by James Thayer
Behind the firing line was a control tower, a glass and panel miniature replica of one at an airport. The range master in the tower had binoculars at his eyes. He wore a microphone mounted on a headset. He could speak over loudspeakers at the firing line or the four target butts, at four hundred, seven hundred, a thousand, and fifteen hundred yards. On this range—the Sergeant Owen Gray Range at the Marine Corps Scout Sniper School near Quantico, Virginia—no targets were ever placed at less than four hundred yards, because each painstakingly screened, highly trained Marine allowed into the advanced training unit could already hit perfect scores at anything under four hundred, and because snipers were taught here never to fire at less than four hundred yards because of the risk of detection.
Few Marine Corps riflemen—even a Distinguished Marksman, a coveted classification earned when the Marine has won a medal in a division rifle match and two other awards from competitive matches—have seen the Sergeant Owen Gray Range. Rather, they believe the most challenging Marine training range is Number 4 at Quantico, a thousand-yarder competitors call Death Valley. Number 4 is indeed a challenge.
It is not true that Marines on the Sergeant Owen Gray Range sniff contemptuously at Death Valley, but they have graduated from that range. Theirs is a different science. Shooting is only a fraction of sniping. At the Sergeant Owen Gray Range marksmanship is taught, but also camouflage and concealment, target detection, range estimation, holds and leads, intelligence collection, sniper employment, survival, evasion and escape. The Scout Sniper school is the first permanent facility in the United States to teach snipers, and it is the finest sniper school in the world.
The sniper school hopes to reverse a long trend in American soldiering. In the Great War, American infantrymen loosed 7,000 rounds for each enemy casualty. In World War Two the number rose to 25,000, and in the Korean War 50,000. In Vietnam the figure was a startling 300,000 rounds per casualty. Yet one Vietnam specialist, the American sniper, expended less than two shells per kill.
The spotter's eye was above the scope as he stared down range. When the breeze rolled the red pendants along the range, he lowered himself to the eyepiece and said, "Better click in a degree of windage, Paley."
"I'm dinked right already. I'm going to wing it."
The shooter inhaled, slowly let half of it out, then gently brought back the trigger, this time keeping his finger away from the side of the stock. The rifle bounced back against the Marine's shoulder. The sound chased the bullet down the range.
After a few seconds the spotter said, "I can't make out any new bangs on the bull."
The red disc appeared above the butt, waving left and right.
"Goddamnit," Paley said glumly. "Another flyer."
He was reproving himself for a difficult shot. Median range for a sniper shot is six hundred to eight hundred yards. For most snipers, firing at thousand yards is considered chancy.
"Still thinking about me and your sister, I bet," the spotter chided. "Lost your concentration."
Sergeant Able hollered, "You guys want to giggle and chat, go join the Navy."
Before 1977, sniper instruction had been haphazard in the Marine Corps. That year the Scout/ Sniper Instructor School had opened when the Corps determined that each Marine infantry battalion would have a sniper team, part of a scout and sniper platoon called a Surveillance and Target Acquisition (STA) Platoon. For a decade most of their marksmanship training had occurred at the Quantico training and competition ranges. Two years ago the new range had opened, a dozen miles southeast of Quantico, hidden among gentle hills. The sniper for whom the range had been named had not responded to the invitation to the opening ceremony mailed to his New York address.
With only one firing line, the facility was small compared with other service rifle ranges. Target butts were found at the four distances. Other than the fifteen hundred yards of range ground, which resembled a wildflower meadow, the installation consisted only of the control tower, a gun shed, a small headquarters building, and a locker room. The Marine Corps also owned the surrounding fourteen hundred acres of pine and dogwood woodlands and meadows where snipers were instructed in fieldcraft. The facility was approached on a gravel road, and a parking lot was in front of the headquarters. Across from the lot was a low-rising hill spotted with pine trees, mountain laurel, and tufts of weeds, these weeds real. A few wild rhododendrons adorned the hill, their scrawny, sparse leaves in contrast with their flawless pink and crimson flowers.
