More dangerous than a bullet

         Agatha Remington was on a shooting range at Basic Training.  She had sat through the lesson block three times and still had yet to qualify on an M-16 rifle.
         Even Private Waters, the annoying little elf who was caught jerking off in the latrine sink, had qualified in the first round.  Not only did he qualify, he was rated Expert for hitting 37 out of 40 targets.  Phrases from the pre-marksmanship instruction rolled through her mind.  Despite doing what the Drill Sergeants demanded her scores were still well below the required 26.
         “Move your selector switch from safe to semi and watch your lane,” the voice over the PA system announced.
         Fifty meters out, slightly to the right, a plastic outline of a man popped up.  Shots blasted in the air around her as Remington swung her muzzle, aimed and pulled back on the trigger.
         The green man was still standing.
         She forcibly exhaled.
         What am I doing wrong?  She thought.  Shooting a gun cannot possibly be this hard.  My feet are relaxed.  There’s no weight on my hips.    My sights are in line.
         Remington tugged the stock lower into her shoulder.  By the time the 50-meter man was brought down, she decided she had pulled the trigger too hard which had forced the round to the right.
         Two other green men shot up. 
         She swung her muzzle to the center, lined up the crosshairs and pulled the trigger.
         The green man was still standing.
         Her gaze narrowed.  Her grip tightened.  Round after round, Remington moved, aimed and squeezed.  Her bicep muscles started to quiver and she eventually lost count of how many targets she had missed.  Gazing out across the range, she could see that hers was often the only lane dotted with green.  Her heart slammed in her chest as shots fired around her and the figures disappeared behind the yellowing grass. 
         Sweat rolled from underneath her helmet and stung the corners of her eyes.  She wiped it away and missed another target.
         A mosquito landed on her neck.  She felt a sting at her collar and missed another target.
         What am I doing here? she thought.  I can’t kill a man.  I can’t even kill a mosquito before it bites me.  I’m going to get myself fucking killed because I’m too stupid to learn how to shoot a gun.  Even dipshit Waters qualified in the first round, as an expert!  And he’s responsible for protecting this country?  He probably fucking misses the toilet when he pees and now my life is in his hands, right next to his tiny-ass dick.
          “Shooters, lock your bolts to the rear and put your weapons on safe.”
         The spiraling internal dialogue continued as the Private was checked off the range, given her score of 13/40 and directed to the instruction area for the fourth time.
         A deep voice to her right called her over.  She turned and caught a glimpse of a Drill Sergeant she didn’t recognize.
         “What’s going on out there?”
         “I’ve never shot before, Drill Sergeant.”
         He put a toothpick in his mouth and rolled it across his bottom lip with his tongue.
         “I would be worried if you told me you had,” he said and watched a bead of sweat roll down the side of her face.  “Relax, Private.”
         It was another command, not a casual statement.  The young woman knew she wasn’t going anywhere.  The Drill Sergeant questioned her about the basics.  He commanded her to assume the prone position and checked over her form.
         “Well,” he said, taking a knee, “it looks like you’ve got it down.  So what’s your problem?”
         She sat up straight in front of him.
         “Maybe I’m just tired, Drill Sergeant.”
         “Yeah, well, you’re always tired in the Army, Private.  Get used to it”
         “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
         “You know what your problem is, Private?”
         “No, Drill Sergeant.”
         “You think too much.  I can see it in your face.  You’re so worried about spitting out the textbook how-to you’re not enjoying the fun of just shooting a gun.”
         She looked down at the rifle and wished it would disappear.
         “You’re right, Drill Sergeant.  It’s not fun.”
         “Bull shit.  Shooting a gun is just as about as fun as it gets,” he stood up and threw the toothpick down behind him.  “Can’t you feel it?  Look at those Privates over there,” he said pointing to the weapon cleaning area in the tree line.  “Those sorry sacks of shit are more tired, hungry and sore than they’ve ever been.  And they’re smiling right now.”
         He was right.  Fucking Waters had a shit eating grin from ear to ear.
         “We break you down so you can learn.  Your head knows the instruction and your body knows the placement.  Now, you’ve got one more rotation and that’s it.  You don’t want to be the Private that walks out of here unqualified, trust me.  Especially with a name like Remington.  The others are gonna ask to borrow targets from you because theirs have holes in them.  You’re about to be scarred for life.”
