it’s Seen and not Heard,” was selected as a “Notable Essay” in the 2022 Best American Essays.
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