"Cleared for firing, Paley," the sergeant said. "Get on with it."
"Lay it in there, partner," the spotter said.
The trigger had a three-pound pull. Knowing the target could be maintained precisely in the crosshairs for only an instant, the shooter applied pressure to the trigger until the slightest additional pull would be required to release the firing pin. He halted his exhale. He was so still that he could feel his pulse in his arms. He waited for that instant when two critical events occurred at once—when the bull was quartered in the crosshairs at the same time his heart was between pulses. Then he smoothly applied the last bit of pull.
The rifle spoke, leaving a diaphanous black cloud ten feet in front of the barrel. Snipers know that even smokeless powder leaves smoke. It dissipated quickly in the air currents.
"Can't see it," the spotter said.
A black disc waved above the butt, meaning the target had been struck.
"Finally," Paley muttered.
A thousand yards down-range, the pit officer pulled the target, a hundred-pound wood rack on glides, down into the butt. A moment later it slid back up on its frame, a yellow triangle marking the hit.
His eye at the scope, the spotter said, "A wart. Second ring, eight o'clock."
A wart was a shot on the white but only a fraction of an inch from the black.
"Cease firing," crackled the loudspeaker. "Civilian approaching the range."
"Christ on a crutch," the sergeant blurted, turning toward the office. "If we get any more congressmen on inspection tours I'm going to piss blood."
A man walked from around the headquarters building toward the line. The sergeant stared hard at the civilian as the visitor crossed the pebble grounds, then made his way toward the firing line. The visitor was wearing a madras shirt, casual slacks, penny loafers, and a tentative smile. Something was familiar about the stranger, maybe the way he held his head, at a slight cant as if favoring an eye, his scope eye.
Sergeant Able squinted at the tall man, then leaned forward as if being an inch closer would make the intruder more readily recognizable. Then Abie's eyes widened. "Well I'll be goddamned." His face creased into a grin and his words were rough with emotion. "It's Owen Gray."
Gray returned the smile. "I thought you'd find honest work someday, Arlen. Guess I was wrong."
Sergeant Able shook Gray's hand, then must have decided that was insufficient, so he bear-hugged him, pinning Gray's hands to his side and almost lifting him off the ground.
The sergeant's voice wavered. "Man, it's good to see you, Owen. You've been hiding, seems like."
The Marines left the firing line and gathered around. The shooter carried his rifle with the barrel up. He and the spotter maintained a respectful distance. The spotter, Bobby Sims, cast his eyes at the sign above the headquarters door that read "Sergeant Owen Gray Range," then looked back at Gray. The shooter, Larry Paley, cleared his throat, prompting the sergeant to make introductions.
"Have you kept up with the science, Owen?" the sergeant asked. "Know anything about your range or our new equipment?"
"Haven't had much occasion." Gray caught the sharp scent of Hoppe's No. 9 cleaning solvent.
"The service eighty-sixed our old Winchesters." When Able held out a hand, Paley passed him his rifle. "Take a look. It's the M-40A1, developed especially for Marine snipers. This is a pressure-molded fiberglass Remington Model 700 rifle receiver. Nothing alters the stock—rain, humidity, heat, or cold."
Sergeant Able patted the rifle proudly
and went on. "And remember the trouble we had keeping the camo on the wood when it rained? This stock's coloring, the green and copper here, is pigment impregnated into the stock. We've got other rifles for snow and still others for the desert."
Able attempted to pass the rifle to Gray, who involuntarily stepped back. He wouldn't raise his hands to accept the weapon.
The sergeant retained the rifle. "Atkinson Company sends us the twenty-four-inch heavy stainless steel barrel as a blank, and our armorers cut a recessed crown, then pipe-thread it to fit the receiver. The barrel has a diameter of almost an inch and it's free-floated. The rifle is chambered for 7.62 match ammo."
"You got a moment, Arlen?" Gray asked. "I've got a couple questions for you."
Able might not have heard him. He continued, "Makes our Winchesters and Springfields and Remingtons from the old days look like Model A's."
