I'm Surgical, Baby

Took that line from a friend of mine: Jake back in Virginia. And to be honest, it actually fits this post quite well.

In the past few days, things have been kinda rough and tumble as we've gotten different things taken care of. Most importantly, we were given time on Friday to fire some rounds down the range. 160 rounds, to be exact, and it took a lot of us a lot longer than I think it should've. Because I mean hell, out in the field, I doubt the insurgents are gonna give you a good hour or two to launch so many rounds at them.

Friday actually caused me a bit of grief early on in the morning, because I had to go to the optometrist. Well, as I'd figured, they didn't have me there for much more than to tell me that I didn't need to be there. We had to wear our body armour and our helmets and all that jazz for going to the range, and when we got to medical, they had us ground all our equipment and stack our M16s before we could go inside.

Once inside and comfortable, the HM3 told us, "I know you already grounded your weapons and stuff, but... if you've already got your UVEX inserts and all that, you don't need to be here, and you can leave."

But as annoyed as I was with that, I was glad that I didn't have to stick around for something I didn't want to stick around for. So, I went back outside, got my gear back on, hopped on the bus, and nearly had my tailbone shattered from an impatient Drill Sergeant who didn't want to wait for me to take my seat before he put his foot down on the pedal.

Now take 170 lbs, add 70 lbs in kevlar and all that, and you've got quite a bit of weight to fall backwards onto a metal stump sticking out of a bus seat.

Yeah, ouch.

But, I survived, and made it to the range without any further incident.

Once I got there, we had range safety procedures drilled into us again by not one, not two, but three different people.

I blew them off completely. I was daydreaming about coming back home from a deployment that hadn't even started.

And you know what? The world didn't explode. Nobody died. There were no mishaps throughout the day. Not from me, and not from anyone else.

You know why?

It's common sense crap.

But as far as my performance on the range goes, yes... I was quite surgical. We had targets at 75, 150, and 300 meters. And with few exceptions, I hit every single one of them.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It started out with us "shotgunning" our M16s once again to let the Drill Sergeants see that our weapons were in fact, clear of any rounds in the barrel. Once I did that, I walked up to the First Sergeant to get my eight 20-round clips.

"Lane twenty-nine," he told me.
"Roger," I replied, and headed down the range to my lane.

And when I got there, I was dismayed to find that not only was their no computerized monitoring system there, there were no targets for me to fire at down range.

"Did he tell you twenty-nine?" someone asked from behind.
"Yeah," I said, looking back at him.
"Well, go ahead and take twenty-eight," he said, "And I'll take twenty-seven."

So I did as he said, and as I started setting up in that lane, I was called out and told that that lane was to be used for people who hadn't zeroed their weapons days prior to do just that. So, I gathered up my crap and stood idly by in the sand behind the lanes with the most distraught and confused look I could possibly muster, hoping a passing Drill Sergeant would see me and set things straight.

"Which firing order are you?" she asked, pulling me to another lane.
"Uh," I replied, "Uhhhhhh..."
"Are you first?" she asked.
"Uhhhhhh..."
"No, you're second. You'll go after this man does."

I nodded and took a seat, putting my gun into the v-notch stake in the sand. I sat there and watched (and took some pictures of) one of the few people in my platoon I really can't stand. I watched him as he took his sweet ol' time firing his rounds off at targets that did nothing more than fall down and reset themselves into the same place time and time again. At the very least, his shots at the 75m target should've been in quick, successive bursts.

But they weren't. He took his time, and to his credit, he didn't miss a single one.

But then it was only 75m away, and that's not far away at all.

In any stance.

I watched him go through all his rounds, getting the gist of how things were done.

Without our armour on, we'd go and fire from the prone supported position. We'd fire five rounds at the 75m target, 10 rounds at the 175m target, and 5 rounds at the 300m target, for a total of 20 rounds fired. Then from there, we'd get another magazine from the monitor, and fire from the kneeling position. Five rounds at 75m, and then five more rounds at 175m. From there, we'd put our weapon on safe and assume the prone unsupported position, fire five more rounds at 175m, and then the final five at 300m.

From there, we'd go back and repeat the process for two more magazines. Then we'd put on our body armour and repeat the entire ordeal for the last four magazines.

