The Range:
Basic Training, Parks AFB, 1956
By
Stewart James Ritchey
Of course we should have known better. After so many mornings of eager anticipation and so many afternoons of bored and footsore disappointment, most of us had learned to regard the sergeant’s little offerings with suspicion. This morning was no different. We fell out as usual, shivering and disgusted in the chill, wet California air and fumbled our way through drizzly blackness to the Chow Hall, an occasional street light serving only to illuminate the rain we were trying so desperately to ignore.
A streak of gray struggled against the overcast to the east as the formation gathered after chow in front of the Mess Hall. There was much playful goosing of unsuspecting behinds and exchange of insults in guarded undertones when the sergeant happened to be looking the other way. Finally the flock seemed to be ordered to his satisfaction. “Ten – HUT”, he bawled, and we began our soggy pilgrimage to the rifle range.
As we settled gingerly upon the cold, wet and inhospitable earth before the scowling rangemaster, all thoughts of the intervening hour of miserable marching were forgotten. We shifted our glances here and there, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.
“This here,” he began, “is the Caliber Thirty Em-One Self-Functioning Gas Operated Semi-Automatic Car-been. It is the O-ficial weapon of the Yew-nited States Air Force. Therefore, it behooves you to know how operate this here weapon. Are they any questions?”
Silence.
“To oper-ate this weapon yew insert the loaded magazine here...”
“Psst! Where’d he stick it? I can’t see from here!”
“Whadda you care where he sticks it, fathead? You’ll never use it anyway!”
“Knock it off, you guys – I’m tryin’ to sleep!”
“Jeez, I’m dyin’ for a cigarette – when they gonna give us a smoke break?”
“...and moving the bolt in cam-like manner, extrack it frum the ree-ceiver housing, being sure to...”
And so it goes, on and on. The young and eager faces of our nation’s defenders raptly attend these words of import.
Soon it is our unit’s turn at the firing line. Hours of torturous drill in the yoga of the shooting positions are completed, and our much-battered knees and elbows attest our proficiency.
“Now at all times ree-member: keep yer weapons pointed DOWN RANGE. When I give the signal yew will...”
“Don’t it ever stop raining in this mizerble place?”
“Quitcher bellyachin’, willya? I got troubles of my own. Who do ya ask fer a latrine call around here?”
“Who ast you, General?”
“...positions. Awright – ready on the left! Ready on the right! Ready on the firing line. Commence...FIRE!”
“Bang!”
“Bang...Bang...Bang!”
“Bangetty...Bangetty...Bang...Bang...Bang!”
“Bangetty bang bang BANG!”
“Hey, sarge!”
“Bang!”
“Whaddaya want, boy? GET THAT MUZZLE OUTA MY FACE!”
“Gee, Sarge, I’m sorry. My gun busted, that’s all!”
“I OUGHTA BUST YOUR...gimme that weapon! Now looka here, boy, this is a...”
“Hey, looky there! If he ain’t gettin’ chewed out again!”
“Shaddup – I’m tryin’ to score a good one for a change.”
“Nuts. You ain’t come near the bullseye since we got here.”
“Bang...Bang...Bang!”
The loudspeaker suddenly blared into life. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
“Bangetty...Bang...Bang...Bang!”
“Cease fire! Cease fire!”
Silence.
“Bang!”
“I SAID CEASE FIRE!”
Silence. Sheepish looks among the recruits. Sergeants glare here and there trying to spot the offender.
“Awright, move forward and take down yer targits fer scoring!”
“Whatcha make? Maggie’s drawers?”
“Wise guy – look here! I done hit the bull twicet!”
“Big deal! You only had fifteen shots!”
"Dry up!”
There was a happy and relieved bustle as targets were turned in and our scores recorded. Brows knit in concentration...
“I seen ya stick that target witcher pencil!”
“Shaddup, stupid – don’t be so loud! You want I should drive a garbage truck the next four years?”
“You got other talents?”
Blooded now and grim, we were much the old soldiers as we fell in for the return march to base. After the usual brief confusion and scuffling for place, we were startled into straggly motion by the sergeant’s explosive command, “FO-warrd HOOEY!”
Envious and apprehensive glances from the next unit on the firing line followed us away, and a few among us condescended to smile indulgently and even pass the green troops a wisecrack or two as we moved on to greater things.
