Hey, everyone. I was discussing a memorable experience I had in Boy Scouts (of America) with a friend about when I got to shoot my first firearm. I figured that you guys and gals might get some pearls of wisdom from it, too. If not, well then just take it as entertainment.
I was a member of a Boy Scout troop in Southern California. I had been a Scout for quite a while, advancing through the ranks of Cub Scouts and most of the way through Boy Scouts. I do not remember for sure whether I ended with the Star rank or Life Rank, but I believe it was the Life rank. (I seem to remember the “Eagle was next” feeling, and Life is just before Eagle.)
Sometime during my scouting career, our troop was at a camping trip outing at either
Camp Helendade or
Camp Emerson. (They both had lots of trees, dirt, and a few ponds, so I don’t remember which one it was specifically.) Our Scoutmasters gathered our group together at our camp area so that we could all hike to a camp activity that was going on. I do not know whether our Scoutmasters neglected to tell us what the activity was, or whether the Scouts in my particular area just couldn’t hear what they announced, but no one in my immediate area knew what activity they were walking to.
We hiked along the trail in a single file (relatively… teenagers) until we stopped in an area that proceeded downhill into a depressed clearing. At this point, all of us were stopped as if we were in a line for an amusement park ride, but with a much longer line, as all of the troops in the camp were attending the same activity. As we progressed toward the end of the line, which was not in sight due to the tree coverage, the sound of gunshots could be heard through the dull roar of everyone talking to one another. (Not scary gunshots… just the sound of random popping coming from nearby in the woods.) About the same time, the Scout grapevine had finally relayed the information that we were going to be shooting rifles at a range that was set up.
I had never fired a firearm before, and the first thought through my head was how p——sed my mother was going to be once she found out about this. She was not into firearms, to say the least. (Dad was in the Navy, so I doubt he would have minded.) However, I was excited that I would get to learn how firearms worked and be able to learn the basics of how to shoot. The excitement lasted throughout the whole time of being in line, especially due to the fact that you could not
see the range through all the trees until you were practically part of the next group to shoot.
Finally, myself and most of the group I was talking to in line were called up as the next group to shoot. The Scoutmaster who was in charge of the range had us all take seats at our respective benches (spots, seats, cubicles… whatever terminology is appropriate here), and not touch the rifles until we were told. I took my place at the second bench from the left. We were then instructed that we each had five rounds to shoot at the paper targets 75 feet away, then given the go ahead to start shooting.
Now, at this point, I was rather baffled. As I said earlier, I had never shot a firearm before. Let alone shooting one, I really didn’t know squat about them other than load it… point it… pull trigger… bang. I was expecting some sort of safety briefing, since shooting firearms does bear some responsibility in doing. (Besides, not every teenage Boy Scout is a shining example of the 12 points of the Scout Law. To be perfectly honest, a couple of them in my troup were complete douchebags.) When none was given, I decided it might be in my best interest to raise my hand and ask. I was rewarded with the golden rule of firearms practice, “Try not to shoot anyone.”
Well thanks, Captain Obvious.
So here I was, part of a line of Scouts armed with a rifle — of which I had no idea what kind (Still don’t.) — and a tray with five “bullets” — which I have learned since are actually called “cartridges” of the .22 Long Rifle variety. I am now tasked with figuring out how to 1) put these d——ned little things into the rifle in a manner that doesn’t kill me or anyone around me and 2) put these d——ned little things into a 8½×11-inch piece of paper stuck on some hay bails 75 feet away… again without killing myself or anyone around me. (At this point, I’m thinking, “To hell with the bullseye. I’m happy with just paper.”)
Well, my “movie-based” training kicked in, and I recognized the handle sticking off the right side of where the round goes (now known as a “bolt action”). I flipped the handle up and pulled it back. I loaded my first round into the depressed area where it looked like it should go, and I closed the bolt up and locked it.
