Crack Shot (McMillan, Baker, anyone else)

[johnmasterson]

Side-Note: Please keep your writing standards towards the 15-line limit please; Thank You.
~Danny

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Following McMillan down a dirt path about a quarter of a mile away from the barracks, the pair came to a makeshift shooting range. About a half dozen soldiers were on the firing line, taking aim. Down sights sat makeshift targets. Pieces of wood with "fatal shot" markings on them. Baker walked up near a vacan part of the shooting line and laid his M1 on the table top. He had a full round of ammo in his magazine, and had about three more on him. He waited for McMillan to get situated and go over some things before he started to shoot.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

After a brief brisk walk to the open-shooting range, Master Sergeant McMillan swung the Thompson SMG from off his hip to hold tightly within his right hand; Clasping at the main handle grip firmly, whilst his left hand made dab work in patting the bottom of the magazine case, making sure it was properly locked in. As they neared a clear spot on the range, the Master Sergeant briefly glanced back to the following Sergeant and pointed towards the spot they’d vacate for the session of some practice shooting.

Watching the fellow Sergeant clunk his rifle down against the side, he paid more attention to his own weapon, as he spoke. “You know the rules Sergeant, only aim down range and grenades are forbidden” he said with a plain voice, his eyes keenly watching the stock of his Thompson SMG, as he yanked back the bolt to check the chamber had been loaded - the vague and brief glimpse of a golden shimmer letting him know it was ready to go. “Alright Sergeant, if the noise is too much, there’s some ear plugs over there in that basket” Steven said with a nod towards the side, gesturing to a small brown peg-basket being used to hold numerous multicoloured rubber ear-plugs. Some of them looking a little stained from the prolonged use.

“You’re up first Sergeant, let’s see how you shoot” he gestured with a grin, stepping aside from the line made across the range, distinguishing the forbidden zone and the safety zone. It was hardly anything special for a shooting range, there were a few tables scattered about with loose ammunition and weaponry, with a few supervising guards lingering in the background, taking a walk along the line now and again to make sure everything was alright. Perhaps the most noticeable thing in the place, was the young lad scooting about the feet of the soldiers, dragging handfuls of spent bullet cases into his hands, picking them up quickly as to avoid any accidents from occurring. Ever since a few cases of soldiers slipping on their own spent cases arose in the books, they appointed a young recruit or two to go around picking them up; It was hardly a hard job, but sometimes a few eager marksman taking their shots seriously, didn’t quite enjoy the fact of a young spotty boy rearing their hands or heads anywhere near them during the process. So it was a risky job in all honesty.

Leaning back and softly cradling his Thompson SMG across his forearms, he awaited patiently for the Sergeant to strut his stuff and make the first few shots at least. It didn’t matter if he missed, the Master Sergeant found this to be an educational exercise, perhaps he could throw a few hot tips out in the process? Fat chance!

[johnmasterson]

Baker nodded at the instructions given by McMillan. He then picked up his rifle and inspected it. The chamber was closed and secured. He then took his right hand and placed it on the handle, and took his left hand and held it out to hold up the handle. He held the gun at waist height and looked down range and chose a target. He selected a target that was marked roughly one-hundred yards away. A good distance to warm up with. The target was a piece of wood, about the size of a small table, with fatal markings in the center. Baker readied his rifle in the standing firing position. He leaned his head in and with his right eye, he stared down the iron sights, closing his left eye. He then put his crosshair over the target. He came to one of the fatal marks and held his breath. At that moment he calmly squeezed the trigger once. POW. A single shot rang out from the rifle. The expended cartridge shot out from the action and Baker kept still as he watched the bullethead reach the target, striking the fatal mark nearly dead on.

Now that Baker had a little reaquainting with firing his rifle, he decided to change distance. He spotted a target slightly to the right, and about fifty more yards down range. He once again readied his rifle and took aim at the fatal marks, which lookedl like mere ants due to the distance. Baker held his breath, POW... POW. Tow more cartridges from the action, two more bulletheads in the fatal markings. Baker smiled. He was always a good shot, and was glad he still had it. Apparently killing men will do that for you.

As Baker lined up his sight for some more shots, he suddenly saw a small animal come from under the ground. It was a rabbit. Baker picked his head up from his sighting and looked down range. He thought for a moment then placed his head back down sights and fired three shots at the wooden target. POW... POW... POW. Baker watched as the rabbit ran back into his hole, startled by the gunfire. The shots hit the target, two of them fatal.

Baker could never harm an animal. The thought of shooting it had never even crossed his mind. It's not like it was trying to shoot him.

