Devil Doc - Days in Paradise - Okinawa
Welcome to Okinawa
The rain poured in torrents as the olive-drab transport bus wheezed to a halt at the gates of Camp Schwab. Petty Officer 3rd Class Jack “Doc” Malone peered through the fogged-up window, his breath condensing in rhythmic clouds. The Marine at the checkpoint gave the bus a cursory glance before waving it through with a halfhearted salute. Jack felt a knot tighten in his stomach.
“Welcome to paradise,” muttered the bus driver, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Jack shifted his sea bag on his lap, adjusting the strap to relieve the pressure on his shoulder. This was it. His first assignment with the “few and the proud.”
He caught his reflection in the streaked glass. Messy brown hair refused to stay flattened, his jawline carried the shadow of a shave he didn’t have time to finish, and his blue eyes, though sharp, betrayed a hint of apprehension. “Alright, Jack,” he murmured to himself. “They’re just Marines. How bad can it be?”
The answer came quicker than he expected. As the bus door creaked open, a booming voice bellowed, “Move your squid butt off my bus, Corpsman!”
Jack jerked his head up. Standing in the pouring rain was a mountain of a man in a soaked uniform, Staff Sergeant Walter “Bulldog” Riggins. His face was a roadmap of scars and perpetual scowling.
Jack scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his bag. “Yes, Staff Sergeant!”
“That’s the only correct answer you’ll give me, sailor! Got it?” Bulldog barked, his eyes narrowing.
“Aye aye, Staff Sergeant!” Jack snapped, slinging his sea bag over his shoulder and stepping off the bus. He barely had time to take in his surroundings before Bulldog’s voice erupted again.
“What in the unholy name of Chesty Puller is this?” Bulldog growled, pointing at Jack’s boots. “Are those Navy-issue clown shoes? You plan to trip my Marines to death?”
Jack looked down at his standard-issue black boots, slick with rain. “Uh, they’re regulation, Staff Sergeant.”
“Regulation?” Bulldog’s laugh was more bark than mirth. “Son, out here, regulation is whatever keeps my men alive. You’re patching up warriors, not shuffling papers on some cushy ship. Got it?”
“Got it, Staff Sergeant.” Jack tried to hide his smirk, knowing it would only provoke the bear further.
“Lose that grin, Malone,” Bulldog said, stepping closer. “You’re a guest in my house, and you’ll live by my rules. Clear?”
Jack swallowed hard. “Crystal clear, Staff Sergeant.”
Bulldog grunted, motioning toward a nearby building. “You’ll bunk with Corporal Martinez in Barracks 7. He’ll show you the ropes. Don’t screw this up, Doc. Marines don’t trust squids, and I’m not gonna hold your hand.”
“Understood, Staff Sergeant.” Jack started toward the barracks but was stopped by Bulldog’s parting words.
“Oh, and Doc? Welcome to Camp Schwab,” Bulldog said, his voice dripping with both sarcasm and a hint of genuine amusement.
The barracks was exactly what Jack expected: rows of metal bunks, peeling paint, and the faint aroma of sweat and mildew. Corporal Eddie “Eagle” Martinez was lounging on a lower bunk, tossing a baseball in the air. His olive skin and dark, neatly cropped hair gave him an air of discipline that was immediately undercut by the sly grin on his face.
“Well, look who the tide brought in,” Martinez said, catching the baseball and sitting up. “You the new Doc?”
“That’s me,” Jack said, dropping his sea bag on the floor.
Martinez stood and extended a hand. “Corporal Martinez. But everyone calls me Eagle. If you need a tour guide or someone to blame for your screw-ups, I’m your guy.”
Jack shook his hand, relieved to find a friendly face. “Jack Malone. Or just Doc, I guess.”
“Doc it is.” Martinez smirked. “Word of advice? Don’t let Bulldog get to you. He barks more than he bites.”
“Good to know,” Jack said, pulling off his soaked boots. “What about you? Any tips for surviving this place?”
Martinez leaned against the bunk, arms crossed. “Yeah. Don’t be the guy who misses morning PT. And whatever you do, don’t eat the ‘meatloaf’ on Tuesdays.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Meatloaf?”
“It’s not meat,” Martinez said solemnly. “And it sure as hell ain’t loaf.”
