This is a military short story from a very different, cynical perspective. Written in 1989 and inspired by real life, Stacey LaVenture, a female enlisted soilder, gives us in insight on "qualification".
“Qualify?”
“I don’t want to qualify.”
“I always qualify expert.”
“I hate to qualify.”
“I qualified three months ago.”
“So soon?”
“Do I have too?”
These are the usual comments one overhears when the word “qualify” is mentioned. When a platoon sergeant tells his platoon it’s time to qualify with their weapons, half the platoon moans and groans like children, and other half talk smack about how they always qualify as an expert.
Weapons qualification is typically annually with familiarization every six months. You can qualify with all different types of weapons like the M16 assault rifle, the .38 caliber revolver, the .45 caliber pistol, and M203 grenade launcher. Our platoon qualifies with the M16 and our personal sidearms, which would be a .45 pistol for men and a .38 revolver for women. The reason we have personal sidearms is because we are a Military Police platoon and we usually carry our sidearms to work.
I usually qualify the first time out. I’m not an expert – in fact, I’m quite content to qualify marksman with my M16. Marksman is the lowest qualification. To me, qualification is no big deal. I suppose if I tried I probably would qualify expert but my frame of mind usually directs me to do just enough to get by. In fact, the majority of soldiers in my platoon and I share this frame of mind.
The range at the Northeast Army Depot really stinks. It’s so bad, the qualification tables are different from the rest of the Army’s. Usually, at normal military ranges for the M16 rifle, qualification will run twenty-four to thirty accurate shots in the black for marksman, thirty-one to thirty-five accurate shots for sharpshooter, and thirty-six shots and up for expert out of forty total shots. Not at the Depot though. For M16 rifle qualification, due to the modifications made, we shoot at what’s called a “Canadian Bull” target. Out of a total of forty shots, eleven to twenty-three is marksman, twenty-four to twenty-eight is sharpshooter, and twenty-nine up is expert. It sounds as if it would be easier, but trust me, it’s not.
Sidearm qualifications are different though. For marksman you must score between thirty-five to forty-four, for sharpshooter it is forty-five to forty-seven, and for expert it is forty-eight up out of a total of fifty shots.
As a female, I fire the .38 revolver. The revolver is a relativity simple weapon with little kick. The first time I qualified was expert. I was hoping to maintain my score but if I don’t, oh well. I can say I qualified.
I had only been at the Depot for eight months. I know my job and I guess I’m very proficient in it. The platoon has finally warmed up to me, well, except for a few people. There is only one other female in my platoon and try as I might I am not getting her to come around. I’m going to keep trying though.
As I walked into my room after a difficult swing shift, I threw my gear on the floor and made a beeline for my frig. I grabbed a beer and took a nice, long, sip. There was a knock on my door.
“C’Mon in,” I replied.
My good friend, in fact, my best friend here at the Depot, Randy Rilley came in. Randy was the same rank as me and was one of the few people in the platoon who out ranked me.
“Got another?” he asked.
“In the frig,” I said.
Randy was dressed in BDU pants and socks.
“Looking forward to qualifying?” asked Randy after he took a sip of his beer.
“It’s just a thing. I get a kick listening to the babies whine and the Rambo’s brag about their shooting expertise,” I answered.
“Everything’s just a thing to you, isn’t it?” questioned Randy, sitting on my bed.
“The Depot may be a dump but I’ve been through worse,” I replied. I sat down next to him and turned on my stereo with my remote.
“Well, be prepared. Until we qualify we’re going to hear a lot of whining and a lot of expertise,” commented Randy.
I smiled.
Randy and I have a lot in common. Our platoon thinks we have a sexual relationship. I think the platoon is jealous. For one, Randy and I have been to other units in the army and we outrank everyone as Specialists, with over two years in rank. There’s a lot of envy in the lower ranks, I think. Privates envy you because your Specialists and the lower ranking Specialists envy you because you have more time in. I can feel it. Randy does too. Randy and I can talk about our old units, complain about the Depot, and talk about home.
Home for Randy and I is in New England. Randy is from Vermont and I am from Maine. Vermont and Maine for the most part are very rural states. I love having the four seasons all year round and so does Randy. Randy is from Bennington, Vermont and I’m from Portland, Maine.
Randy has a girlfriend back home in Vermont. I would never dream of interfering. I’ve learned my lesson. Men with wives, fiancées, and girlfriends are off limits. I’ve been hurt too much. I’m not seeing anyone now, but I think I have potential in fourth platoon.