         Remington caught the unspoken cue, replaced her Kevlar and snapped to attention in front of him. 
         “There’s nothing that I or anyone can tell you at this point that will help you,” he said.  “Get all the shit out of your head, Private.  Now is the time for action, not thought.  Get back on the line.”
         When her salute was returned, she sighed and walked to join the lineup with exaggerated steps.
         Get all the shit out of your head.
         The range was more familiar to Remington the fourth time around.  She felt at ease walking up to the release point.  She was no longer surprised by the weight of the magazines in her hand or the strong smell of sulfur in the air. 
          “Range walk,” bellowed the command tower.
         The Private picked up her pace.  She was tired but knew that the Drill Sergeant was right.  She could already hear Waters saying, “Remington?  Yeah, right- more like Revlon.”
         I’m way smarter that that fucking jackass.  I can figure this out.
         “Move your selector switch from safe to semi and watch your lane.”
         Muffled metallic clicks rang out around her in sporadic intervals.  Remington was lying on her stomach with her arms extended in front of her and the ground bit hard at her elbows.  Her right arm bored the weight of the weapon while her left relaxed around the pistol grip.  Scraping a few rocks out of the way, she pulled up her left knee and lowered her head to look through the sights.  The late afternoon sun glinted off the end of the rifle and she quickly refreshed her eyesight by squinting and widening her eyes.  Tall white sticks marked the perimeter of her lane.  The only thing between her and the horizon were ten grassy mounds concealing targets. 
         Find a way to let go and have fun.  I’ve got this.  Last chance.
         A 100-meter target shot up in front of her.  She dropped her thumb and centered her aim as gun shots blasted around her.  When the intersecting lines hit the middle of the green chest, she pulled back on the trigger. 
         It didn’t move. 
         Her weapon was still on safe.
         You’ve got to be kidding me.
         The timer pulled the target down and she flicked her thumb as the 50-meter target to her right popped up.
         Move, aim, squeeze- still standing.
         What? Her face dropped.  What kind of fucking jackass misses the easiest target? I can’t believe my last name is Remington.
         The timer pulled it down and another green man popped up.
         I got you, you fucking Leprechaun.
         Move, aim, squeeze- the green man disappeared.
         Yes!  Yes! 
         Targets appeared at 100- and 200-meters.
         I’ll kill you and all your fucking Leprechaun friends.
         Move, aim, squeeze- the targets fell back.
         Your gold is mine!  Run, little men, run!
         Targets fell to the ground round after round.
         You can’t escape Remington Steel!
         She didn’t feel the hot brass that bounced off her hand or hear the fly that raced past her ear.  Remington was lost in an imaginary place, shooting thieves and taking back the gold that they had stolen.
         “Shooters, lock your bolts to the rear and put your weapons on safe.”
         The Private wasn’t sure if she had qualified but she knew it had been her best rotation of the day.  Her steps were light as she was checked off the range, given her score and instructed towards the weapon cleaning area.
         “Private Remington,” called a deep voice, “How did you shoot?”
         “33 out of 40.  I kicked its ass, Drill Sergeant!” she shouted with pride.
         “Get over here,” he demanded.  She turned and saluted him with a smile.  “Now what the hell did you do differently?”
         “Well, Drill Sergeant, I don’t really know,” she started.  “I missed the first 50- and all I could think was, how could I miss the easiest one?  Then, I nailed the next target and it reminded me of a Leprechaun,” she waved in the shape of a rainbow.  “So, I guess I went Leprechaun hunting.”
         “Leprechaun hunting?” he repeated deadpan, crossing his arms over his chest.           The private straightened up.
         “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
         She stared at his chest.
         “Well, that’s a new one,” he said with a hint of a smile.  “If that’s what it takes to clear the shit out of your head, Private, so be it.  Well done.”
         “Thank you, Drill Sergeant.”
         Remington turned on her heels.  She stood tall as she walked towards the tree line for the Private hadn’t just qualified, she was now a Sharpshooter.  By the time she entered the weapon cleaning area there was a shit eating grin on her face.