Jack couldn’t help but laugh. “Got it. No meatloaf.”
“You’ll be fine, Doc,” Martinez said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just remember: Marines are like stray dogs. Feed us, patch us up, and we’ll probably like you. Screw us over, and we’ll bite.”
“Comforting,” Jack said with a grin.
“Oh, one more thing,” Martinez added. “Tomorrow’s your first field exercise. Bulldog’s gonna want you to prove you’re not just another squid. So...don’t die.”
Jack groaned, collapsing onto his bunk. “Great. What did I get myself into?”
Martinez grinned. “Welcome to the jungle, Doc.”
Zero Dark Thirty
Jack Malone was dreaming of something pleasant—probably Aiko’s smirk—when the world exploded around him.
“GET UP! GET UP! TIME’S AWASTIN’! BIG DAY, LADIES, LET’S GO!”
The Quonset hut door slammed open with a bang, and suddenly, the world was filled with the gravel-coated snarl of Staff Sergeant Walter “Bulldog” Riggins.
Jack’s eyes snapped open just as the overhead lights blazed to life, searing into his skull like a thousand suns. Around him, a chorus of groans and curses filled the air as the other Marines were ripped from whatever dreams (or nightmares) they were having.
“Oh, for fu—” Lance Corporal “Twitch” Coleman groaned, flinging an arm over his face.
“Jesus, Mary, and Chesty Puller,” muttered Sergeant “Ox” Ortega, rolling out of his rack like a bear being poked in the ribs.
PFC “Buddha” Henderson sat up slowly, rubbing his shaved head. “This is unnecessary. Deeply unnecessary.”
Across from Jack, Corporal Eddie “Eagle” Martinez was already lacing his boots, looking way too awake for this nonsense.
Jack pushed himself up, bleary-eyed. “What the hell is happening?”
Martinez smirked. “Welcome to morning PT, Doc. Happens two or three times a week. Five-mile run before chow. Standard issue misery.”
Jack groaned. “Five miles?”
“Formation run,” Martinez said, stretching his arms. “No man left behind. Just keep up, and don’t puke on my boots.”
Jack grumbled but swung his legs over the side of the bunk, feet hitting the cold concrete. He shoved his way into his PT gear—green shorts, olive-drab T-shirt, boots—moving fast to avoid catching Bulldog’s wrath.
Bulldog paced through the barracks, clapping his hands like a drill instructor fresh out of Parris Island. “MOVE IT, MOVE IT! I WANT YOU ON THE LINE IN TWO MINUTES! ANYONE STILL DRAGGIN’ ASS GETS TO RUN EXTRA WITH ME—AND I PROMISE, YOU WON’T LIKE IT!”
Martinez shot Jack a look. “Translation: Haul ass.”
Jack did.
Forming Up
Outside, the air was thick with humidity and the scent of damp earth. The jungle just beyond the base was waking up, its early morning symphony of insects, croaking frogs, and unseen rustlings mixing with the sounds of boots scuffing on the pavement.
The platoon formed up in front of Bulldog, shaking off the last traces of sleep. Some were stretching, others standing still with the blank-eyed resignation of men who had done this routine more times than they could count.
“ALRIGHT, LADIES, LISTEN UP!” Bulldog barked. “TODAY’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY FOR A RUN. WE’RE GOIN’ FIVE MILES OUT THROUGH THE JUNGLE AND BACK. YOU FALL BEHIND, YOU BETTER HOPE THE MONKEYS ADOPT YOU, ‘CAUSE I AIN’T COMIN’ BACK FOR STRAGGLERS!”
Jack took his spot next to Martinez, rolling his shoulders.
Bulldog stalked down the line. “EVERYONE READY?”
A half-hearted chorus of “Aye aye, Staff Sergeant” rumbled through the ranks.
“I SAID, ARE YOU READY?” Bulldog bellowed.
“AYE AYE, STAFF SERGEANT!”
“GOOD! DOUBLE TIME, HUUUH!”
The formation lurched into motion, boots pounding the pavement as they took off down the base road.
Running the Jungle
A voice rose up from the front of the formation, leading them into cadence.
"Left, right, left, right, layin’ in my rack last night…"
The response came from the platoon, voices gruff but in sync.