Baker aimed once more at the target and fired off his two remaining shots. POW... POW.. PING. The clip emptied and ejected from the magazine. Baker then looked back to McMillan. "All yours." Baker aimed his rifle downward and walked to the safety line and prepared to watch McMillan fire.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

Breathing through his nostrils, Master Sergeant McMillan patiently and calmly leant aside to watch the Sergeant arise to the challenge of taking some accurate shots down range. The young NCO made quick work in whipping off rounds towards the wooden blocks set up down range, with the fading paint being obliterated all the more by the Sergeant’s accurate shooting. Observing the man as he made quite calculated accurate shots, he couldn’t help but admire him for being quite the marksman. He could see just how easily this man had his chevrons stitched to his biceps, he was quite the crack-shot with a rifle, but he’d yet to see him perform in battle; He just hope the man was experienced enough to take orders, let alone issue them.

After Sergeant Baker had emptied his clip, with the distinguishable clang twining out towards the end, Steven grinned and stood straight, giving a nod towards the Sergeant who stepped down from out of the firing line. “You’re quite the shot Sergeant, I hope you shoot just as good when you need to keep your head down” he said teasingly, but hoped the man reassured him he was still a good marksman within the thick of battle; It wasn’t magnificently hard to shoot wooden planks, he’d seen some of the most dedicated shooters lose their nerve during battle, there was a thin line between courage and stupidity, most of them either forgot to keep their heads down or decided to move for a better shot… You made do with what you got in battle, privileges were scarce, unless you took a risk.

Brushing past the Sergeant, Master Sergeant McMillan let out a long breath and stared down towards the target he was going to start from. There were three wooden posts he was going to choose as his surrogate enemy, each one separated by a few yards between them, but they all had different distances. Swinging the Thompson up to his shoulder, he quickly fell to one knee, as if he were acting on instinct in battle, hastily lining up his iron-sights down towards the first target around seventy yards away - the closest one. Pulling the cold steel trigger back in three quick intervals of half second lengths, the Thompson SMG spat out three to four rounds each time. Splinters flew from the wooden target, followed by the smouldering dust due to the impact; None missed, or it didn’t seem it.

Twisting his torso, he inhaled and held his breath, lining up his sights on the second target around the hundred-yard mark, twenty yards further on from the first target. Quickly, he acted on instinct, as if he were in battle, hitting a patrol of three Nazis in the open, caught by surprise, making the most of the surprise element by acting fast. Again, his finger itched against the trigger in split second intervals, not only to conserve ammunition for all three targets, but to keep a steady grip on the SMG and slacken the kick from the backfire. The bullets cut down range and spattered against the wooden block, a couple kicking up dirt from beneath, causing mud to splatter-up into the dormant air. Overall, a good accuracy for a further on target, using a predominately close combat weapon during a quick firing process -- then the third target emerged down his iron sights and the Master Sergeant shuffled against his one knee on the ground, stabilizing his back leg against the dirt, almost to act like a spring to his body bouncing back from the kick of the Thompson SMG.

Lining up his sights to the target at least one-hundred and fifty yards down range, he gritted his teeth and shot the SMG in real quick processions. Quite literally, as one bullet, two at max at a time, flew from the barrel towards the stagnant target. Thump, Thump, Thump, the reassuring noise of the wood being hammered by the bullets echoed down range, but then a few silent ones occurred from the misses, as dirt kicked up from beneath the target. Clunk[/b], the chamber hit an empty and dry note, but the Master Sergeant paused, only to lower his SMG and look off down range, quite pleased with the results. He’d taken less than a minute to spend his magazine on three targets, treating them as a real threat, rather than a wooden plank…

Using the butt of his Thompson, he pushed against the ground and stood up, looking back to the Sergeant. “If you ever go into battle with me Sergeant, I hope you think fast” Steven said with a grin, as he began to yank out the empty magazine, walking back towards the Ex-Paratrooper.

[johnmasterson]

Baker stood from the safety line and observed McMillan's shooting. He watched as he tore the wooden planks apart with his Thompson. After finishing shooting, and talking to Baker about being good in combat, Baker could only mutter the one thing he thought made sense. "Well I wouldn't be alive right now if I weren't such a good shot after all I've seen in this war, now would I?" Baker grinned. He wasn't the greatest of marksman, but he could make a kill when it counted. He made it count dozens of times in Normandy.

Baker removed another clip from off of his belt and opened the action on his M1. He placed the clip into the chamber and pushed his thumbs down on it, locking it into place. He then closed the action, which automatically cocked the gun. However, being in the safety zone, Baker turned the safety on the M1 so it couldn't fire if the trigger were to be accidentally pulled. He then took the butt of the rifle and places it onto the ground, holding the head of it with his hands as it face upwards. He then nodded to McMillan and grinned, "Say, would you like to have a friendly wager? Most accurate shot wins?" Baker took his rifle and aimed it our near the range and showed McMillan a single target in the back. Painted in bright red, it stood some 200 yards back and was fairly small. "To make if fair, I'll let you use my M1 for your turn. Do you wanna try?"

[johnmasterson]

(Are we going to continue this or just end it?)

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

OOC: Sorry I have been very busy lately. You can RP in more than one neutral thread, if you didn’t know.