I then examined the top of the rifle since there is supposed to be some sort of sighting system on there that helps you aim the thing. Little metal thing at the front… check. (I don’t remember whether it was a “post” or a “bead”) Metal notch thing at the rear… check. I brought the wooden end (“stock”) of the rifle up to my shoulder and remembered something else my “movie-based” training taught me… Put the end of the rifle against your shoulder or else it
will kick you. Ah, I felt smart… until several years later when I learned that a .22 LR’s kick probably would not have hurt all that much, if at all. Either way, doing it right is doing it right. I scrunched my head down to align my right eye (which happens to be the one with the worst astigmatism) with the sights.
How in the hell am I supposed to hit anything with these sights? If I look at the paper, the sights are blurry. If I look at the front sight, the paper target is blurry. (
Brown paper target, by the way… Which bastard was responsible for putting a
brown paper target on a
brown bail of hay, I do not know.) If I focus on the rear sight, pretty much everything looks like a target. Are these sights broken? No, probably my eyes are broken. Maybe my left eye will work better.
I then learned that it is very difficult to aim a rifle with your left eye while it is on your right shoulder. My neck hurt. So, I switched the rifle over to my left shoulder. I am right handed, and while having a rifle on my right side wasn’t exactly
comfortable, having it on my left just felt ridiculous… plus my left eye was no better at focusing on two distances at once. Blurry is blurry, regardless of each eye’s magnitude of astigmatism (which is good enough to pass a driver’s license test, but not much better than that).
I re-shouldered the rifle back on my right shoulder. I decided my best bet for aim was “simply” to quickly switch focus between the target and the front sight until it seemed like everything was lined up. I did this the best I could, and squeezed the trigger. I have no idea what trigger technique I used, as I knew nothing about squeezing steadily and letting the shot surprise you or anything else of that nature. I just squeezed the trigger. “Bang!”
I raised my head from the scrunched up position it was in for aiming purposes, blinked my eyes a couple times to get them to recover from that horrid exercise in depth of field, and looked down at the target. Ahhh… pristine as ever. Hope I at least hit the hay. I don’t see anyone in that general direction in front of the hay, and I don’t hear anyone screaming from behind it. I look to both sides of me and behind me. No one is laughing at me, so I must not have made a complete —ss of myself. Oh, well. Got four more rounds to try with.
I begin reloading by unlocking and pulling the bolt handle. Since I am in no way familiar with this rifle, or
any rifle, I am not exactly smooth in operating the action but I get the bolt open relatively easy. Hrmph… the shiny thing (yes, I know, “brass” or “case”) didn’t jump out of the rifle like they do in those cool movies. Oh well… I turn the rifle upside down to let the brass fall out with gravity. (I do keep the muzzle pointed downrange. Some safety rules are just common sense, after all.) Darn thing doesn’t want to come out. I’ll just use my fingers then.
“Son of a… !!!”
Firearms lesson #342 of the day: recently spent brass is rather warm. I did get the case out of the rifle, but dropped it on the bench rather quickly after the exclamation of pain. It didn’t burn too badly, but it did surprise me. I’ve got four more rounds to go through, and I think I’ll remove the rest of the spent cases by poking them with a stick. (Ingenuity at its finest, I know.)
On to those remaining 4 rounds. I repeat the whole process with the second round, this time wondering if I can find a more comfortable position to shoot from. Just sitting there made steadying the front part of the rifle somewhat difficult. Unfortunately, the bench was at about the same height as my knees when sitting on the stool, so trying to rest your arm on it was not a feat for the inflexible. After some fumbling, I decided the most comfortable position possible was probably just laying your stomach on the stool and resting your arms on the bench. Yes, the bench was
that low. No, I was not
that desperate for a more comfortable position.
The second round left the paper looking as spotless — literally — as ever. No one died… all good. I pulled the action back much smoother this time, and the brass did a lovely triple-twist quadruple-back-flip out of the action and bounced around on the bench. I guess I don’t need that poking stick after all. I am also glad I wasn’t staring down from above the bolt as I opened it. Burning my fingers was annoying enough, and annoyed people with rifles and facial burns are a bad combination.