"Drill Instructor came and turned on the light!"
Jack found the rhythm quickly, his body falling into the steady drumbeat of boots on wet pavement. The pack moved like a single entity, their breathing in time with the call-and-response of the chant.
They veered off the road and onto a dirt path leading toward the jungle. The smell of rain-soaked foliage and damp earth filled Jack’s nose, mixing with the tang of sweat already forming on his skin. Somewhere in the darkness, birds stirred, their early calls blending with the distant hum of insects still clinging to the night.
The air was thick, damp, and heavy. Jack focused on the rhythm of his steps, keeping pace.
Martinez glanced at him mid-stride. “Not bad, Doc. Thought you’d be suckin’ wind by now.”
Jack grunted. “Ask me again at mile four.”
A sharp laugh from behind. Ox. “If you ain’t pukin’ by mile three, we’re takin’ bets on who will.”
Twitch muttered, “Smart money’s on Buddha.”
Buddha, running smoothly despite his bulk, shot Twitch a look. “My spirit is strong. My stomach, however, is weak.”
The formation pressed on, disappearing deeper into the jungle as the cadence carried them forward.
Flashback: The Long Run
The rhythmic pounding of boots against the jungle trail, the heavy dampness of the morning air, the sting of sweat in his eyes—something about it all sent Jack back.
A different time. A different run.
The smell of dew-covered grass filled his lungs. Not jungle rot and wet canvas, but freshly cut fields lining the suburban roads of his hometown. The sky, just beginning to bleed into soft shades of orange and pink, stretched vast and endless above him. The streetlights still flickered as he pounded the pavement in his well-worn running shoes, the only sound his steady breath and the light thup-thup-thup of rubber soles against asphalt.
He was seventeen. Lean, fast, hungry for the burn of a good run.
"Push harder, Malone."
Coach Dawson’s voice still echoed in his head, gravelly and relentless, always demanding more.
Jack’s arms pumped as he surged up a hill, lungs burning but legs steady, conditioned from months of brutal training. His teammates were around him, just silhouettes in the dim morning light, their breath visible in the crisp autumn air.
"Breathe, Jack. Find the rhythm. Own the pain."
There had been races—big ones. District meets where the crowds screamed, where his mother stood in the stands clutching a thermos of coffee, his dad nodding approval from the finish line. But this? This was what he loved. The silent, steady grind. The discipline of it.
The way the world shrank down to just him and the run.
That feeling had never left.
And now, here he was, pounding dirt with a pack of Marines, five miles of jungle stretching ahead of him. Different roads, different men, same rhythm.
He blinked away the memory just as Martinez nudged him with an elbow mid-stride.
“You zoning out on me, Doc?”
Jack smirked, shaking off the mist of the past. “Nah. Just remembering how much I hate running.”
Martinez chuckled. “Then you’re in the wrong line of work, man.”
Jack just breathed deep, pushing forward.
Own the pain.
The formation was about three miles deep into the run when Master Sergeant Sam “Grizz” Holloway appeared beside Malone like a shadow, his stride effortless, his breathing steady. The older Marine moved with the kind of ease that came from years of discipline, his expression unreadable beneath the dim morning light.
Malone, locked into his rhythm, glanced over as Grizz matched his pace.
“Didn’t peg you for a runner, Doc,” Grizz said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “Most Navy guys start gasping after the first mile.”
Jack shrugged mid-stride. “Ran cross country in high school.”
Grizz raised an eyebrow. “That right?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, keeping his breathing measured. “Had a coach who believed in breaking us down before sunrise. Rain or shine, he had us running. Always said pain builds character, quitting builds excuses.”
Grizz let out a short, rough chuckle. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”
Jack wiped sweat from his brow. “Oh yeah. Tough as nails. Thought he was the hardest, most relentless guy I’d ever meet.”
Grizz smirked knowingly. “And now?”
Jack exhaled sharply. “Turns out, I was young and didn’t know any better.”
Grizz barked out a laugh, deep and rough like an old truck engine turning over. “Well, Doc, you keep up like this, and you just might survive us.”
They ran in silence for a few more strides before Grizz gave him a firm nod.
“Good job, Doc. You’ll do.”
Jack let the words settle for a second. Then he grinned.
“Appreciate that, Master Sergeant.”
