Chapter 2 - The Rifle He Wouldn’t Touch
The next morning Eli found his name written on the competition roster.
CARTER, E. — COMPANY C.
He stared at it for a long time.
Sergeant Hale stood beside the notice board.
“You sign that?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Eli turned.
“Can I withdraw?”
“You can.”
“Then I’m withdrawing.”
Hale folded his arms. “Why?”
“I don’t want to compete.”
“Still not my question.”
Eli said nothing.
Hale lowered his voice. “Your record is strange, Carter. Most of it’s sealed above my pay grade. But a man doesn’t estimate seven hundred yards within six feet by accident.”
“I grew up hunting.”
“Where?”
“Kentucky.”
“That explains some of it.”
“It explains enough.”
Hale watched him carefully. “What happened in North Africa?”
Eli looked toward the range.
A rifle cracked in the distance.
For an instant, England vanished.
Dust.
Stone.
Heat.
Samuel Reed lying behind a wall, smiling with half his face covered in dirt.
“Wind’s shifting left,” Samuel had whispered.
Then the shell came down.
Eli blinked and found Sergeant Hale still waiting.
“Nothing I want to talk about.”
Hale nodded slowly. “Fair enough.”
Eli reached for the pencil attached to the roster.
Jack Mason’s hand closed around his wrist.
“No quitting.”
“Let go.”
Jack smiled. “Whole company’s looking forward to seeing you embarrass yourself.”
“I’m not here to entertain you.”
“You are now.”
Hale snapped, “Mason, release him.”
Jack did.
Hale took the pencil from Eli. “Carter, nobody forces you to compete.”
Eli looked at Jack.
Then Tommy.
Then the dozen men watching.
Some were amused.
Some embarrassed.
Some simply curious.
Eli thought about how many times he had chosen silence because silence felt safer than memory.
He put the pencil down.
“I’ll shoot.”
Jack’s grin widened.
“Saturday, Twig.”
Eli walked away.
That afternoon the platoon trained with scoped rifles.
The weapon on the table was an M1903A4 Springfield, long and elegant, fitted with a telescopic sight.
Eli stopped five feet away.
His breathing changed.
Lieutenant Robert Mercer, the platoon leader, picked up the rifle.
“Carter. Your turn.”
Eli did not move.
“Private?”
“I’d rather use my M1, sir.”
“This is sniper familiarization. Take the rifle.”
Eli’s hands felt numb.
Jack whispered loudly, “Can’t lift it.”
A few men snickered.
Mercer frowned. “Carter?”
Eli stepped forward.
He placed one hand around the stock.
The room tilted.
Suddenly he was back in Tunisia.
A stone farmhouse.
German machine-gun fire clipping the wall.
Samuel beside him with binoculars.
“Six hundred fifty,” Samuel said.
“I see him.”
“Take your time.”
Eli fired.
A body dropped behind a distant window.
Then another memory.
Samuel laughing while they shared coffee from a dented cup.
Then another.
The shell.
The flash.
Samuel disappearing beneath stone and dust.
Eli pulled his hand away from the Springfield.
“No.”
Jack laughed.
Lieutenant Mercer’s patience thinned. “Private Carter, is there a medical reason you cannot handle this weapon?”
Eli swallowed.
“No, sir.”
“Then pick it up.”
Eli forced himself to do it.
His hands shook.
Jack noticed.
“So the mighty Twig is scared.”
Eli rested the rifle against his shoulder.
The scope moved toward his eye.
The black circular field filled his vision.
His heart began hammering.
A paper silhouette stood two hundred yards away.
But Eli did not see paper.
He saw a German helmet.
He heard Samuel breathing beside him.
He heard, “Send it.”
Eli jerked away.
The rifle nearly slipped.
Jack laughed openly.
Mercer caught the barrel.
“Enough.”
Eli lowered his head.
“Sorry, sir.”
The lieutenant stared at him. “Report to medical.”
“I’m fine.”
“That was not fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
The room froze.
A private did not speak to an officer that way.
Mercer’s eyes hardened.
Sergeant Hale intervened.
“Sir, let me take him.”
Mercer handed him the rifle.
“Do it.”
Outside, Hale walked with Eli behind the supply sheds.
Eli pressed both hands against a wall.
“Breathe.”
“I am.”
“No. You’re pretending.”
Eli took a slow breath.
Hale waited.
Finally Eli said, “I had a spotter.”
Hale said nothing.
“His name was Samuel Reed.”
Another breath.
“We’d been together since training.”
“What happened?”
“Artillery.”
Hale’s eyes softened.
“I was behind the scope when it hit.”
“You were wounded too?”
“Yes.”
“And since then?”
“I haven’t fired through glass.”
Hale understood.
“You don’t have to shoot Saturday.”
Eli laughed once, without humor. “If I quit now, Mason owns the story forever.”
“Who cares what Mason thinks?”
“I don’t.”
“That’s another lie.”
Eli turned.
Hale continued, “You care because part of you thinks he’s right.”
Eli stared at him.
“You think because your body changed, because your hands shake, because your friend died and you lived, you’re less of a soldier.”
Eli’s voice went cold.
“You don’t know me.”
“No. But I know survivors.”
Hale took out a cigarette but did not light it.
“My brother died at Kasserine. I spent six months wondering why he was dead and I wasn’t. There’s no answer that makes sense.”
Eli looked away.
Hale continued quietly, “Maybe winning some damn contest won’t fix anything. But running from a rifle won’t either.”
That night Jack and Tommy found Eli behind the mess tent.
Jack tossed something at his feet.
A sandbag.
“Carry it.”
Eli stared.
“What?”
“You’re weak. We’re helping.”
Tommy looked uneasy. “Jack, maybe—”
“Shut up.”
Jack shoved the sandbag into Eli’s chest.
Eli staggered.
“Walk to the motor pool and back.”
“No.”
Jack punched him in the stomach.
Eli folded.
Tommy stepped forward. “Jesus, Jack.”
Jack grabbed Eli by the collar and hit him again, harder.
Eli went down in the mud.
“Get up.”
Eli coughed.
Jack kicked him in the side.
Pain exploded through old scar tissue.
For a few seconds Eli could not breathe.
Frank Doyle came around the corner.
“What the hell?”
Jack raised a hand. “Stay out of it.”
Eli slowly pushed himself onto one knee.
Blood ran from his lip.
Jack looked down at him.
“Saturday, when you make us all look stupid, remember this. You’re nothing.”
Eli wiped his mouth.
Then he smiled.
It was a tiny smile.
That frightened Jack more than anger would have.
“What’s funny?”
Eli stood.
“You.”
Jack shoved him.
“Why?”
“Because you think strength is the same thing as cruelty.”
Jack raised his fist again.
Eli said, “Hit me if you need to.”
Jack stopped.
Eli’s eyes were calm now.
May you like
“But Saturday, you’re going to have to watch.”
Then Eli walked away.
