I was shooting four positions to the right of Lieutenant Baker while Mississippi was directly next to him in the fire lane to the left. When the butt pullers yanked up the targets we all commenced firing. Mississippi grouped five rounds in the heart of Baker’s bull’s eye. Then it was my turn. I grouped three shots in the same spot then put a round low into the second ring. I cursed myself. Even if I made my last shot, Baker would not qualify. Mississippi tossed me a look of disgust. I shook my head in disbelief and proceeded to put the next round in my original group. The targets went down and came up with white paper ribbons showing where each shot had scored. The field observer studied Lieutenant Baker’s target with his binoculars. “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch. There’s eleven rounds in that target.” There was a quick conference with the range officer, who said that someone must have shot wide, most likely Mississippi who was directly to the lieutenant’s left, and who had hit his own target a sum total of four times. Mississippi was cursing, pretending like he was highly pissed with himself.

My range observer pulled a chocolate doughnut out of a white sack, took a sip of hot coffee, and said, “You could have had a nice score, Marine. Too bad you blew it.” A group of nonshooters had congregated around me in the hope I might shoot a perfect score. “Nerves,” I said. I had my chance to be a hero and then just like that I was suddenly just another fucked-up PFC in the Big Green Machine. I think the fact that I knew I could have enjoyed a little ego enhancement is what caused me to blow my next to last shot at Lieutenant Baker’s target. I was a victim of ambiguity.

Then the range officer announced that Baker would not—roger, he would not—have to repeat the five hundred. Because of the tight grouping in the heart of the bull’s eye, the range officer deemed the eleventh shot on Baker’s target to be a stray and qualified the man.