by Hap Rocketto
Teamwork is an important part of shooting. Perhaps the most sterling example of the necessity for well-oiled teamwork is found in high power shooting and, in particular, the arcane art of Palma Match competition. Palma Match competition requires the riflemen to shoot 15 record shots at three distances, 800, 900, and 1,000 yards. The Palma Match was first fired in 1876 and has been contested off and on since then. The countries of the British Commonwealth have a particular liking to this type of shooting and recently have done very well.
The Mother Country and her loyal children tend to view our National Match Course shooting as barbaric. They prefer to squad three shooters on a point, alternating shooting as many ten shots each slow fire during a match. This method requires incredible patience as well as a pretty good ability to dope the wind. A shooter must keep an incredibly complete and intricate score book replete with columns of numbers, graphs, detailed commentary, and shot groups plotted with draftsman like precision. There is none of the 20 shots for record in twelve or thirteen minutes accompanied by a sketchy scorebook plot so common here in the States. A look at most British scorebooks will reveal a treatise reminiscent of a Ph.D. dissertation in advanced mathematics. The British are proud to claim Sir Isaac Newton as their own and seem determined to memorialize his development of The Calculus in their scorebooks.
So controlled, minutely detailed, and measured, dare I suggest that a psychiatrist might call it anal, is this type of shooting that a competitor can ‘convert’ sighters. That means that if you get of a couple of 10s or Xs for your first two shots you can claim them for record and continue on from there. In team matches shooters only deliver the shot. Coaches dope the wind and even adjust the sights for the shooter! It is here that communication and a well working team is important. Each shooter must know his rifle, all members of the team must use the same sight, the shooter had better be able to call well, and the coach has to know everything the shooter does, thinks, and more.
Now I admire the skill of these long-range shooters and coaches. However, I question the apparent slavish Anglophile behavior of these masters of long distance. After all I thought we fought a revolution to be free of British influence in our daily lives. Palma shooters sometimes remind me of those long distance runners who seem to hold other runners and joggers in mild contempt for being of a lesser breed. On occasion, when I have spoken with some of the best of the Palma shooters, mentioning my particular fondness for NMC shooting, I sensed a discomfort on their parts. It was if they were in the presence of someone with a particularly loathsome terminal illness and they didn’t quite know what to say. More importantly they seemed uneasy, as if they might become infected by my mere comment.
Teamwork is their mantra. They talk about it as if they have cornered the market. Well, I know a little about teamwork. The Connecticut National Guard Rifle Team, in the late 70s and early 80s, developed an incredible closeness. Over a long and intense period of time we got to know each other so well that if a member of my team thought he might be about to sneeze another would pass him a tissue and say, “God Bless!” before it happened.
Our team was close, like the old melodramatic adventure story The Corsican Brothers that was made into a movie starring Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. The story revolves around a set of twins who were separated at birth; one raised a nobleman and the other a pauper. Even though they didn’t know of each other existence they were bound by a force so strong that when one was hurt the other felt the pain.
As much as we both might hate to admit it, Dave Colt and I became much like the Corsican Brothers. Witness this event. One day on the 200-yard line at the Reading Rifle Club Colt and I were scoring a rapid-fire stage. Dave was to be up first at 300 and was in such a hurry to get back that he had already packed up his gear. He forgot that he would have to read a blackboard 200 yards away and stood there without a scope. When the targets rose from the pit I scored my shooter. My responsibilities complete I was beginning to gather my gear together for the move back when Dave, a few points away, called over asking me to read him his shooter’s score.
Never in too much of a hurry to help a teammate I stopped my packing and scoped the target for him. Cupping my hands into a megaphone I cried out to the waiting Colt, “Hey, