Alcohol, tobacco, and driving were illegal in my youth, with firearms the sole consolation prize. In retrospect, everything I know about people I learned on the rifle range, in Boy Scouts. Every year at scout camp we practiced grownup social skills with manual, bolt-action, .22 caliber rifles. But that was kindergarten compared to one rifle range visit. The experience had the itch of an exotic arms bazaar, and we were just kids granted unrestricted license to scratch, no learner’s permit required, although bonding dads rendered adult supervision. For red-blooded American boys there’s no way a candy store rated anywhere near this cool. From pioneering, muzzle-loaded, flintlock muskets to modern, high-powered, assault rifles this was trick or treat. This was a hands-on history lesson, covering the entire industrial revolutionary era, which none fully explored before a permanent cease-fire enforced a curfew, our trembling trigger fingers suffering withdrawal pangs.
Several scout troops had pooled their resources together to dangle this all-you-can-eat buffet of harmless fun within the reach of growing boys, too young to shave. It was a remarkable day filled with the intoxicating fumes of spent gunpowder unleashing fierce swarms of screaming hot projectiles, rivaling the eruption of Mount St. Helens for sheer destruction of airborne, ground, and sinus dwelling microorganisms. Although thoughtless incidents occurred, nobody got maimed; but if somebody had been seriously wounded, we were prepared. Many in attendance, including myself, had earned First Aid merit badges courtesy of our gracious sponsor. The Vietnam War waged on as we partied. Even the U.S. Army had sent clean-cut role models, for our exclusive benefit. Soldiers from Fort Lewis were favored to win the opening, ceremonial contest for most rounds fired in a single minute. They sported Government Issue arms, banned from civilian ownership. With all the hype, we expected to witness an assault on the world record. I can’t recount all the entries; but let me tell you, the whole shooting match was mighty impressive.
The M-14 looked like a hunting rifle fitted with a magazine clip. What am I saying? Not only did it look like a hunting rifle. It was one, only Bambi wasn’t its game. One shot fired for every pull of the trigger. The recoil ejected the spent shell, driving the next bullet from the magazine into the firing chamber – semiautomatic. For political reasons, semiautomatic was an imposed handicap. On full automatic the rifle continued to fire as long as the trigger was held, like a machine gun, or so we were told. Deprived of a full automatic demonstration, I figured it could spray shells faster than a kid could spit watermelon seeds, but this was no little kid’s picnic. The M-14 had restricted access – an age limit, magnifying its allure. Did I mention that it was illegal for civilians to own? It was forbidden. How much more tempting could it get? Tall for my age, I passed muster without having to lie. Soldiers warned that the M-14 kicked like a mule, and you had to press the stock firmly against your shoulder or else risk a bruise when the gun recoiled. I’m pretty sure one shot was powerful enough to go clean through a car: doors, seats, body, tires, fuel tank, the pavement too. China, watch out.
Dead last, in the contest, went to a muzzle-loading, flintlock musket; with maybe three rounds fired in that same timed minute, an impressive sight in its own right. The muskets used black powder, which created the only explosion that rated its own advanced warning announcement. Nobody plugged his ears. We weren’t wimps, but who knows what the startle response might do, without the precaution, to some excited boy exercising his Second Amendment right to bear firearms? Each blast produced so much smoke that it took longer for the air to clear than to reload the weapon, which the owners did using ramrods – the old fashioned way. The muskets were darling favorites, drawing the longest lines. Their inaccuracy didn’t matter, though the prospect of a long wait discouraged me. The rest of the smorgasbord was so inviting that I never got around to experiencing the thrill of going deaf and blind. How far a musket ball could travel through a car, I’m not sure – Davy Crockett never bagged a Chevy, but the entry wound would be something extraordinary to gawk at, and mesmerize listeners in the retelling.
