Finally, they received their new uniforms. There were no mirrors, but Cole didn't need one because all that he had to do was look around: he was sure that he looked pretty much like every other guy there, if a little older: bald, confused, and wearing a brand-new army uniform.
For Cole, who had done it all before, boot camp was simply something to be endured. While it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience to repeat, he also knew that a man generally survived boot camp. It was only after you got out of boot camp that you really had to worry.
One thing that didn't bother Cole was the food, which was plentiful and hearty. He even kind of liked the creamed chipped beef on toast that was served for breakfast — nicknamed SOS or shit on a shingle by some.
The first few days passed in a blur of pushups, calisthenics, and long runs wearing boots. Cole didn't mind so much because he was in good shape from his treks through the mountains. He was glad again that he had given up cigarettes and stayed away from liquor. The more out-of-shape recruits, especially the smokers among them, paid a heavy price those first few days.
Among those who struggled was the kid who had gotten Cole called out on arrival at boot camp. Mainly, the kid seemed to lack confidence in himself that he could do what he was asked. The others ignored him or were caught up in their own suffering as they ran. But Cole knew from experience that if one person in the squad faltered, it would hold them all back. Especially once they made it to Korea. This was all part of learning teamwork.
Cole slowed his pace and dropped back until he was running beside the kid.
"I can't do this," Tommy Wilson muttered. Each of his steps was sloppy and unsteady, eating up even more of what little energy he had.
"I reckon you can," Cole said quietly. "You just don't know it yet. Pick up your feet like you mean it. Lift those knees. You got to use your leg muscles — those are some of the strongest muscles — even on you."
"Gee, thanks."
"Go on now," Cole said. "Make those legs work."
"You ought to leave me."
"Not a chance of that," Cole said. "Now, are you gonna run or does the sergeant need to put a boot up your ass?"
It was hard to say whether the kid was inspired by Cole or just afraid of the sergeant; in either case, he started to run instead of stumble along, pumping his arms and lifting his legs.
"Happy now?" Tommy gasped.
"You're getting the hang of it," Cole said.
Cole's actions did not go unnoticed. They were back at camp, done with the run, everyone doubled over and gasping for air, when the drill instructor took him aside. The sergeant, tough and compact, had run along with the group, and he didn't even seem winded.
"Are you trying to do my job for me, Cole?" the sergeant asked quietly.
Cole snapped to attention. "No, sir!"
A hint of a smile played across the sergeant's leathery face. "I finally got ahold of your file, Cole. You're quite the war hero. One hell of a shot, from what I understand. I can't wait to see you out on the range."
"That was a while ago, sir."
"Yeah? We'll see about that. We can use some snipers in Korea. It turns out that the Chinese are shooting the hell out of our boys."
"Yes, sir."
Cole was relieved when the sergeant moved off to shout at some men who had the audacity to sit on the ground.
The truth was, he was not looking forward to the rifle range. He was determined to serve his time in the army by keeping his head down, and then get back home in one piece. He didn't see how fighting the North Koreans and the Chinese was America's fight. It definitely wasn't his fight. Anyhow, he was done with being a sniper. He didn't want to be in the Army and he didn't want to be in this war, so in his own stubborn way, he had made up his mind not to give the army use of his best skills. With any luck, he would find himself assigned to the motor pool, fueling up tanks and trucks and Jeeps. Hell, he'd be glad to be assigned to a kitchen, even if it meant peeling potatoes all day. Cole's days as a sniper were over.
Finally, they were issued their rifles. The weapon of choice for the U.S. Army remained the M-1. This was the rifle that could be credited in many ways with winning the Second World War. Cole's weapon had been the bolt-action Springfield. Nowadays, this was strictly a sniper weapon, although some M-1 models had been adapted as sniper rifles.
"This rifle is your new best friend," the drill instructor informed them. "You will learn to field strip this weapon and reassemble it like you would brush your teeth. Then and only then, will you learn to properly fire this weapon."
Long before they were given any live ammo, they were drilled in the operation and maintenance of the weapon. While Cole had been known for possibly having the cleanest rifle in Europe, he also knew that these rifles were real workhorses and highly forgiving. They tended to function no matter how much abuse was thrown at them, which made the M-1 a solid military weapon. Short of packing the action or the barrel with mud, the damn thing would still shoot straight.
But the Army had its way of doing things, and that included endlessly cleaning the M-1. Once again, the kid who had lagged behind in his running also had trouble stripping his rifle and putting it back together again. No surprise there.
Cole watched him struggle for a while, desperately practicing in the few minutes before lights out, then sat down next to him on the footlocker.
"It ain't a wrestling match," Cole said. "This rifle was made to come apart, and fit back together, smooth as can be."
"If you say so."
"Don't believe me, huh? Try it again."
This time, Cole put his hands over top of Tommy’s, guiding him through the disassembly and assembly, starting by swinging the trigger guard forward, unlocking the action so that it could be removed from the stock. They moved on to removing the spring. Once they were finished, Cole had him run through it again. And again.
Now, the kid was grinning. "I got it!"
"Better," Cole agreed. "All it takes is practice. Now, do it again."
The kid gave him a look. "You got me through that run the other day, and now this. Why are you helping me?"
"I'm not just helping you, kid. I'm helping us all. Who gets the blame when one of us screws up? We all do, right?"
"Well, thanks, anyhow. You saved my bacon."
"Like I said, we're all part of the same pig, kid."
Finally, the day came for the rifle range. Most of the men were excited about getting to shoot live ammunition after days spent merely cleaning or drilling with their rifles.
Cole wasn't as eager. He knew that the drill instructor expected a lot out of him and would be watching him closely. The sergeant wasn't the only one. A handful of other sergeants and non-coms had gathered to see the show. Apparently, word had gotten out that Caje Cole, one of the deadliest U.S. snipers of the previous war, had returned to the range.
The sergeant went through the instructions. It made Cole more than a little nervous that he put so much emphasis on keeping the rifles pointed down range. The last thing that Cole wanted was to get shot in boot camp. He looked around for the kid and hoped that he was listening. If anyone was going to forget his muzzle discipline, it was that one.
Cole mused that around the world, Americans had this reputation as all being gunslingers — either cowboys or gangsters or maybe even pioneer holdouts from the days of Daniel Boone. Sure, there were a few like that — Cole included. But he recalled that his old spotter and fellow sniper, Vaccaro, hadn't done any shooting other than at the carnival games at Coney Island. Vaccaro had caught on eventually and become a passable shot, but he was probably more typical of the average American. The legends about Americans being crack shots and expert riflemen were just that — legends.