A Day at The Range

*Harsh Language

“Alright,” his voice droned on, swiping at the sweat beneath his boonie cover, which was sliding down over his brow. The scorching desert sun beat down mercilessly. “For your next course of fire in the pre-qual, you’ll fire 5 shots standing, 5 kneeling, and 5 prone. Shooter ready?”

He looked up to see the Private swaying in the oppressive heat, his face beet-red and slick with sweat beneath his kevlar. The Private clung desperately to his rifle, his legs trembling under the relentless weight of the heat.

“Hey fucker, you sleeping on me?” He stood up from his camp stool, brushing sweat from his barely in regs mustache, and stomped over to the Private.

“N-no, Sergeant,” the Private stammered, his words strained and dried. Sgt. Bower yanked off  his cover and let it fall to his side. He looked away to spit the last of his chew into a brown, glistening puddle in the sand and turned back to the Private, squinting through the shimmering heat, and asked, frustration thick in his voice, “Where’s your canteen, son?” His southern drawl stretched each word, edged with concern as he looked at the dazed Private.

The Private’s kevlar slipped, his head drooping. He gasped, each breath a labored struggle, his mouth opening wide in a silent plea. His hands gripped the rifle weakly as it hung around his neck, “S-Sergeant…” His voice faltered as the heat became unbearable. With a groan, he collapsed onto the scorching ground like a sun-baked ragdoll.  His rifle clattered beside him as he fell, causing Sgt. Bower to step back in alarm.

‘Dammit, Gravelle!’ Sgt. Bower’s voice trembled with urgency as he shouted, ‘Corpsman!’ His call cut through the stifling heat, a raw, desperate plea. Instantly, a ceasefire was called by the adjacent instructor, his command ringing out over the firing line. The order spread quickly, echoing amongst instructors and trainees until it reverberated through the entire range. The gunfire cut off abruptly, leaving a deafening silence. It was a silence that roared, broken only by the distant murmur of anxious voices and the relentless buzz of the scorching desert air, pressing down with suffocating weight. There was a slight panic that surged through Sgt. Bower as he knelt down to put Gravelle on his side. While his heart rate and adrenaline was rising a bit, he maintained his bearing and carefully took off Gravelle’s kevlar and used his own body to shield him from the sun.

“Hey, Gravel, can you hear me?” Sgt. Bower leaned in, removing his sunglasses. There was no response except for shallow breathing. “...damn it.” He reached into his cargo pocket with a trembling hand, pulled out a small can of dip, and popped a chew in. As the familiar burn of tobacco hit his tongue, a fleeting sense of calm washed over him. But beneath the surface, his mind raced with worry and self doubt. This was the harsh reality of training—something both instructors and trainees had to accept, especially for the next thirteen weeks. Sgt. Geoff Bower, a first-cycle Combat Instructor, embraced this truth wholeheartedly and demanded nothing less from his marines in 1-3. 

As the sun began its ascent over 39 F, the first of many ranges, the third class the company was training this year toiled through their first few weeks of infantry training. The heat warped the air, every breath was laborious, and the endless expanse of sun-scorched wasteland made each step feel like wading through molten lead. The only shade was about a klick away, under the bleachers, but no Private or PFC dared to rest underneath its shade, lest they face their instructors’ wrath. 

Meanwhile, the instructors relaxed in the cool shade of a 9-foot tent, watching with detached satisfaction as their trainees baked under the sun. It also acted as the Range Tower, where the Range Safety Officer could make decisions based on what he sees and give commands; it was also where the ammunition was held. The firing line, set atop a berm, offered a panoramic view of the sun-drenched midwestern frontier. Steel targets were aligned so shooters could engage them without shifting positions. The line could accommodate ten shooters at once, each with a clear view of targets ranging from 100 to 500 meters, their outlines wavering in the heat.

Underneath the cool shade the tent offered, two instructors stood watch, their eyes fixed on the distant firing line. From this vantage, they observed the two hospital corpsmen jogging slowly toward Sgt. Bower and Pvt. Gravelle.

“Is that Bower’s squad up there on the line?” Sgt. Flores asked, his words slurred from the lip he had in. He squinted through the relentless glare of the sun, his brow slick with sweat and spat a dark, chunky wad of chew onto the parched sand, where it hissed and sizzled.