We had just started dayshift. I was in the control room. Today was my day for desk clerk. The platoon has four desk clerks, but one has a medical profile so he can’t work. Every third day I hit duty as desk clerk. I don’t mind though. I usually rotate from desk clerk, to patrol, to unit commander and back again.
“Hey, Stacey, what do you usually qualify?” our RTO, radio, telephone operator, Simon Long questioned.
I stopped typing on my computer and turned around, “I usually score marksman on the M16.”
“Oh. Do you really qualify or do you use the black pen?” asked Simon.
“No, I usually shoot between a fourteen and a seventeen at this range. What do you score?” I asked.
“Sharpshooter,” he replied.
Our control room NCO spoke up, “What does the black pen mean?”
Corporal Heilly is new to the Depot. In fact, he just got qualified as a control room NCO and this is his third time down here. The control room is located in the basement of the guardhouse so we always refer to it as ‘down here.’
Our main board operator, Private First Class Ribbon burst out, “That’s when you’re so bad and you can’t hit the target after you shoot, you go up to the target and take your standard military black pen and poke holes in it, hehehe,” Ribbon snickered and so did Long.
“That’s cheating!” exclaimed Heilly.
“So?” replied the CCTV operator, Specialist Botts, “The only thing our platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Ebers cares about is you bringing back a qualifying target.”
There were more snickers from Botts, Ribbon, and Long.
“What about integrity?” questioned Heilly.
I shook my head, “If you find integrity around here, in this lousy chain of command, it’s a miracle,” I commented.
“That’s a pretty cynical comment,” said Heilly.
“But it’s true ,” said Long, and everyone shook their heads in agreement. One can tell Heilly is also a brand new NCO. For one, he still had integrity. For another, you can see he still believes in the system.
There’s a lot of corruption in the military enlisted ranks, a lot of laziness, and a lot of bad attitudes. I don’t to sound cynical or unjust, well, it’s just something I’ve noticed in the other units I’ve been in and the Northeast Army Depot is no exception.
“Don’t we go to the range tomorrow after dayshift?” questioned Botts.
Ribbon nodded his head.
“Stacey,” said Long, “I’ve got a time for your journal. Betters just called it in.”
“Thanks,” I said turning back to my computer.
After shift, Randy and I heard the platoon pysching itself up for the qualifying tomorrow. I was in Randy’s room and we were trying to watch TV.
“Got your black pen?” someone shouted down the hall.
“I’m qualifying expert tomorrow!” came another cry.
Randy and I looked at each and shook our heads.
Instead of turning our vehicles in after dayshift, our platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Ebers told us to keep them and we’d use them to transport troops and supplies out to the range. As usual though, the handling of supplies and the transporting of troops were done in a haphazard manner and we got out to the range late. In order to save time, we didn’t zero weapons since they were all zeroed.
To zero a weapon one fires at a target twenty-five meters down range. You must place three rounds in a small circle center mass of the target. It’s harder than it sounds. If you are a bad shot, you’ll be moving your rear and front sights on your M16 rifle all day.
Corporal Heilly was putting up targets. Another NCO was in charge of the ammo detail. Someone was arranging sandbags and Sergeant Ebers was standing around ‘supervising’ as he put it. Randy and I cynically thought he was being lazy.
The majority of the platoon was sitting on these wood logs that were in the rear of the range. Some people were sitting next to the vehicles and some near the NBC chamber.
“We’re going to fire our sidearms next, after this last round of M16 qualifications,” said Ebers.
I had all ready shot and qualified my usual, marksman, hitting sixteen out of forty rounds.
“Is Debbie in the first firing order?” came a question.
“She’ll be in the last order,” came the reply.
Debbie Trident was the other girl in the platoon who I could not get to warm up to me. She shot in the first M16 firing order and qualified marksman with eleven hits. The rumor was she really did hit eleven, but it was a freak accident.
“Last year Trident fired her revolver nine times and still didn’t qualify,” came a comment.
I heard some of the guys giggle.
“Yeah, she had to pen it! Sergeant Ebers let her!” came another remark.
“This year Ebers wants her husband to fire at her target!”
More laughter.
Debbie Trident was sitting by the vehicles with her husband and some friends. He was obviously trying to pump her up using her successful qualification on the M16. I took a deep breath and tried and get up my courage. I have NCO potential, I told myself. I’m going to volunteer to be Trident’s coach and I’m going to see her qualify on the first time! I got up and walked over to the vehicles.
Debbie looked up from where she was sitting. Her face displayed no emotion.
“Hi Debbie,” I said.
“Hi Stacey,” was her reply.