"I'm in a bit of a hurry, Arlen." Gray tried to turn him toward the office door.
"Can I ask you a question, Mr. Gray?" Paley asked.
Owen Gray tried to mix both courtesy and dismissal into his smile and again tried to lead Sergeant Able away. Gray knew the questions these students would ask of him.
Paley said, "We heard that one time in Vietnam you were in a hide for four days and that you crapped your pants and sat in it rather than chance giving yourself away and losing your shot. That true?"
Gray shook his head. "That was before you were born, if it occurred at all."
"Christ yes, it occurred," Able said. "Our fire station was at Din Po, remember? I was there when you came in from the field. You smelled bad enough to gag a maggot, pants all soiled and everything." Able may have seen Gray's frown, so he halted the reminiscence. He said, "We take our schooling more seriously than when you and I trained, Owen. Today we are practicing in full camouflage, which we do once a week."
This time Bobby Sims tried. "Can I ask you something, Sergeant Gray?"
"I'm no longer in the service," Gray answered quickly. "Nobody calls me sergeant anymore. And asking me questions about your profession won't get you much because what little I knew I forgot."
The corporal had a beatific face even under his paint, with blue eyes under long lashes and a gentle smile. "But this is a philosophical question."
Sergeant Able scowled. "Sims, you want philosophy, go figure out why Goofy can talk and Pluto can't. That's all the goddamn philosophy I allow in this school."
Corporal Sims plunged ahead. "How do you know you'll pull the trigger that first time? Sergeant Able says the thing you notice most is the target's eyes. They jump out at you through the scope. So how do you know you'll do the deed?"
Abie's face registered utter astonishment. "What else you going to do to the enemy? Give him a Tootsie Roll? You'll pull the jack when the time comes, Sims. No buck fever. Don't worry your little head about it."
The gunnery sergeant looked at Gray, who was utterly still, not willing to confirm the principle by the slightest motion.
Able lectured, "And after your first kill you'll find it easier to shoot a human than a stray dog. Am I right, Owen?"
With some force Gray grabbed Sergeant Abie's elbow to lead him toward the office. They left the sniper students behind and stepped toward the headquarters building, a gray clapboard one-story portable unit indistinguishable from a thousand other Marine portables except for the thick bars over the windows. The only cosmetic touch to the structure was a wood planter near the doorstep that trailed ivy to the ground. A siren loudspeaker was attached to a corner of the building.
"You were always a kook about sniping, Arlen," Gray said in a pleasant voice.
"Sniping is my life," the sergeant replied defensively. "That and my church. I'm the choir director."
"You leading a choir? That's not an image that comes readily to mind."
"I'm catching up with you, Owen. Three kills in Beirut and six in Iraq. I'm up to forty-eight."
Gray avoided the invitation to discuss statistics. "I made a few calls. You've made an avocation of studying snipers."
"I wrote the Topps Company and suggested they issue sniper cards, like baseball cards. A natural, I told them. Big hit with the kids. I'd supply them with all the material. Biographies, photos, interesting tidbits. They sent back a nice thanks but they declined."
"I've got some trouble with one of our old friends," Gray said. "Or one of our old enemies. I can't figure out which or who."
The dead bolt on the door was unlocked. They stepped into the headquarters building. The front room was almost all government issue, with a metal desk, a swivel chair, lockers, a bench, and a dozen clipboards hung on a wall. An alarm control pad was on the wall near the door, and an infrared sweeper hung in a corner, its red light flickering.
"Paley's mother sent us that quilt," Able said. "I was touched."
The patchwork quilt hung on a wall and was made of red and white swatches with gold lettering that spelled out "Second place is a body bag."
Two dozen framed photographs were on one wall, most showing a Marine receiving a trophy. Gray recognized the Lauchheimer Trophy, first awarded in 1921, which bore the name of Brigadier General Charles H. Lauchheimer, who as a major in 1901 captained the first Corps team to enter a rifle competition. Another Marine was shown receiving the Elliot Trophy, a loving cup named after a commandant who brought the Marines their first rifle range, at Winthrop, Maryland. Gray recognized himself, shaking the hand of Camp Perry's commandant after winning the national title.