Master Sergeant McMillan smiled at the Sergeant’s comment on being a good shot, but it didn’t totally convince him, even after witnessing him shooting some upright planks spot-on. “Maybe so Sergeant…” he said quietly, impressed by the shooting, but that was only one of the priorities a Sergeant of the ranks had to hold down, was shooting a gun. Soon enough, the man before him would be looking after an assorted bunch of subordinates as if he were their best friend and father. He could only hope the man had a wit about him, that made him a good father to the men when the crunch time came…

Steven knew from experience just how crucial it was to earn the respect of the men, but still be able to come across with a firm hand that didn’t allow them to step out of line, just because you were being friendly. “A wager?” he asked curiously, a little intrigued by the challenge, for a brief moment he actually thought he would be using his Thompson SMG; He had no trouble with it, infact, he was wondering whether he could show down the Sergeant by hitting a target along the borderline mark of what his Thompson’s accuracy reached. To be on the safe side, he nodded and accepted the offer of the M1, “Sure Sergeant, you’re on” he said accepting the challenge.

Patting the Sergeant on the shoulder, he grinned whilst he spoke “You’re up first Sergeant, what shall we call it at? Ten bucks?” he asked curiously, setting the standards for their little gamble. Reaching into his uniform pocket, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and slipped one from the case, planting it between his lips. “Ten bucks and a cig?” he said teasingly, as he fished out his lighter and sparked the flint for a light. Lighting up his cigarette, he inhaled a puff and watched the Sergeant quietly, purposely not offering him a cigarette to entice and psyche’ him out.

[johnmasterson]

((No worries!)

Baker laughed. "You can keep the cigarette. I'm not a smoker. But those ten dollars do seem worth a shot. You're on." Baker thought as he walked back towards the firing zone. Ten dollars was surely a good bit of money that he could use. Then again, if he lost, he'd be in a bit of a hole. And he wasn't willing to let himself lose. He then looked back to McMillan to finalize the deal. "Say, three shots a piece? One with the closest shot to the bulls eye wins?" Baker continued to walk as he spoke.

Baker came to the table on the firing zone and looked out at the single target he'd have to hit. He looked up to the right and looked at a flagpole. On it was a tattered American flag. It was blowing to the east, Baker was facing north towards the target. It wasn't blowing very much. More like a gentle breeze pushing it enough to where it would stream every now and again. Baker figured the wind was traveling at around three to five knots. He then surveyed the angle at which the target was on. The firing range was on a small hillside. The further the target was, the higher ground it was on.

Baker studied the 175 yard target, and it appeared to be roughly thirty feet elevated from Baker's position. It was a piece of thick wood, about four feet tall, and roughly three feet wide. A large target at close range, but a rather small margine for error at 175 yards.

Baker picked up his rifle, he kneeled down behind the table and placed his head down and peered through his sights. He moved the sights over the target, and then slowly adjusted until the center of the target was in the center of his sights. He held his breath and then squeezed the trigger once. POW. A single shot rang out and the dispensed cartridge fell from the action. No impact was heard. The only thing that was heard was the cartridge hitting the ground. Baker moved his head up and squinted his eyes towards the target. It appeared as if no shot had hit the wood.

Baker moved to the left and peered through a table mounted scope for a moment and focused on the target. There were no signs of a hit. Baker then thought for a moment and when he looked up at the flag pole, he confirmed his thought. The wind must have picked up just as he pulled the trigger, pulling the bullet off course as it traveled upwards, causing it to lose foward velocity.

Baker just grinned. He knew he could adjust. And so he prepared to do so. He knelt back down and peered through his sights. This time he kept his left eye open, and could see through the top right corner of his vision, the flagpole. He then took his right eye and lined up his shot. He placed the sights just to the left and up on the target. He then waited. A few seconds past and Baker saw the flag begin to wave through his left eye. He then squeezed the trigger once more. POW. Once again the common sound of a dispensed cartridge hitting the ground was heard. But then a new sound came within distance. Plunk.

Baker leaned over and grabbed onto the scope. He peered into it again and focused on the target. A small entrance hole was spotted just milimeters from the bullseye. It was literally on the border of the circular "fatal mark". Baker thought again. He came to the conclusion that he shot too late, and the wind died down, not making the bullet turn enough.

Baker once again adjusted and peered into the sights once more. Keeping his left eye on the flag, he waited. This time he waited until the wind started to die down for a moment, and then with his right eye he focused on the center of the target and squeezed the trigger for the final time. POW. The third cartridge dispensed and seconds later the hit was heard. Plunk.

Baker stood up and placed his rifle on the table, turning the safety on. He then went back to the table scope and looked up at the target. There sat the second entry point, inside the bulls eye, but low and to the right. Still, it was inside the bullseye. Not only would McMillian have to match that, but he'd have to also get closer to the center. Baker then turned back and grinned at McMillan. He started walking back towards the safezone. "So would you like to pay me those ten bucks now? Or take those three shots and lose your dignity too?" Baker teased with McMillan as he gave him a pat on the back, letting him know it was his turn.