Few Marine Corps riflemen — even a Distinguished Marksman, a coveted classification earned when the Marine has won a medal in a division rifle match and two other awards from competitive matches — have seen the Sergeant Owen Gray Range. Rather, they believe the most challenging Marine training range is Number 4 at Quantico, a thousand-yarder competitors call Death Valley. Number 4 is indeed a challenge.
It is not true that Marines on the Sergeant Owen Gray Range sniff contemptuously at Death Valley, but they have graduated from that range. Theirs is a different science. Shooting is only a fraction of sniping. At the Sergeant Owen Gray Range marksmanship is taught, but also camouflage and concealment, target detection, range estimation, holds and leads, intelligence collection, sniper employment, survival, evasion and escape. The Scout Sniper school is the first permanent facility in the United States to teach snipers, and it is the finest sniper school in the world.
The sniper school hopes to reverse a long trend in American soldiering. In the Great War, American infantrymen loosed 7,000 rounds for each enemy casualty. In World War Two the number rose to 25,000, and in the Korean War 50,000. In Vietnam the figure was a startling 300,000 rounds per casualty. Yet one Vietnam specialist, the American sniper, expended less than two shells per kill.
The spotter's eye was above the scope as he stared down range. When the breeze rolled the red pendants along the range, he lowered himself to the eyepiece and said, "Better click in a degree of windage, Paley."
"I'm dinked right already. I'm going to wing it."
The shooter inhaled, slowly let half of it out, then gently brought back the trigger, this time keeping his finger away from the side of the stock. The rifle bounced back against the Marine's shoulder. The sound chased the bullet down the range.
After a few seconds the spotter said, "I can't make out any new bangs on the bull."
The red disc appeared above the butt, waving left and right.
"Goddamnit," Paley said glumly. "Another flyer."
He was reproving himself for a difficult shot. Median range for a sniper shot is six hundred to eight hundred yards. For most snipers, firing at thousand yards is considered chancy.
"Still thinking about me and your sister, I bet," the spotter chided. "Lost your concentration."
Sergeant Able hollered, "You guys want to giggle and chat, go join the Navy."
Before 1977, sniper instruction had been haphazard in the Marine Corps. That year the Scout/ Sniper Instructor School had opened when the Corps determined that each Marine infantry battalion would have a sniper team, part of a scout and sniper platoon called a Surveillance and Target Acquisition (STA) Platoon. For a decade most of their marksmanship training had occurred at the Quantico training and competition ranges. Two years ago the new range had opened, a dozen miles southeast of Quantico, hidden among gentle hills. The sniper for whom the range had been named had not responded to the invitation to the opening ceremony mailed to his New York address.
With only one firing line, the facility was small compared with other service rifle ranges. Target butts were found at the four distances. Other than the fifteen hundred yards of range ground, which resembled a wildflower meadow, the installation consisted only of the control tower, a gun shed, a small headquarters building, and a locker room. The Marine Corps also owned the surrounding fourteen hundred acres of pine and dogwood woodlands and meadows where snipers were instructed in fieldcraft. The facility was approached on a gravel road, and a parking lot was in front of the headquarters. Across from the lot was a low-rising hill spotted with pine trees, mountain laurel, and tufts of weeds, these weeds real. A few wild rhododendrons adorned the hill, their scrawny, sparse leaves in contrast with their flawless pink and crimson flowers.
"Cleared for firing, Paley," the sergeant said. "Get on with it."
"Lay it in there, partner," the spotter said.
The trigger had a three-pound pull. Knowing the target could be maintained precisely in the crosshairs for only an instant, the shooter applied pressure to the trigger until the slightest additional pull would be required to release the firing pin. He halted his exhale. He was so still that he could feel his pulse in his arms. He waited for that instant when two critical events occurred at once — when the bull was quartered in the crosshairs at the same time his heart was between pulses. Then he smoothly applied the last bit of pull.
The rifle spoke, leaving a diaphanous black cloud ten feet in front of the barrel. Snipers know that even smokeless powder leaves smoke. It dissipated quickly in the air currents.
"Can't see it," the spotter said.
A black disc waved above the butt, meaning the target had been struck.
"Finally," Paley muttered.
A thousand yards down-range, the pit officer pulled the target, a hundred-pound wood rack on glides, down into the butt. A moment later it slid back up on its frame, a yellow triangle marking the hit.
His eye at the scope, the spotter said, "A wart. Second ring, eight o'clock."
A wart was a shot on the white but only a fraction of an inch from the black.
"Cease firing," crackled the loudspeaker. "Civilian approaching the range."
"Christ on a crutch," the sergeant blurted, turning toward the office. "If we get any more congressmen on inspection tours I'm going to piss blood."
A man walked from around the headquarters building toward the line. The sergeant stared hard at the civilian as the visitor crossed the pebble grounds, then made his way toward the firing line. The visitor was wearing a madras shirt, casual slacks, penny loafers, and a tentative smile. Something was familiar about the stranger, maybe the way he held his head, at a slight cant as if favoring an eye, his scope eye.
Sergeant Able squinted at the tall man, then leaned forward as if being an inch closer would make the intruder more readily recognizable. Then Abie's eyes widened. "Well I'll be goddamned." His face creased into a grin and his words were rough with emotion. "It's Owen Gray."
Gray returned the smile. "I thought you'd find honest work someday, Arlen. Guess I was wrong."
Sergeant Able shook Gray's hand, then must have decided that was insufficient, so he bear-hugged him, pinning Gray's hands to his side and almost lifting him off the ground.
The sergeant's voice wavered. "Man, it's good to see you, Owen. You've been hiding, seems like."
The Marines left the firing line and gathered around. The shooter carried his rifle with the barrel up. He and the spotter maintained a respectful distance. The spotter, Bobby Sims, cast his eyes at the sign above the headquarters door that read "Sergeant Owen Gray Range," then looked back at Gray. The shooter, Larry Paley, cleared his throat, prompting the sergeant to make introductions.
"Have you kept up with the science, Owen?" the sergeant asked. "Know anything about your range or our new equipment?"
"Haven't had much occasion." Gray caught the sharp scent of Hoppe's No. 9 cleaning solvent.
"The service eighty-sixed our old Winchesters." When Able held out a hand, Paley passed him his rifle. "Take a look. It's the M-40A1, developed especially for Marine snipers. This is a pressure-molded fiberglass Remington Model 700 rifle receiver. Nothing alters the stock — rain, humidity, heat, or cold."
Sergeant Able patted the rifle proudly and went on. "And remember the trouble we had keeping the camo on the wood when it rained? This stock's coloring, the green and copper here, is pigment impregnated into the stock. We've got other rifles for snow and still others for the desert."
Able attempted to pass the rifle to Gray, who involuntarily stepped back. He wouldn't raise his hands to accept the weapon.