Post by SGT. Niklas Risto on Nov 24, 2010 23:35:35 GMT
Time & Location: Firing range, 0914hrs.
Ramming a new magazine into the M3 grease gun, Sergeant Risto leveraged the cumbersome submachine gun up to eye level and felt his body judder as the barrel spat out thirty .45 ACP bullets in a matter of seconds. The target downrange spluttered and choked as splinters of wood plumed out from the wooden target of a charging Jerry painted on the front. Obliterated in a matter of seconds would be an ideal word for the carnage, but aching forearms would be another word for the kickback from the weaponry when attempting to get some sort of aim down the iron sights. It wasn’t fantastic for any sort of accuracy and he doubted he’d have much grace of time to be doing so when in the heat of battle, but he needed to get a feel for the gun either way, it was the only lifeline he had personally. It was the only thing that put a barrier between him and Jerry, the Nazis.
Lowering the weapon, Niklas rolled his shoulders and loosened his vice grip on the cold steel. He didn’t look too impressed either with the handy work he’d just made, he expected more of a concentrated circle of fire on the target, not so widespread and sparse. Removing the empty magazine, he clunked it onto the small table beside himself; the sun was amid the sky by now, shining brightly and the outside firing range was clearly lit up for all to see. Small talk in the distance caught his ear, seemed like more grunts coming for a training session, but he wouldn’t be faltered by their jovial and enthusiastic remarks at shooting a wooden target, they were young after all and their green bellies would be tarnished a blue the moment they were faced with real gunfire coming back at them. It mostly shut up the recruits when it came to paying attention during training, otherwise, they were always cocky.
Reaching for a new magazine on the table aside himself, he loaded the gun once more and wiped a long strand of hair from out of his face. His blonde hair wasn’t very popular amongst the men, neither was his blue eyes and accent, but again, he didn’t let their suspicions get in the way of his concentration on the war - training. He’d been called a Jerry, German and Nazi quite a few times already during his recruitment with the Americans, but Niklas merely grinned, he knew they were uneasy around him and perhaps it was best it stayed that way. Men only mocked what they feared, what they didn’t understand and perhaps they’d listen to him more if they feared him? It was something to enlighten the situation with, if nothing.
Raising the M3 submachine gun once more, he stroked the trigger lightly, getting ready to fire when someone approached from behind and laughed. A laugh he recognised undoubtedly. “Struggling Niklas?”[/I] Corporal Toivo joked, placing a mug of coffee on the table next to Niklas and leaning against the sandbags alongside, a wry smile on his face as he wittingly distracted him. “At least I didn’t struggle with your sister” Niklas joked back, pulling the trigger sharply afterwards and causing Corporal Toivo to jump at the sudden roar of the weaponry. Three - Two - One - Clunk and the magazine emptied once more, leaving Niklas with the aftermath of burning forearms yet again as he lowered the gun slowly, concealing his discomfort. “I think you ‘ought to burst fire that” Corporal Toivo said with a smug tone to his voice whilst straightening his spectacles and shuffling against the sandbags under his butt for comfort. “I know that” Niklas replied quietly, seeming a little aggravated as he removed the empty magazine and dropped it onto the table, noticing the coffee as he done so.
“Well… Why are you firing it like a Yank?”[/I] Toivo asked with a serious tone, but was still joking. Niklas ignored him, he wasn’t in the mood for joking about this morning, Corporal Toivo was his best friend, but nonetheless annoying like everyone else. Grasping the mug by the handle, he sipped the coffee and savoured the taste, glancing towards a few men littering the firing range now. He’d been there since six and most probably wasted more rounds than he was allowed, but didn’t really care, he was cooped up in the barracks and waiting to be shipped out to the front. They all were and there was nothing better to do…
Ramming a new magazine into the M3 grease gun, Sergeant Risto leveraged the cumbersome submachine gun up to eye level and felt his body judder as the barrel spat out thirty .45 ACP bullets in a matter of seconds. The target downrange spluttered and choked as splinters of wood plumed out from the wooden target of a charging Jerry painted on the front. Obliterated in a matter of seconds would be an ideal word for the carnage, but aching forearms would be another word for the kickback from the weaponry when attempting to get some sort of aim down the iron sights. It wasn’t fantastic for any sort of accuracy and he doubted he’d have much grace of time to be doing so when in the heat of battle, but he needed to get a feel for the gun either way, it was the only lifeline he had personally. It was the only thing that put a barrier between him and Jerry, the Nazis.
Lowering the weapon, Niklas rolled his shoulders and loosened his vice grip on the cold steel. He didn’t look too impressed either with the handy work he’d just made, he expected more of a concentrated circle of fire on the target, not so widespread and sparse. Removing the empty magazine, he clunked it onto the small table beside himself; the sun was amid the sky by now, shining brightly and the outside firing range was clearly lit up for all to see. Small talk in the distance caught his ear, seemed like more grunts coming for a training session, but he wouldn’t be faltered by their jovial and enthusiastic remarks at shooting a wooden target, they were young after all and their green bellies would be tarnished a blue the moment they were faced with real gunfire coming back at them. It mostly shut up the recruits when it came to paying attention during training, otherwise, they were always cocky.
Reaching for a new magazine on the table aside himself, he loaded the gun once more and wiped a long strand of hair from out of his face. His blonde hair wasn’t very popular amongst the men, neither was his blue eyes and accent, but again, he didn’t let their suspicions get in the way of his concentration on the war - training. He’d been called a Jerry, German and Nazi quite a few times already during his recruitment with the Americans, but Niklas merely grinned, he knew they were uneasy around him and perhaps it was best it stayed that way. Men only mocked what they feared, what they didn’t understand and perhaps they’d listen to him more if they feared him? It was something to enlighten the situation with, if nothing.
Raising the M3 submachine gun once more, he stroked the trigger lightly, getting ready to fire when someone approached from behind and laughed. A laugh he recognised undoubtedly. “Struggling Niklas?”[/I] Corporal Toivo joked, placing a mug of coffee on the table next to Niklas and leaning against the sandbags alongside, a wry smile on his face as he wittingly distracted him. “At least I didn’t struggle with your sister” Niklas joked back, pulling the trigger sharply afterwards and causing Corporal Toivo to jump at the sudden roar of the weaponry. Three - Two - One - Clunk and the magazine emptied once more, leaving Niklas with the aftermath of burning forearms yet again as he lowered the gun slowly, concealing his discomfort. “I think you ‘ought to burst fire that” Corporal Toivo said with a smug tone to his voice whilst straightening his spectacles and shuffling against the sandbags under his butt for comfort. “I know that” Niklas replied quietly, seeming a little aggravated as he removed the empty magazine and dropped it onto the table, noticing the coffee as he done so.
“Well… Why are you firing it like a Yank?”[/I] Toivo asked with a serious tone, but was still joking. Niklas ignored him, he wasn’t in the mood for joking about this morning, Corporal Toivo was his best friend, but nonetheless annoying like everyone else. Grasping the mug by the handle, he sipped the coffee and savoured the taste, glancing towards a few men littering the firing range now. He’d been there since six and most probably wasted more rounds than he was allowed, but didn’t really care, he was cooped up in the barracks and waiting to be shipped out to the front. They all were and there was nothing better to do…