The monitor would watch, and give us audible feedback of our performance. A simple "hit" or "miss" report based on, obviously enough, whether we hit or miss the target.

So there I sat... through all 160 of his rounds. It took him roughly forty-five minutes to do it.

Once he was done, it was my turn. Or so I thought. His monitor stood up, raised his hand in the air and waited for a minute or two. When no Drill Sergeant came to check them out, he shrugged, and took his place in the sand.

I was pissed.

This douchetard was taking my spot? I wanted to get in, get my rounds off, and get the hell off the range and doing something else. Anything else. But, whatever.

So I sat there and watched him as he put his eight magazines on a small ledge near his position, and watched as he basically did a self-serve kinda deal. He'd run out of rounds, eject his magazine, and then get a new one all by himself. No big deal, we're adults here... if you can't get your own magazine, well... you suck.

Once he was done half an hour later, he called me up. I picked up my M16, brought it to the v-notch stake in the lane, and then proceeded to lay my magazines down on that same stand he'd used.

But no, he'd have none of it.

LT Hanke was his name. I'll never forget it. I'm pretty vindictive.

He grabbed up my magazines and put them to his right, far out of my reach.

And then he proceeded to walk me verbally through everything I'd just watched twice.

I could feel my blood boiling as he talked. He had such a condescending air about him, I wanted to slap him upside the head. Say, "Look, douche, all I need you to do is tell me whether I hit or miss, and if my barrel is placed right. Other than that, stfu, and leave me be."

But he's an officer, so I couldn't do that.

Quick sidenote: I don't care who you are, from the senior enlisted in my chain of command to the CNO. My respect isn't given out of tradition or requirement. No, you'll get what I like to call "pseudo-respect". It's just enough respect to make you think I actually care. You have to earn my respect just like everyone else does.

And this guy was sucking at it, big time. Treating me like a child, this guy was losing credit pretty quick.

Anyway.

I took my position and fired away as quickly as I could to show those cretins that it was possible to maintain a superior level of accuracy while at the same time moving faster than molasses uphill in the winter.

And you know what I got from that?

"Slow down there, shipmate. They're not going anywhere."

No, I thought, Maybe not now, but they will when it comes time to actually qualify, douche.

I can't tell you how much of a pet peeve of mine it is to be called "shipmate". Most people use it as a detrimental way, and I don't care for it at all.

So, I kept up my pace regardless of his incessant coaching, which he wasn't supposed to be doing. "Don't tell them where they miss if they miss," the First Sergeant had repeatedly told us, "Just tell them if they miss. If you tell them how they're missing, they'll aim to compensate, and we want them aiming center mass every time."

This is key, as it would lead to my downfall here shortly.

On my second to last magazine, the female Drill Instructor paid me a visit, and I could hear her talking with LT Hanke as I fired. I couldn't hear what she said, exactly, but I heard Hanke say, "...but he's doing it pretty consistently."

Aiming to impress, I took a bit more time on my first shot at 300m.

"Remember," she said, "On that 300m target, you gotta aim up a bit to compensate."

So I took her words to heart, and squeezed the trigger.

"You hit center mass!" she yelled.
I squeezed again.
"And again!"
And again.
"God damn!"
And once more.
"That's the most impressive shooting I've ever seen, sailor. Good job!"

When she walked off, Hanke paid me respect in his own little way. "Nice shooting, Tex."

Yeah. Thanks, douche.

All said and done, I did very well up until the very last rounds in my last magazine. Because Hanke stepped up his coaching, and I did exactly what I shouldn't have: I aimed to compensate for how he said I was missing. And when you do that at huge distances, even the smallest corrections can have major consequences.

I completely missed four of the five shots I fired at the 300m target.

They didn't even register anywhere on the printout.

Asshat.

Bleh, but still, I scored an average of 34 out of 40 rounds for each 40-round printout, which put me ten points ahead of the 24 points needed to qualify.

Oh yes. Surgical.

The weekend was empty of anything except for a bit of training in the morning. And today, all we had was some map training and some IED training, and a bit of "SHOTEX" (injections) later on, followed by a cookout.

On that note, I leave you.

And Happy President's Day, all.