A Creative Writing Piece

This piece is based on true events, and tells the story of my first ‘Possible’ 50/50 in Target Rifle Shooting.

The long, barren field stretched before me. I looked up to the sky – a grey blanket encompassing the humid earth. I could barely see the end of the range through the morning mist. Not exactly the ideal conditions, I thought to myself, as I donned my heavy blue and white shooting jacket. I made sure my plotting cards were complete, slipped my glove on, and fitted my hat. I was only just ready when the range commanding officer instructed my detail to dress forward to the firing point.

            I spread my mat out and handed my scorecard to the man to my right. He seemed friendly enough; a seasoned veteran of the competition just like the man lying down next to him. I felt a little out of place as a newcomer. One glance at the man’s jacket informed me that he had shot for the United Kingdom, and on more than one occasion. To say I was uneasy was an understatement. Nonetheless I tried to relax as I made sure my spotting scope was focused on the target. The mist had lifted slightly.

            It was time. We were given permission to load and carry on. I could only stare as all fifty black dots arose from the ground at once. It was impossible to believe that they were a thousand yards away from where we lay.

            The booms of the precision ammunition started sounding all down the range. Targets started dipping down behind the small sand barricade that protected them, as if they were as nervous as I was. Yet they reappeared confidently, showing off scores that I could only dream to achieve. Before I knew it, the two men I was with had already taken their shots, and I called out their score.

            “First sighter, four.” I noted this down. I raised the rifle to my shoulder for the first time. I loaded a round, slid the bolt forward and locked it down. I rested my cheek on the butt and focused down the three tiny circles that formed my sight system. Breathe in, and out. Relax. Focus. Squeeze. The explosion erupted from my rifle and the familiar feel of recoil hit my shoulder. I took the rifle out of my shoulder and prepared to mark my shot on my plotting card. It seemed as though the target was taking a while to reappear. Suddenly, it began to rise, slowly at first and then quickly. I looked down my scope to see no shot marked and no score displayed. I called for the Range Officer, who radioed the markers to challenge for a hit. I lay impatiently, trying my hardest not to break my position to ensure my next shot would be taken in the same way so that I could make the correct adjustments.

            The target once again reappeared. “First sighter, miss.” I was exasperated, lost for words. I had missed, embarrassed myself in front of two top tier athletes. I looked over to the man on my right, confused, and asked him for some help. I didn’t expect anything, but he smiled and explained that my sight settings were incorrectly adjusted for the day’s wind. I changed this and lined up my second shot. Breathe in, and out. Relax. Focus. Squeeze. Bang. This time, the shot came back, and the marker signified my score. “Second sighter, four”. I smiled. I was on the target. Now, I had to take the shots that would actually score.

            I followed my rhythm, breathing in, letting it out, allowing my body to relax and my eyes to focus, and gently squeezing the trigger. Five. Another five. A ‘V bull’, dead centre. My shoot was going amazingly, so fantastically that even the national level shot next to me recognised it and complimented my shooting accordingly. I continued, following my pattern, and just before my last shot I took the time to count up my score.

            I had not dropped a single shot.

            In target rifle shooting, scoring fifty out of fifty is known as a “possible”, not because it is an easy achievement, but because it is achievable. With one shot remaining, the last shot on my target, I was scoring forty-five. Suddenly my heart started pounding against my chest. I raised my rifle to my shoulder with shivering hands and aimed down the range. I breathed in, and out. I couldn’t relax. I looked down my sights – everything seemed perfect. I could see my rifle gently bouncing up and down with each beat of my heart. I held my position and squinted. I squeezed.

            I unhooked from my rifle and looked over at the two men next to me. They both had their eyes glued to their spotting scopes. I couldn’t read their faces – I didn’t need to. The man on my direct right kneeled up and extended his hand. I extended mine up to his and shook it.

“Congratulations.”

            I let out an audible laugh before looking back through my own scope to confirm my suspicions.

            Dead centre.

In an uncontrollable fit of happiness, I pounded my fist onto my mat and screamed, “Yes!” The adrenaline filled my bones as I stood up, turned around, and saw the small crowd watching. I couldn’t help but smile.       

I had done it. I had only gone and done it.