Grizz grunted. “Don’t get too comfortable. We still got two miles to go.”
Jack chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As they neared the last mile, the steady rhythm of boots pounding against the dirt trail filled the humid morning air. Malone kept his breathing controlled, his muscles burning but steady.
Beside him, Master Sergeant Grizz Holloway glanced over with a knowing smirk.
“Not bad, Doc,” Grizz said, his voice even despite the pace. “You can keep up on a run. That’s a start.”
Jack exhaled sharply. “Glad to hear it, Master Sergeant.”
Grizz gave a short grunt. “Don’t celebrate yet. This was the warm-up.”
Jack fought the urge to groan. “Of course it was.”
Grizz chuckled. “Next up—chow. Eat fast, don’t be last. Then we’re heading to the range.”
Malone wiped sweat from his forehead. “The range?”
Grizz nodded. “Let’s see if you can shoot as well as you run.” He gave Malone a sideways look. “Ever handle an M16, Doc?”
Jack smirked. “Just the training basics.”
Grizz’s grin turned wolfish. “Well, then. Guess we’ll see what kind of shot you really are.”
Jack let out a slow breath. Running? He could handle. Shooting? That was a whole different ball game.
The Following AM
0500 AM
The Quonset hut erupted into chaos as Master Sergeant Grizz Holloway burst through the door, his booming voice slicing through the remnants of sleep.
“Reveille, reveille! Ladies, time to rise and shine—you’re wasting daylight! Fifteen minutes, tops, to muster outside!”
In an instant, the quiet slumber was shattered. Jack “Doc” Malone blinked in the dim light as groans and clatters filled the air. Marines tumbled from their bunks in various states of disarray—one man nearly tripped over his own boot, while another mumbled as he fumbled with his uniform.
“C’mon, people—move it!” barked Grizz, striding down the narrow aisle. “I don’t care if you were having sweet dreams of chow and quiet—get up!”
Twitch grumbled as he swung his legs off his bunk. “Great, now I’m awake. Could’ve been nice to sleep in, even a minute.”
Ox, already half-dressed and grumbling about cold water for a shower, called out, “You hear that, Doc? Looks like we’re on parade—less time to dawdle and more time to hustle!”
Buddha, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, muttered, “If only the dreams were as disciplined as this wake-up call…”
Martinez was the first to have his act together, hastily buttoning his shirt. “Quit your bellyaching, everyone. Save the energy for the march. We’ve got a three-mile trek to the range for our morning shooting. And you know what that means.”
Jack snorted as he pulled on his uniform trousers, zipping them up with a hint of resignation. “Shooting first the Colt .45, then the M16—guess they want us to prove we’re not just fast runners.”
In the cramped quarters, the banter continued. One Marine joked, “Better not shoot like you run, Doc. I wouldn’t mind a lull in your jogging pace for once!”
Jack grinned despite the grogginess. “At least I’m not tripping over my own boots, huh?”
Within minutes, the platoon spilled out of the hut into the soft, pre-dawn half-light. The cool air held a promise of the day’s discipline and challenge. Forming a loose line along the gravel, the Marines lined up, still rubbing sleep from their eyes, their expressions a mix of amusement and resigned determination.
Master Sergeant Grizz surveyed the assembled men with a keen, scrutinizing eye. “Alright, listen up!” he barked, his tone leaving no room for fooling around. “Today, we march three miles to the range. When we get there, you’ll first be handling the standard sidearm—a Colt .45 1911 Government Model—then the M16. I want full concentration and proper discipline. Range safety: keep your finger off the trigger until you’re on target, maintain muzzle discipline, and follow my commands to the letter. Any deviation, and you’re doing extra laps until you get it right!”
A murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the ranks. One of the younger Marines, still looking a bit bewildered, whispered to Jack, “I thought the only thing we’d be doing today was running and eating!”
Jack chuckled softly, though his eyes were focused ahead. “Welcome to the life, kid. We run, we shoot, we eat, and sometimes we get yelled at—but it all makes us better.”
Grizz’s stern gaze swept over them one more time. “Form up! Move it out, now! We march out in formation—keep it tight and steady!”
And with that, the platoon fell into line, boots crunching against the dirt as they began their three-mile march toward the range, the dawn light slowly transforming the edge of the base into the first stage of another challenging day.
