Mississippi, who turned out to be a pretty decent fellow after a good night’s sleep, and who happened to feel rightfully grateful to escape the pot shack, tried to teach Lieutenant Baker a method of shooting he learned plunking squirrels, possum, and deer in the sloughs and piney woods of his homeland. He had Baker line his finger along the edge of his M-14 barrel, point it at the target and then let his eye follow his finger to the target. This worked very well for the officer until we got back to the five-hundred-yard line. There, in spite of his thick G.I. glasses, which were so ugly they were known as “birth control devices,” Lieutenant Baker simply could not see. But he was shooting so well in the closer ranges, we figured he could kiss off the five hundred and still qualify. On that day, at showtime, Baker, who had failed so many times in the art almost every Marine excelled at, panicked and shot high, missing his target completely at the two-hundred-yard prone-position rapid fire. By the time we moved back to the five hundred, Baker was pale with the knowledge that he would have to shoot a perfect score to qualify in the least of categories, that of “marksman.” No doubt he was also thinking of the refrigerator and appliance department at the Sears & Roebuck Company in Topeka, Kansas.

I, on the other hand, had never shot so well in my life. After we collected our brass cartridge casings, Mississippi drew up next to me and said, “He ain’t gonna hit the broadside of a barn, boah; what say ah put five rounds through the bull’s eye and y’all pick up on the other five?”

“That’s a Rog,” I said. “That’s a definite.”