The third round left the paper unharmed just like the second, but the bolt didn’t open quite as smoothly this time. The spent case also didn’t eject quite as readily. I was prepared with knowledge though, or at least deductive reasoning. I pushed the bolt forward a bit and knocked it all the way back with some authority. Ahhh… flying brass that doesn’t burn my fingers, and not looking like a dork poking brass with a stick: Victory!
I load the fourth round and start my aiming, if you can call it that… What the hell is that? I lift my head from the rifle, and point the rifle down toward the ground in front of the bench (by instinct, believe it or not). Why is the kid that was in the bench on my left now running to his target? (Remember, I was in the second to the left position.) Did he get excited because he actually hit the paper? (That lucky bastard!) You know, I think I will refrain from taking a shot while he is down there. I don’t think my aim is
that horrible, but since I cannot actually tell where my rounds are hitting, I’d rather not take the chance. I’m surprised something like this is even allowed at a range. (And today I am blessed with the knowledge that it isn’t!
)
The bassy yell of our “rangemaster” interrupted my thoughts. “Hey! Get back up here! You wanna get shot?”
“Well, that’s a stupid question,” I thought.
The kid comes running back toward the bench, target in hand, smile on face. The popping sounds of .22 LR going off are randomly continuing from my right side like nothing happened. The “rangemaster” took the kid by the arm before he even sat back down and gave him an inaudible scolding some distance away. The target was still in the kid’s hand, but the smile was no longer on the poor kid’s face.
At this point, it was obvious that I was not the only one who didn’t know all the safety rules that were expected of me. I realized that it very easily could have been me running down to the target side of the range (if I had actually hit anything) if it wasn’t for the fact that I did not have as easy of access around the line of benches that the kid did. (Plus I sincerely believe the equation “gunshots + common sense” would have stopped me.)
This realization made me promptly use my new-found bolt opening skills to eject the fourth round from it’s ready state. It bounced to the ground somewhere in front of the bench. I obviously was not going to go get it. I put the rifle back on the bench, bolt still open, and left the line of shooters (which apparently had changed participants somewhat due to some shooters being faster than others. I was not the only one, yet again!)
I walked up to the “rangemaster” and my new friend, who was still being scolded, and told the adult (no longer graced with the term “rangemaster”), “You might want to get back to watching the shooters!” The adult turned his attention from my new friend and I and walked back to the line, still pretty mad. My new friend and I just exited the activity area and went back to camp.
The next shooter in my bench probably got the nice bonus of a sixth round to practice with. More importantly, I learned many things about firearms that day, but unfortunately they were not the safety rules which should have been the first.
…………………………
Since growing up, I have not shot another firearm since that day, save a BB pistol my friend let me shoot once at a can in a deserted field. (I hit that damn can, too… even if it was only 15 feet away!) It was not that I was not interested or that I was scared. I’m generally curious about everything, including firearms. I just never had the opportunity again, and never really took the initiative to make an opportunity. (Mom was still not too keen on firearms, especially since I did not tell her about this Scout activity until several years later.)
I now have moved from Southern California (specifically a county that is not known to be very forthcoming with the carry permits) to Pennsylvania (which is much less stingy). I have become interested in preparedness. (Duh!) I have acquired an interest in learning how firearms work, and have read what I could on the internet. (Gun forums are interesting beasts, filled with the most incredible mix of knowledge and pure, testosterone-induced bullcrap. Fortunately, I am smart enough to sort it out.) I am thinking I might enjoy going to a range to shoot a .22 LR pistol if they have any for rent. Hopefully I can find some bona fide shooting instruction, as well. Safety first, after all!
Maybe after I become proficient, I would enjoy being more prepared to defend myself if the need ever arises. (No, not with the .22 LR pistol mentioned above, thanks! No caliber debates necessary…)
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