The contest didn’t get executed as advertised. Due to technical difficulties the soldier with the M-14 fell out of the running. The winner, at 24 rounds per minute, was some guy from a gun club, a card carrying NRA member, sporting his manual, bolt-action rifle with an internal magazine – its advanced feature. Four shells, two short of a six-pack, could be inserted at once. A single round was rammed into the chamber with the forward thrust of the bolt, priming the gun to fire. A squeeze of the trigger detonated the charge. Retracting the bolt ejected the shell casing, completing one cycle. After four cycles he inverted the rifle and strategically removed the four-pack clasp, flipped the gun over, then popped in another four-pack. Most of his time was spent dealing four-packs, so when recycling properly he had to be firing faster than one round every two seconds. We were blown away. He had pushed himself hard, jerking about like a fanatic, but with justifiable cause. The soldier was the prohibitive favorite going in, so this guy just wanted to make a respectable showing in what promised to be a humiliating defeat. As for the soldier who entered the contest, his M-14 jammed after maybe 6 rounds relinquishing his early lead. After he cleared the gun jam it was too late, but everybody was convinced that semiautomatic weapons were the wave of the future, after all the bugs were worked out.
Contest over, it was our turn to occupy the front lines, and we had a blast. In our collective hands we held enough firepower to overthrow Seattle’s government, and even withstand a siege until we were at least old enough to drive. We were young and naïve. Joiners are wannabe pushers. The way you get to be a pusher is to recruit joiners. It’s a pyramid scheme. Victims become victimizers. Scouting was fertile ground for this military mentality. We were in basic training preschool. Our pledge was to be obedient. In hindsight, the soldiers and gun owners were just as anxious to get weapons into our grasping adolescent clutches as we were. They brought us together to enlist the attention of our impressionable little minds, which we unconditionally surrendered – attentions, imaginations, and wills. Official uniforms were our free ticket, we were joiners; little did we realize that this was our opportunity of a lifetime. The first time always is. Group organizations pose an easy target. They’re so big; anywhere you aim it’s a direct hit. We couldn’t miss if we tried.
Handguns are fun. Like candy laced pacifiers to babies, we were lured with the high quality stuff: a police .38 magnum revolver, and a military .45 caliber, semiautomatic pistol. How could we just say no? No way. But talk about inaccurate. It’s no wonder there’re so many innocent handgun victims. The handgun targets were placed at close range, segregated from the rifle range. I could pinpoint where I hit the target firing a handgun. I had excellent vision. To build confidence on the rifle range, the targets were placed far back making bullet holes appear smaller than pinpricks to the naked eye, no messy details to witness. I never did see whether I hit any targets on the rifle range, and this bothered me. Not because I questioned my skill, but because kids I knew bragged about hitting the bulls eye with every shot they fired.
Waiting turns occupied most of our time. Allotted rounds were consumed at an alarming pace. So, equipped with a box of shells and a rifle my dad had brought along, I assumed a prone position, blocked out all other distractions, and got into a groove with enough bullets to sustain me for a while. Steady, breathe, exhale half a breath, hold it, align the gun sights with the tiny black circle at the center of the target, squeeze the trigger – no kick, at least none I could feel, but that was normal. The gun was a manual, bolt-action, .22 caliber rifle, similar to scout camp. The ammunition was a .22 short round, less powerful that the regular .22 round at Camp Parsons on Hoods Canal. An archery bow had more recoil than either one. Reload. Repeat the drill. Did I hit the target? I couldn’t tell.
Even back then my dad’s shells were old, so he decided they were expendable. Expiration dates hadn’t been invented yet, but a date stamp on that box could’ve predated President Kennedy’s assassination, which had happened while I was in Cub Scouts. I couldn’t tell you how many rounds I bombed through before I became concerned. Not only couldn’t I tell whether I was hitting the target, but I couldn’t tell if the slugs were even leaving the gun.
Why I checked the weapon after one particular shot remains a mystery. No perceptible difference had occurred. It was just some subliminal visceral reaction. I felt uneasy, and didn’t know why. Some nerve cells in my body began to panic and their panic spread amongst themselves until my entire nervous system was tuned into my environment with the gain on my heightened sensitivity cranked way up. All I received was incoherent static. My mind was searching not knowing what to seek. No clue was present. I was ambushed by feelings of dread, which washed over me in waves coursing through my nerves. My nerves had been an unruly mob, now they were rallying. I concentrated on the details.