The platoon’s footsteps echoed in unison as they left the open base and entered the dense fringe of the jungle. At first, the morning light filtered gently through towering trees, but as they pressed deeper, the air grew warmer and more oppressive. The cool pre-dawn chill gave way to a rising heat that shimmered in the mid-morning haze.
Every step forward brought them into a realm where nature ruled: thick foliage brushed against their uniforms and the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves mingled with the sweat of exertion. The rising temperature seemed to animate the jungle—buzzing insects filled the humid air, their persistent drone punctuating the steady thump of marching boots.
Jack Malone felt the heat intensify as beads of sweat trickled down his neck. He glanced around, noting how the lush greenery vibrated with life. Occasionally, a stubborn bug would settle on a Marine’s shoulder or neck, prompting a flurry of quick, almost comical swats. One of the younger Marines grumbled, “These pests are getting us before the enemy ever shows up!” while another, shaking his head with a wry smile, muttered, “Could use some bug spray as standard issue.”
Martinez, marching with his usual ease, jabbed his hand at a persistent mosquito clinging to his collar and laughed, “If only these critters paid rent!” The murmurs and light-hearted curses underscored the shared misery of the journey. Even Master Sergeant Grizz Holloway couldn’t resist a brief pause to flick an insect from his shoulder before barking, “Keep it moving, Marines! The jungle isn’t here to give you a break!”
As they advanced, the jungle canopy opened intermittently to reveal the rising sun in bursts of golden light. The interplay of shadow and brightness cast dancing patterns on the trail, momentarily distracting the men from the persistent annoyance of bugs. Yet, every so often, a stray insect would find its way to a Marine’s neck, eliciting quick swipes and muffled exclamations of frustration.
In the midst of the controlled chaos, the platoon maintained their disciplined cadence, their footsteps punctuating the humid air with a steady rhythm. The jungle’s chorus of birdcalls, rustling leaves, and insect hum blended with the sound of their marching boots—a natural symphony of determination and resilience. Even Jack, with the memory of his high school cross country runs fueling his pace, couldn’t help but marvel at the relentless energy of the natural world around him.
The march was more than a physical challenge—it was a testament to the Marines’ endurance, both against nature’s whims and the rigors of their training. Each step through the tangled undergrowth, every slap at an unwelcome bug, reinforced their shared commitment. Despite the muttered grumbles and sweat-soaked discomfort, there was a camaraderie in the struggle.
The Range
The platoon finally rounded the bend and the open expanse of the firing range unfolded before them like a meticulously arranged shooting gallery. Neatly lined up were twenty sturdy, weathered benches, each bearing a polished Colt .45 1911 Government Model and a matching M16, gleaming under the early sun. Downrange, lanes were crisply marked at 10, 15, 25, 50, 75, and 100 yards—each distance clearly indicated by bold, weather-resistant signs.
A series of laminated range rules were posted at strategic intervals along the shooting line, their commands crisp and unyielding, a constant reminder of discipline. Near the benches, a battered metal bucket sat at the ready—a repository for misfired rounds and duds—while a large water can, its label faded but legible, was surrounded by a scattering of paper cups for hydration breaks.
In formation, the Marines came to an abrupt halt at the designated muster point. Their boots crunched on the gravel as they stood at attention, eyes fixed ahead, the morning air heavy with anticipation. Master Sergeant Grizz Holloway strode forward, his gaze sweeping the formation.
“Alright, Marines!” he bellowed. “Form up and listen well!”
The platoon snapped to full attention, the earlier chaos of the hut replaced by a disciplined silence. Grizz’s voice was steady as he continued, “Each of you will report to your assigned bench. I want you to leave everything untouched until I give further instructions. This isn’t a free-for-all—it's about precision and discipline.”
He paused, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the eager yet nervous faces before him. “Range commands: When I say ‘You may approach the firing line,’ do so without hesitation. Grip your magazine firmly and insert it. When I command, point your weapon downrange. Assume your proper stance and be ready—first, ready on the right; then, ready on the left; and finally, ready on the firing line. And mark my words: if I call a cease fire, you stop immediately. Understood?”
