Rapidly, the morning classroom gave way to field exercises and demonstrations. Corporal Johnson taught all the physical assignments, such as hand-to-hand combat, bayonet training and Judo. He was an expert at Japanese Judo and enjoyed selecting the largest Boots, myself included, and throwing us to the ground in an effortless style. He taught us that it was all about balance and leverage. Once I mastered those concepts I became modestly efficient in throwing my fellow Boots to the mat.
Sergeant Nelson was the weapons expert. He had a working knowledge and expertise with every small arm a rifle platoon might use. From handguns to hand grenades, from submachine guns to our primary Springfield 1903 rifle, we were taught how to use, strip and maintain each weapon. The training was so intense that I found myself dreaming about how to disassemble and assemble each weapon.
Every recruit was required to qualify on the rifle range. Once qualified, the Boots were issued a badge to be worn on their Class A uniforms. There were three designs of badges: Rifleman-bronze bar, Sharpshooter-bronze bar with hanging cross and Expert Rifleman-gold bar with hanging crossed rifles. From what I could see, there were few Expert Badges on the base. Sergeant Crane and Nelson had them, while most others didn’t, so I knew this award was hard to achieve. It became my goal to shoot for the gold.
Before the three rounds of qualification, we were given two sessions of practice. The rifle range was tucked into a small valley surrounded by scrub grass and sand dunes. At one end of the basin were sand-filled cement ramparts with a long, deep dugout behind. Here Marines would connect 5’x 5’ paper targets to racks that would move up and down behind the rampart. Each Boot then fired five rounds of live ammunition from the standing position, five from the sitting position and five from the prone position. Before each exercise, fresh targets would be raised above the wall and, after five rounds, lowered below the wall. Here the range Marines would examine the target for accuracy. After the examination, the target was raised again. A red flag, called Maggie’s Drawers, would be waved in front of the target for each shot that had missed. For each shot that hit the target, a long stick with a large white dot on top would point to where the target was hit. The bull’s eye of the target was only about ten inches across, and black. The next circle was about thirty inches across, and dark gray. The final circle was sixty inches across, and light gray. The recruits would fire from down-range, some hundred yards (the length of a football field). There were twenty lines of targets.
The range was a grueling seven-mile march from our barracks and, on our first afternoon of practice, the temperature was close to a hundred degrees. By now, we had all been issued training rifles, but they were of WWI vintage. When we arrived at the range, the ordnance Sergeant issued newer rifles for the live fire. Along with the rifle came three clips, with five rounds each of live ammunition.
Sergeant Nelson had the first squad on the firing line. He gave one last demonstration on the correct use and firing of the weapon from the standing position, then stressed range safety. Stepping back, he shouted, “Load and lock…ready on the left, ready on the right, ready on the firing line. Commence firing!” With that, the squad opened fire.
The noise and smell was both exciting and frightening. After the first five rounds, the line fell silent and the targets were pulled down. Moments later came the results. A few Maggie’s Drawers were lofted, but most of the bullets had found their way into light gray. Next, the squad would shoot from two more positions.
The second squad went next. Standing in Lane 7, the order came: “Load and lock, ready on the left, ready on the right, ready on the firing line. Commence firing!” With that, I begin squeezing off my five rounds. There was sweat running down my face and I had to blink my eyes a couple times. The rifle recoiled sharply against my shoulder. The feeling was familiar, after all that hunting in British Columbia, and I was confident of my score. After the range fell silent again, the targets went down and, moments later, up again.
In front of Lane 7 came not one or two but five passes of the red flag! All Maggie’s Drawers! I could not believe it.
Just then, Sergeant Nelson approached and remarked, “Clarke, I’m surprised. I thought you would do better.”
Turning my head towards him, I replied, “I know I’m better, Sergeant. There has got to be something wrong with this weapon.”
“Give it to me. Let me take a look.”
Opening the bolt, I turned and handed the rifle to the Sergeant.
Just then, from behind the third squad, came Sergeant Crane. Approaching us he shouted, “What the hell is going on here? What’s the hold up?”
Sergeant Nelson replied, “Recruit Clarke thinks there might be a problem with his weapon.”
“Did Clarke get Maggie’s Drawers? Well, the problem is not with the weapon. It’s with Clarke!”
Turning to me, he continued, “You have one excuse after another. You’re one sorry, burr-headed idiot to blame your weapon because you can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
“Actually, he might be right, Sergeant Crane. The rear sight looks a little bent,” Nelson replied.
“Bull shit. That’s just an excuse,” answered Crane. Turning he grabbed a weapon out of the hands of the recruit standing in Lane Six and tossed it to me.
“Here, Clarke. Try this one. Maybe it’s broken, too. Or are you afraid to admit it’s all your sorry-ass problem?”
Crane was staring at me, just like the night at the drinking fountains, but this time I didn’t taste fear. I turned to Sergeant Nelson. He looked at me and nodded his approval. Approaching the firing line, I slid the bolt open and squeezed five rounds into the rifle’s magazine. Unlocking the safety, I shouted, “Ready on the left, ready on the right, ready on the firing line.”
“Commence firing,” Sergeant Nelson called out.
The sweat was gone; my eyes were clear. Within fifteen seconds, the magazine was empty. The target moved down and within seconds up again. This time, no red flag, just five beautiful white dots, all pointing inside the black bull’s eye!
Letting out a sigh of relief, I turned to see Sergeant Nelson grinning and Sergeant Crane marching off, carrying the bad weapon.
Finally, Nelson commented, with a smile, “You wouldn’t want to be the ordnance Sergeant this afternoon. Good shooting, Clarke. Carry on.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
After qualifications, I was one of only two recruits in our platoon to be awarded the gold Expert Rifleman badge, an emblem I would wear proudly on my dress uniform.