“I think so,” SSgt. Muller, the Chief Instructor, replied. His face twisted into a grimace as he peered over to the firing line, “Looks like one dehydrated fuck  just went down.” Sgt. Flores and SSgt. Muller exchanged a brief, grim smile and dry laugh. Their strained laughter, stark against the deafening silence of the range that was broken by the anxious murmurs of trainees and of the corpsmen working on Gravelle. 

SSgt. Muller took a slow, deliberate sip from his metal flask, the cold liquid a brief respite from the relentless heat. His eyes, squinting against the blinding sun, watched the trainees with apathetic concern for them.

“Do me a favor, Flores, and remind the kids to hydrate,” SSgt Muller said, his voice rough and tinged with fatigue. “It’s going to be a shitshow with The Sir if more of them drop like flies, rah?”

“Rah,” Flores responded, his voice heavy with resigned agreement as he wiped sweat from his brow with a weathered handkerchief and spat out another streak. The two instructors exchanged a final, weary glance before Sgt. Flores walked off. SSGT Adams, the RSO, appeared after Sgt. Flores’ departure and announced that the range was cold to SSGT Muller. 

Four rows of packs were staged in a single line on the scorching ground, meticulously aligned with the farthest pack. The Fourth Squad of First Platoon occupied the fourth row, huddled together in the blistering heat. Thirteen Marines, their faces etched with fatigue, lay on their packs, their rifles neglected beside them. Their only respite from the relentless sun came from the woodland boonie covers perched atop their heads, offering scant protection against the unforgiving desert glare.

Jules, the Assistant Platoon Leader, was among the Marines of 1-4 and walked with a blend of resignation and determination. His dark skin, exposed to the sun, had peeled in places from the relentless heat. Though he didn’t take pride in his role as APL, he took his responsibilities seriously, shaking shoulders and nudging sleepy heads to rouse the squad.

“Hey, warden,” Jules muttered, stirring the Marines from their slumber. No instructor had the name “Warden”, it was merely a callsign for them. Their attention shifted to an approaching instructor clad in a black, short sleeve shirt, trudging through the oppressive heat toward 2nd Platoon’s bivouac. From afar, they could hear the instructor’s command. 

Spit—whose real name was Espinoza—was putting the least amount of attention to cleaning his rifle, his movements loose and sloppy. He and Spoosh, both sporting glasses, shared a striking resemblance despite not being related. Spit’s muscular build contrasted with Spoosh’s chubby frame. Spit chuckled as he watched the corpsmen  crowded around Gravelle. 

“Who’s the heat case this time?” Spoosh—his real name Esparza—asked, lifting his cover to stifle a yawn. 

Jules, Spoosh, and Deacon, who’s pasty white face flushed pink and drenched in sweat, turned their attention to Spit, who glanced back with a wry smile. 

“What’s his face…Gravel, from 1-3,” He replied with confidence, “ Or was it 1-2? Not sure, I know he’s with Sgt. Bower, that scout sniper fuck.”

A collective chuckle passed among them as they took in the situation. With a hint of hostility, Deacon muttered under his breath, “Of course.” Jules kept his gaze on Spit, then looked over the rest of the squad, most of them dozing off despite the rising heat.

 The corpsmen cleared Gravelle from the berm, all ten instructors, each beside their trainees, gave a thumbs-up to the RSO. The RSO, a tall, pale faced figure with a sharp nose, announced the range was hot again. The crackle of gunfire resumed, cutting through the desert silence.

“Yo, warden,” Deacon called out, jolting the others from their half-sleep. They straightened up and squinted through the glaring sun to see Sgt. Flores trudging through the cruel heat. Clad only in his sunglasses, desert trousers, and a black instructor’s shirt, he was a stark silhouette against the shimmering horizon, his brown skin glistening with sweat.

“Oh what now.” Spoosh groaned as Spit cursed underneath his breath. Jules took another glance at his squad to make sure no one was sleeping. 