A murmur of firm acknowledgment rippled through the ranks as each Marine nodded, their expressions steeling with resolve. With a curt nod from Grizz, the platoon broke formation, each man heading briskly to his bench, mindful of every instruction.
As they settled into position, the pristine order of the range stood in stark contrast to the humid, bug-laden march through the jungle—a reminder that here, in this controlled environment, every detail mattered. The sound of their boots on the gravel faded, replaced by the quiet anticipation of the next phase: proving themselves not just as runners or survivors of the jungle, but as precise, reliable shooters.
At his bench, Jack “Doc” Malone paused for a split second. His heartbeat quickened—not from the strain of the march, but from a flicker of uncertainty. For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes scanning the orderly array of shooting lanes, the crisp white yardage markings, and the gleaming sidearms arranged meticulously on each bench. The polished Colt .45 and M16 glinted under the soft, early morning light, symbols of both discipline and danger.
Drawing a slow, steady breath, Malone pushed the hesitation aside. With calm assurance, he stepped forward into formation, his gaze fixed downrange as if silently affirming his commitment to the task ahead. Each step was measured, every movement echoing the precision he’d honed over years of hard training—both on those high school cross country trails and now, as a Navy Corpsman among battle-hardened Marines.
Around him, his comrades moved with synchronized determination. Their boots whispered over the gravel as they settled at their assigned benches. Some adjusted their uniforms, while others inspected their weapons with a quiet confidence. The entire range was a study in order: neatly posted range rules at intervals, a well-worn bucket for duds at arm’s reach, and a large water can with paper cups arranged just so for a quick hydration break.
As Malone stood there, his heart settled into the disciplined rhythm of his comrades. The lingering traces of doubt dissolved into a determined focus. In that moment, the firing range wasn’t just a field of targets—it was the proving ground where his skills, his resolve, and his very spirit would be tested and refined.
Jack drifts back a moment in time, to when he was a kid with his Uncle. The memory came in vivid, slow-motion detail—a sweltering summer day by the Llano River in the Texas Hill Country. A young Jack Malone, not more than 14 or 15, stood on a worn patch of earth beside the gently flowing river. The water shimmered under a relentless sun, carrying with it the scent of wild mesquite and dusty sage. Jack cradled an old .22 pump-action rifle in trembling hands, his gaze fixed on a solitary pop can bobbing along the current.
He took a measured breath, squinting against the glare, and carefully aimed at his makeshift target. Every movement was deliberate—his finger hesitated on the trigger, his knuckles whitening with the weight of both the rifle and his own inexperience. With a soft exhale, he fired one slow, painstaking shot after another, each round echoing faintly against the distant hills. The pop can wavered, defying his intent, and then settled further downstream.
Before frustration could take hold, his uncle—an old World War II combat veteran with stories etched into the lines of his face—stepped in quietly. The man had survived the Battle of the Bulge and carried that hardened wisdom in every measured action. Gently, he took the rifle from Jack’s hesitant grasp and reloaded it with an assured flick of his weathered hands. Resting the weapon on his shoulder as if it were an extension of his very being, he worked the pump-action with swift precision, unleashing a rapid-fire burst of eighteen rounds. Each shot hammered the pop can, sending it careening downriver in a cacophony of metal and determination.
The crackle of spent cartridges mingled with the rustle of nearby cottonwoods, and then his uncle’s voice, calm yet firm, broke the charged silence: “You’re spending too much time aiming, Jack. Open both eyes, trust your instincts—just point it. Hold one finger out, let your eyes follow where it points… and shoot as fast as you can.”
Nervously, Jack accepted the rifle back. This time, he mimicked his uncle’s relaxed stance, his pulse quickening as he steadied himself. With a flurry of rapid, determined shots, he managed to hit twelve out of eighteen targets. His heart soared with a mixture of relief and exhilaration as he looked up, eyes shining with newfound confidence at his uncle’s approving nod.
As the summer days unfolded under the wide Texas sky, those impromptu lessons by the Llano River transformed Jack’s uncertain aim into near-expert precision—a legacy of instinct and speed that would one day serve him well in worlds far beyond the river’s gentle flow.
Malone’s mind snapped back to the present, memories of his uncle’s gentle yet decisive instruction still echoing in his thoughts. His mouth was set in firm resolve as he drew a deep, steady breath, knowing in his heart that he was ready. The echoes of his youthful training on the Llano River lent him a quiet confidence, and now, in the disciplined silence of the range, that confidence shone clear.