“I heard you have a hard time shooting a revolver,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s a well known fact. I fired nine times last year and still didn’t qualify,” replied Debbie.
“What’s your problem? I mean, is your sight messed up or…”
“No, I just can’t shoot,” finished Debbie.
“Well, I’d like to volunteer to be your coach because I think you can do it. I think you can qualify on the first time. Maybe not expert or sharpshooter but marksman at least. Would you mind?” I asked.
“No, I don’t mind, but I still don’t think I can do it,” she replied.
“Sure you can. I think I should check with Sergeant Ebers to see if I can be your coach,” I stated.
“Yeah,” agreed Debbie. She got up and we started walking over to Sergeant Ebers, “You know Stacey, I really suck.”
“Nonsense. You can qualify – and you will,” I said. A slight smile crossed Debbie’s face as we came upon Sergeant Ebers.
“Sergeant Ebers, can LaVenture be my coach?” asked Debbie.
“Why?” asked Sergeant Ebers.
Who cares why? Can’t he see I want to help this girl?
I spoke up, “Because I think I can help Trident qualify the first time.”
A dastardly grin crossed his face, “I don’t see why not.”
Debbie looked at me with a smile – like she was genuinely pleased and Sergeant Ebers looked at me with doubt.
Debbie and I walked back towards the logs.
“What firing order are you in?” I asked, even though I knew.
“The last. We’ll have to wait a while,” she replied.
“Nothing wrong with that,” I said. We sat down near the water can and poured some water to drink.
Just then we heard a cry for the first firing order to get ready.
Debbie looked at me, “Was it like this at your old unit?”
I made a face. How can you compare a dump to another dump?
“Well,” I said, “They made it easier to qualify but there was just as much politics.”
Debbie just nodded. We watched the first firing order shoot. As they finished up we watch another firing order shoot in relative silence. Then we heard the cry for the last firing order and coaches. That was us. Debbie would shoot first and then I would follow with her as my coach.
We lined up in two ranks. The first rank was the firers and the second was the coaches. I stood behind Debbie. We then filed past the ammunition point and the coaches picked up the ammo for their firer. We then marched onto the firing range and lined up behind our firing point. Debbie and I were at firing point number three.
All this took a total of twenty minutes. Now, if it was done efficiently it should have taken five. The chain of command reiterated safety speeches and double checked our ammo. They called it being careful. I saw it as covering their ass.
I noticed Randy was getting ready to fire two points away from us on the right. He smiled at me as I looked at him. Good luck, Randy.
“Firers, take up a good prone position!” came the booming voice of the range NCO.
Debbie got in the prone position and I laid down beside her. I proceeded to get out five rounds for her.
“Just remember to line up your sights. Make that front sight fit your rear,” I said. Debbie just nodded.
“Lock and load your first magazine, if using the revolver, load your first five rounds. Remember to reload on your own after you expend your rounds,” came the command.
Debbie loaded her revolver. I could see doubt on her face.
Now, her first target was from twenty-five meters away. Debbie would shoot ten rounds into the life-size target in her lane.
I talked smoothly and calmly, letting my words flow, “Use single action, Debbie, and take your time. You’re not in a rush, just concentrate on center mass and sight alignment.” My words were gentle.
Single action on a .38 revolver is when you cock the hammer to the rear of the weapon instead of just physically pulling the trigger all at once. Slowly and cautiously Debbie pulled her hammer back and lined up her sights. She pulled the trigger sending a round down range.
“You hit the target,” I said with slight inflection, “It’s center, but a little right. Just keep it up.”
Debbie nodded and methodically repeated the procedure.
“This one hit too. It’s still a little right. Good job,” I said.
Debbie let a slight smile escape her lips. She repeated the firing procedure several times and I could not tell where those rounds hit. By the time Debbie finished, I could tell she had definitely hit six rounds in the target.
As she unloaded her cylinder and the range NCO checked her revolver, she asked, “How’d I do?”
“You got six in. Just keep this up and you’ll qualify,” was his reply. Debbie really smiled. She looked down range and counted the holes in the target.
“Just remember to tell me where I’m shooting,” she said. I could tell she was pleased with herself.
“I will,” I smiled back. Was I getting through to her?
We were instructed to move down range to the next firing point. We would shoot from the standing position using unsupported and then supported stances. We were now fifteen meters away.
On command, Debbie loaded up and fired. She took her time, using single action and carefully lining up her shots. She was hitting the target but her shots were in no particular order.
Occasionally she would turn to me and I would calmly reassure her she was hitting the target. I would never raise my voice or criticize. That wasn’t like me.
As we got to the next position, Debbie noticed there was a nest of bees in the wooden support.