“Hey. listen up, 3 Tac,” Sgt. Flores barked, a streak of brown chew flying from his mouth and sizzling on the scorched earth. 1-4, 2nd and 3rd Platoon all shifted their gaze toward Sgt. Flores, “Keep your canteens full and stay hydrated. Good to go?”

The heat made every word feel heavier, and the Privates and PFCs of Class 3-22, sweat trickling down their faces, managed a mix of tired “Rah” and half-hearted “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Next boot to go down gets his squad fucked up. Good to go?”

The threat hung in the stifling air, and the class, drained and sun-scorched, responded with a collective, exhausted “Yes, Sergeant,” their voices barely cutting through the dominating gunfire.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Sgt. Flores’ voice sliced through the harsh heat as he spat a dark streak of chew onto the parched earth. The warning hung in the air as he turned to retreat back into the shade, but then his gaze snapped to a new disturbance.

“Hey! Wake that fucker up!”  Sgt. Flores’ voice cut through the air like a whip crack.

Jules shot up from his slouched position, adrenaline spiking as he quickly scanned his squad before turning to follow Sgt. Flores’ searing glare. Sgt. Flores’ eyes were locked onto a squad in 2nd Platoon, his face flushed and twisted with frustration. Relief washed over Jules when he saw a Marine in 2nd platoon start shaking his sleeping squadmate violently. The rest of 3rd Platoon jolted into action, their earlier relaxation shattered by the sudden chaos.

Sgt. Flores stormed over, his boots pounding the ground with relentless force, each step kicking up a plume of dust. His presence was a storm of authority, cutting through the sweltering air with palpable intensity.

“What squad is this?” Sgt. Flores’ roar echoed across the baking expanse, mingling with the distant crack of gunfire. Other instructors snickered, their amusement starkly contrasting with Flores’ simmering rage.

“3rd, Sergeant!” a Marine called out, his voice cracking under the strain.

“Yeah? Well, how about you guys pick up packs and touch my motha-fuckin flagpole?” Sgt. Flores’ hands were clenched on his hips, his posture radiating command. “Thirty seconds! Aye Aye Sergeant or something!”

At his command, 2-3 erupted into frantic action while hastily responding in unison. Marines scrambled to their feet, their movements a blur of urgency as they grabbed their packs, put them on, and sprinted toward the flagpole that was 400 meters away. The earlier lethargy was replaced by a chaotic rush, dust and dirt swirling in the air as they all raced  in a line with heavy packs toward the range flagpole. Sgt. Flores stood with crossed arms, watching as the squad hustled under his unyielding gaze. He turned his head once more to spit. 

From a distance, 1-4 watched as 2-3 ran, their heavy packs creating a line of dust and sweat. The red flag atop the flagpole seemed to mock them, a harsh reminder of their grueling training. As the first marine reached the flagpole, touched it, and started his return, Jules addressed his squad.

“Hey, no more dozing off now, got it?” Jules turned to 1-4 and stated clearly, “Stand up if you need to, you see someone bobbing for a snack, wake his ass up. Last thing we need to do is to make Sgt. Velasquez upset and have him send us running around the range. Cool?”  Jules said, his voice firm but laced with fatigue. The squad responded with a mix of nods and murmurs. Spoosh, while yawning, stood up, while Deacon rubbed hand sanitizer under his eyelids.  As 2-3 made their way back to their bivouac, Sgt. Flores stood with arms crossed and called out to them,

“2-3!”

“Yes, Sergeant!” 2-3 responded in unison, halting.

“Do we ever leave gear behind?” Sgt. Flores’ voice was sharp, his gaze piercing through his sunglasses.

“No Sergeant!”Some Marines dropped their heads while others grumbled under their breath. The look in their eyes stated that they were now in the black. (Going internal, thoughts racing in their head as stress levels rise.)

“Then why the fuck,” Sgt. Flores put emphasis on the curse thrown and approached a loose canteen near his feet and kicked it across the range, where it clunked near a Marine in 2-3 “-do I see a damn canteen on the ground? Explain that to me.”  Sgt. Flores’ face reddened, sweat mingling with tobacco chew stains. His gaze, stoic and unrelenting, swept over the silent Marines, “Nobody? Alright so fuck me then, right? So it’s my fault that you bunch of  mother’s mistakes heat case, even after I properly told you to hydrate, right?”