When Master Sergeant Grizz’s commanding voice rang out, “You may approach the firing line!” Malone stepped forward with measured determination. He gripped his .45 in his right hand with assured precision, the weapon held pointed steadily downrange. In one fluid motion, he lifted the already loaded magazine and slapped it home into the firearm with a practiced snap.
Malone then assumed the proper Weaver stance: his left foot stepped forward, the right foot angled slightly back for balance, knees softly bent, and his weight distributed evenly across the ground. His elbows were tucked in, forming a solid frame for the pistol, while his shoulders remained squared and relaxed. With both eyes fixed downrange, he scanned the standard combat silhouette target stationed at 15 yards, his focus unyielding.
The silence deepened as every Marine awaited the final command. Then Grizz’s authoritative voice cut through the stillness: “Commence Fire!”
In response, Malone’s fingers worked methodically over the trigger. In a crisp burst, his .45 discharged precisely seven rounds—the standard load for the Colt Government Model—each shot echoing through the range. One by one, the rounds found their mark, each bullet striking near the center of the silhouette’s chest, forming a tight three-inch grouping that spoke volumes of his skill.
Master Sergeant Grizz stepped forward, his eyes narrowing in approval as he surveyed the grouping. With a gruff nod, he said, “Nice shooting, Doc. Who taught you to shoot like that?”
A small, confident smile tugged at Malone’s lips as he met Grizz’s gaze, the weight of his past training and present discipline merging into one resolute moment of victory.
Master Sergeant Grizz’s approving gaze still fixed on Malone’s tight grouping, he asked, “So, Doc, who taught you to shoot like that?”
Jack’s eyes softened as he recalled a memory. “Sir, it was my uncle,” he began, voice steady yet tinged with nostalgia. “I was just a kid—about 14 or 15—camping by the Llano River in the Texas Hill Country. My uncle, a Battle of the Bulge survivor, took me under his wing. I spent hours out there with a .22 pump-action rifle, aiming at a pop can floating on the water. I was always so nervous, taking slow, deliberate shots, my hands trembling with every pull of the trigger.”
Grizz leaned in slightly, interest piqued. “And then?”
Jack chuckled, a hint of fond amusement in his tone. “Well, he gently snatched the rifle from my hands, reloaded it in a flash, and, with the speed of a man who’d seen too much, fired off 18 rounds in rapid succession. The pop can bounced down the river with every shot. He looked at me and said, ‘Jack, you’re spending too much time aiming. Open both eyes, trust your instincts—just point it, hold out a finger, and let your eyes follow where it points. Now shoot as fast as you can.’ I took the rifle back, and though I hit only 12 out of 18 targets that day, that summer taught me more about instinct and speed than any classroom ever could.”
Grizz’s gravelly laugh rumbled out as he clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “That’s some fine training, Doc. Guess that old man knew a thing or two.”
“Guess so, sir,” Jack replied with a grin. “Though I still spend a bit too long eyeing the target sometimes.”
“Don’t get cocky now,” Grizz retorted with a friendly smirk. “We all had a mentor somewhere. Just remember—trust your instincts, and keep that finger off the trigger until you’re ready.”
A brief chuckle rippled through the gathered Marines. With the conversation wrapped up, Grizz snapped his attention back to the range. “Alright, everyone, clear your benches. Break out your gear—time for the rest of the shooting. Get your weapons downrange and ready to switch to the M16 after this.”
The platoon moved with crisp precision, gathering their gear and stepping back into formation as the range exercise continued. The orderly clack of boots on the gravel resumed, and soon the men reassembled in formation, weapons holstered and ready for the next phase.
“Alright, Marines,” Grizz commanded, his tone shifting to that of an officer closing out the exercise. “Once you’re done with the range, we march back to base for chow. Keep up the discipline, and let’s make this day count.”
With friendly banter fading into the background, Jack “Doc” Malone tucked the memories of the Llano River deep within him, his resolve firm. He knew exactly what to do—and as he followed his comrades back toward base, every step echoed with the confidence born of both past lessons and present discipline.
Copyright ©, 2025, Matthew W. Bowers
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