“Yech,” I said, “I’m allergic to bees.”
“So am I,” said Debbie.
We were now ten meters away. Debbie would fire from the kneeling position using her weak hand than her strong hand. She would have to put her hand right next to the bees. I could tell that unnerved her. It unnerved me too. If she lost concentration now, she would blow her qualification.
I gave her the rounds to load, which she did. Once again, on command, Debbie began firing.
“…Concentrate, line up those sights – remember single action…” I spoke gently, calmly, it seemed to relax her.
She unloaded her empty cylinder and I gave her five more rounds to load. Just then I put my hand on the bees and one stung my hand.
“Ah!” I yelped. Debbie looked at me.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
I turned over my hand where the bee had stung me. The area was swelling up and turning red.
“A bee stung me,” I muttered, trying to remain calm.
“Your face is turning red,” she said. Genuine concern was in her voice.
“I’ll be okay,” I muttered.
Just then Corporal Heilly came up, “Is something wrong?”
“LaVenture got stung by a bee,” Debbie spoke up, “She’s allergic to bees.”
“Sergeant Ebers!” yelled Corporal Heilly.
The range NCO called a cease fire.
“What’s wrong?” yelled Sergeant Ebers walking over.
“LaVenture got stung by a bee and she’s allergic to them,” explained Corporal Heilly.
“How do you feel? Show me the sting,” commanded my platoon sergeant.
My hand was still swelling up, my face was red, and I felt hot.
Sergeant Ebers looked at me than to Debbie, “Get off the range. We’ll have someone get you to the hospital.”
“I want to stay,” I said firmly.
“Stacey!” exclaimed Debbie.
“LaVenture, get off this range,” stated Ebers.
“I want to finish what I’m doing and then I’ll go to the hospital,” I was rather bold in how I talked to him. I was hurting. My hand was numbing up and I had begun sweating.
“As soon as you finish you are going to the hospital,” said Ebers. He walked off and signaled the range NCO. The range NCO gave the command to begin firing.
“Stacey, you should have gone. I would have finished…” started Debbie.
“I want to be here for it,” I said. Debbie nodded her head and composed herself. She finished firing the table and we moved up to the seven meter position. From this position you had to fire ten rounds from a standing slouch on double action.
As Debbie loaded her cylinder I tried to speak calmly but boy, it was hard.
“You’ve got plenty of time so use single action okay. If you can put these ten in, you’ll have that qualification – on the first time,” I said.
“I will,” she replied.
No one would notice if Debbie fired single action instead of double. I knew it was cheating but I didn’t want her getting nervous now. We were close enough to see the target and every shot counted.
The range NCO gave the command to fire and Debbie let loose. It took a lot of my strength and stamina to maintain my bearing and composure. The sting was really beginning to affect me.
Everyone finished firing. We went up to count Debbie’s target. We counted thirty-seven in the black, five in the white, and eight uncounted for.
Debbie turned to me, “I did it! I did it Stacey! On the first time!”
I just smiled. I couldn’t say anything until I dealt with the pain.
“Good job,” I muttered. I clutched my hand hoping that would relieve some of the pain, “I knew you could do it.”
Debbie smiled back.
Corporal Heilly and Sergeant Ebers came by and counted Debbie’s target.
“She qualified first time, Sergeant,” said Heilly.
“Good job. Now LaVenture you get off this range and wait for a ride to the hospital,” said Ebers.
Debbie and I walked off and I went to sit near the vehicles.
“Thanks Stacey,” said Debbie, “I didn’t think I could do it.”
“I knew you could,” I muttered. Tears came to my eyes. I couldn’t deal with this sting anymore.
Debbie rubbed my back, “It’ll be okay.”
At that moment I felt like I had gotten through to her. She was calling me Stacey. She could see I was willing to sacrifice to the job done.
I agree with Lee Garrett in this one, you do have a strong story here. I tried to serve in 1994 but got discharged because of my learning disability. I enlisted for the Navy. This piece is a strong one; my best friend was in the Army about the same time I went in. This one reminds me of when I had to qualify with ship to shore rigging and having to take our swim test.
Great story. Good characterization and flow. Reminded me of the command I served in back in the eighties. I didn't find this piece cynical. It's too close to reality for that.
I want to read this a little more closely, but I wanted to read it as it is something I can relate to having been in the military myself. As far as qualifying, I couldn't hit the broad side of the barn! They threatened to kick me out several times because I couldn't qualify on M-16. So as you can imagine I was at the range a lot.
I wanted to thank you for tracking me, S.G.
Cheers,
Marie
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