Missed PT for weapons room
detail--easy duty. Did good
job--will keep it. Nose bridge
bleeding from glasses. I'll try
carrying them tomorrow--see
if I can get away with it.
Lots of exercises--especially Raider
Dance--uniforms totally fucked.
End of day--tired but strangely
happy--I will make it. Still
miss [fiance]. Always feel sad
when I think of being apart.
Come on July 7th.
Weapons room detail was sweet. Weapons were always secured at the end of the day and locked up. So a small number of us were always sent in to collect weapons and put them in their assigned spot in the racks--and to hand them out at the start of the day. You had to be fast and accurate. I was pleased we got it down and kept the job, since the drill sergeants would generally exercise those waiting to turn in or draw weapons or those who had turned them in or received them rather than let the time go to waste just standing around doing nothing. We avoided that. Although once when someone turned in a weapon with a round chambered was a bit disturbing.
On that day we turned in the round "found on the floor" and denied knowing what weapon it came from--if it even came from one of our weapons. Live rounds leaving the range was very bad. As we'd leave the firing line, we'd have to proclaim "No brass, no ammo!" So even an empty shell was forbidden as a souvenir. A live round chambered in a weapon that had left the range? Heck, the drill sergeants probably would have gotten in far more trouble than whatever trainee did that.
Of course, everything on the firing range was very serious and I had a serious incident. I don't remember when this happened. Maybe in future journal entries I'll mention it. But since I never knew if a drill sergeant would read this journal, I tended to be careful about what I put down. Not careful enough, I'm sure. But nobody ever read this but me (and you, now). Anyway, once when we were all on the firing line, I was performing as trained as we were getting ready to fire down range. Weapons always had to be pointed down range (toward targets and not people), no matter which way you were facing. And you fired and did not fire at the call of the people in charge of the range.
But I'm left-handed and I was using a right-handed weapon equipped only with a small device to send expelled brass down instead of up and out into my face. So at this point, we had been told to get ready to fire and, with our fingers inside the trigger guard, take the weapon off safety with our thumb. for a right-hander, your thumb reaches around the grip to do that. For a left-hander, I had to twist my hand a bit to get my thumb to the safety switch--which resulted in my trigger finger applying the small amount of force to send a round down range. The only round to go down range at that moment.
Before the order to open fire. Oh sweet Jesus, it was nice to live to the ripe old age of 26.
So over the loud speaker, range control was yelling "Who fired?!!" I raised my (left) hand with no hesitation. I knew better than to confess to random accusations on the assumption that the drill sergeants saw and knew everything. But this was not that place and time. No point in trying to hide while the drill sergeants smelled for gun powder or counted rounds. That would be so much worse. One of the drill sergeants came over, and I explained that my trigger finger had moved while releasing the safety.
And I did not die at that moment. The firing exercise continued. Nor did I catch anything later. Not one bit. I can only assume that it was a known problem for left handers. If you go to war, you get a left-handed weapon, I'd been told. This was not war. But I never again kept my trigger finger near the trigger when prepared to fire on the range. I always kept it extended and away from the trigger just in case.
I just hated stinking. Showering and putting on a uniform already worn 2 days was just disgusting.
Still, the misery was becoming routine. On that day, deep down I did not worry about making it through training despite the constant aches and pains. Indeed, although the bleeding from wearing glasses (really ugly "birth control" glasses, I'll add) was just one more in a list of physical pains, at the end of the day I was actually in a good mood. Indeed, at some point I started ending every day with a good Russian goose stepping march from the latrine to my bunk as I counted cadence in Russian (Ras, dva, tree, cheteeree!). In one of the ancient films on the Soviet threat, Soviet soldiers had been shown goose stepping with their arms swing across their bodies as they goose-stepped in formation. I thought it looked fairly stupid. Other basic trainees would scatter and warn me I was going to get in trouble. But it was my own morale-building routine. I tended to use my limited Russian language skills when I could during basic.
And give me a break on references to my now ex-wife. I'm a little embarrassed but I won't edit them out. That's the way it was. But it was just prior to marriage, after all. In my own defense, I wasn't anywhere near as bad as one young man (nice guy, I'll add) who wrote to his girl friend every single day. Being apart no longer makes me sad, obviously.
In pain and misery while emitting foul odors, yet with good morale and confidence, I was looking forward to getting out already.