“No Sergeant!” came the unified response.

“Yeah, not good enough. Go touch my flag pole.” With a roar, Sgt. Flores sent them sprinting back toward the flagpole, their desperate dash creating another cloud of dust. Sgt. Flores stood where they left him in the wake of the dust and wiped his mouth. He was silent for a minute as 1-4 and the rest of 3rd platoon sat watching as rounds were sent down range. After a small cough, he called out to the class. 

“Listen up 3 Tac.” The class all stood in silence and watched. “Don’t fuck with me, got it?” Sgt. Flores put more emphasis on the curse again and surveyed the range as if he was looking for more trouble to call out.

“Yes Sergeant.” 3rd platoon responded quickly while 1-4 responded disheartenedly. 

“I’m on duty tonight, so see what happens.” He let his word hang in the air and after a swift response, he turned away and walked towards the berms  of the firing line, leaving 1-4 and 3rd platoon in the ambient crackle of rounds being shot down range. 

Jules, observing from the side, thought, “It’s going to be a long day,” as he began scrubbing the carbon from his M27’s bolt. Throughout 1-4’s mind, at some point, all of them thought the same thing, “It is what it is.”

Under the instructor’s tent, Sgt. Bower hovered over Gravelle, who was slowly regaining consciousness. Gravelle winced as pain shot through his lower abdomen.

“You feeling better, son?” Sgt. Bower’s voice was stern, his gaze sharp behind his black sunglasses.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Gravelle replied weakly.

 He had a natural hunch and small nasal passage that caused him to mouth breath constantly, which was a contrast to Sgt. Bower’s stiff,  uncaring posture and gaze. SSGT Muller stood by with SSGT Adams and observed Gravelle in both detached amusement and apathy.

“Hey Gravel, you just didn’t drink enough water?”  SSGT Adams asked, a hint of mockery in his tone. SSGT Muller did not say a word except letting out a small chuckle. 

“No, Staff Sergeant,” Gravelle mumbled, his eyes downcast.

“Then what the hay happened, slick?”  SSGT Adams pressed, his voice dripping with sarcasm while SSGT Muller chuckled alongside him, “You tryna get my instructor in trouble?”

Gravelle responded quietly while his shoulders slumped as he struggled to answer. Sgt. Bower uncrossed his arms and grabbed Gravelle by his collar and pickled him up to his feet, his face inches from the Private’s.

“Stand the fuck up, son, and fix yourself before you speak to a Staff Sergeant like that, do you hear me?” Sgt. Bower said, his voice cold and commanding. The smell of tobacco and energy drinks was overpowering as he continued,  “And don’t speak to me or any other goddamn NCO with that sorry ass volume, understand private!” Gravelle finally responded loudly, almost a screech more than a scream and closed his eyes. SSGT Adams couldn’t hide his smile while SSGT Muller stood there stone faced, fidgeting with his hands. Gravelle shook in Sgt. Bower’s grip.

“Sergeant.” SSgt Adams smirk disappeared completely, replaced by a pale, stoic demeanor “That’s enough, go easy on him now.” 

“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” Sgt. Bower submitted easily, “Go away.” Sgt. Bower turned back and released him. He spoke softly to Gravelle, almost in a whisper, his blue eyes clouded with fatigue and frustration.

The sun blazed unforgivingly over Range 39 F as Sgt. Bower watched Pvt. Gravelle being escorted away by the corpsmen. The young Marine, now regaining his composure, glanced back with a mixture of shame and relief. The heat had taken its toll, but the lesson was clear: you either sink in the sea of harsh training or you swim. As the range returned to its relentless rhythm of gunfire, As the range resumed its rhythm of gunfire, Sgt. Bower took a deep breath, the familiar burn of tobacco soothing his nerves. The desert sun beat down unyieldingly, a relentless test of their resolve. 

The combat instructors of 3-2X demanded nothing less as they forged these Marines into 0311s—Infantry Riflemen. The desert sun beat down mercilessly, a harsh test of their resolve. The unyielding reality of training was unforgiving, yet it was this very crucible that shaped them into warriors. As the cycle of discipline and training continued unabated, so did the Marines' unwavering resolve.