The room was the repository of Sergeant Abie's collection, the result of a thirty-year search for the odds and ends of a singular profession. Rifles, scopes, sniper logs, and other mementos. The weapons were mounted on the walls.
"Here's my latest acquisition." Able lifted a skull from the display case. The skull had a hole in both temples. "This is all that remains of Horace Wade, the seventy-three-year-old veteran of the Mexican War who joined the 7th Wisconsin Volunteers, and picked off twelve Confederate soldiers at Gettysburg before one of the rebels paid him back in kind. I traded four scalps for it. But I still got five scalps left." He pulled a string of hair knots from the case. Blackened flesh rinds hung from the tufts. "Our old friend Sam Short Bear sent me these. He was an Indian but a good Indian. Only shooter we ever knew who took scalps, remember? Sent me nine of them for my collection, so I had enough to trade for Horace Wade's skull."
"Arlen, I'm not talking to a lunatic, am I?"
Able lifted a rifle from the wall. "Here is my museum's pièce de résistance. A Winchester Model 70 under an Unertl scope. Recognize it?"
"Jesus, I hope not."
"It's your old smoke pole."
Gray took an uneasy step back, as if his old rifle were infectious. He breathed heavily, unable to remove his eyes from his old weapon. His mouth felt cottony, and he moved his tongue over his lips.
"Brings back memories, I'll bet," Able prompted.
Gray wiped his hand across his mouth. He was determined not to let this weapon regain an advantage over him. He knew this rifle more intimately than he had known his wife, knew every grain in the wood, every tiny pock on the barrel, every curve and hollow. In the past three or four years, as much as sixty minutes would elapse without this rifle rising from the dark pit of his memory. And here it was again, thrust up in front of him, heartless, mindless, and soulless. The torturous memory of this rifle was his constant and faithful companion, outlasting his military service, outlasting his marriage, living with him with unswerving and appalling fidelity.
But Owen Gray had built a sanity stick by stick, layer after layer over the years, and he could beat this weapon. He had learned to suppress the memory, will it away from him, if only for short times. He could do so now with the actual weapon. Surely. He would not allow the grisly Winchester to possess him again. With an effort that seemed to snap ligaments in his neck and shoulders, he turned away from the Winchester and focused on the gunnery sergeant.
"You know about snipers." Gray lowered himself
to the bench. He found he could continue. "And you know the stuff the Marine Corps doesn't tell the public, like Sam Short Bear and his scalps."
"Yeah," Able said with satisfaction, leaning against the display case. "Collecting these things has given me insights about snipers that've escaped most people."
Gray dipped his chin, encouraging Able.
"Do you know that heart attacks are almost unheard of among ex-snipers? Type A's can't last in the lonely bush, so they don't become shooters in the first place, I figure."
"What else?" Gray asked.
"Snipers prefer gold crowns to the new natural-looking ceramics."
"I wanted information, Arlen, but this isn't what I had in mind."
"Then how about this?" the gunnery sergeant asked with undampened enthusiasm. "Almost all snipers can routinely snatch mosquitoes and flies in midflight."
Gray scratched the side of his nose. "So?"
"Can you? Catch a buzzing mosquito or fly right out of the air every time?"
"Sure." He added hastily, "Not that I do it much. What of it?"
"Owen, I'll bet you don't even know that very, very few folks can do that. Catching bugs isn't something people sit around and talk about like they do bowling or fishing. It's our phenomenal eye-hand coordination that makes such feats possible. Same thing that makes us great shooters."
Gray sighed audibly, something he did not like to be heard doing. "Arlen, do you remember how I used to leave a paper star at my hides?"
"Sure. Wish I had one for my collection."
"Have you ever heard of a sniper who left a cartridge with a red ring painted around it?"
Able looked at the ceiling. "I haven't. He American?"
"Russian, maybe."
"Is he the shooter who nailed your gangster up in New York? I saw it on TV. Sounded like a pro."