I checked the worst case scenario first. Slowly I released the bolt on the rifle and drew it back. The shell was empty. It hadn’t misfired. It wouldn’t explode now, because it’d already done so. I proceeded onto the next worst case – the next logical step. In no immediate danger, I removed the bolt all the way out of the rifle. I knew how to do it, so I did it, and I sighted forward into the breach. You’d expect to see all the way through the barrel to daylight, but darkness interposed. What was the holdup? I couldn’t see. I stood up and did a little dance to invoke the gravity gods. No fancy footwork, just vigorous up and down arm motions like a jerk – the dance, not me. But the blockage rebelled against the gravitons and wouldn’t budge. A lot of friction had built up between the two. If it didn’t want to come out voluntarily, I’d have to force it out. All I needed was something long, round, hard, and thin. I wasn’t equipped with anything like that. Never once did I think of asking for help.
So I looked around for something, anything, a tool. I spied a long metal rod used for cleaning rifles barrels. It’d do the trick. I retrieved the rod, and rammed it through the bore, breech end first. A slug popped out the front end of the barrel and dropped to the ground at my feet, dead. So that’s what a dud looks like. That bullet was more confused than I was about the target’s location. I think what had happened was that some part of me must’ve realized that something was amiss – the bullet hadn’t fired properly. In a flash, the shot had fired quicker than the speed of conscious thought, but not perception. It was a conspiracy of circumstances. If only the targets were closer, if only ammunition kicked harder, if only the gun smoke billowed, if only… None of this was inevitable, but I felt better off that it had. My nerves were silent again. The danger had passed.
It wouldn’t be the last time in my life that I’d face a crisis, but that day I slew my dragon and I knew how to do it. I wouldn’t ever feel defenseless. I had survived. I had triumphed. I’ve never seen a gun explode, nor ever want to; but I knew it could’ve happened, in theory. With a plugged barrel the expanding gas has nowhere to go. When firing a rifle you press your face right next to the firing chamber where the detonation starts. Life happens. It’s a Rorschach test, and I’m a firm believer in self-organization as the key to a passing grade.
I learned more about myself that day, than everybody else combined. For my self-esteem, this was a character revealing, rather than a character defining, moment. In times of crisis we glimpse our true selves. In confusion we are of two minds. The part of me that would’ve taken to the other branch was pruned from my tree of life, while the part that had listened to his intuition survived, and I am his descendant. It’s how we fare in the trials of our life that shape our growth. I wasn’t stunted by this experience. Flight or fight? Victim or victimizer? I was neither. Fear didn’t own me, and anger didn’t own me, because I owned the power of reason. I condemned that entire box of ammunition. One dud had spoiled it for everyone. It wasn’t the gun’s fault. I knew that. Then I thought it through.
Reason extinguishes confusion. I could manage the risk. After every shot fired, I could pull out the bolt and double check for duds. To me, the hassle wasn’t worth it. I re-engaged the bolt and laid the rifle down – guilt by association. I was done for the day. My subconscious had reacted to the crisis by pumping adrenaline into my system. My trigger finger trembled, and both hands with it. Some people need material goods to lend a sense of worth to their lives. I don’t, and I recognized that at an early age. The best way I’ve found to solve problems is to pose the right questions. The better aimed the questions the greater the likelihood that the answers will land on target. Centered and true.
A younger scout from my troop pleaded to finish off the rest of that box. I tried reason, but he didn’t want to listen. I explained the danger and the workaround I had devised – checking for duds after every shot. He promised to heed my advice, and I gave my permission. That’s a ploy kids learn well. Promises have short warranties. They’re only good as long as needed to get what’s desired. I accepted him at his word, but his oath proved worthless. The boy couldn’t resist and charged right ahead ignoring all my precautions. Without incident he finished what remained of that box of ammunition, proving me wrong – a dangerous proof, in many ways.
Joiners are so busy trying to meet organizational and relationship needs (both moving targets) that it’s hard to hit the mark of their own needs. So they learn to become pushers, and try to recruit joiners. Many adult addictions first become habitual when we’re young. Ever notice how writers push reading? They were stricken by virulent childhood strains of reading epidemic, no doubt. I never inhaled books as a child. I have no uncontrollable urge to write or to recruit reading addicts. My compelling need is to understand. The smallest imperceptible detail will bug the heck out of me until I figure it out.
The pursuit of Truth is my passion, my motivation, my addiction. Words, like weapons, are manmade tools. Now, I’m a social reader, road signs mostly. I never was infected by whatever it takes to flow with the mainstream. Where’s my proof? I didn’t enlist, guns don’t own me, drugs don’t own me, alcohol doesn’t own me, tobacco doesn’t own me, my car is parked in the garage right now, and I can stop writing any time I want to.
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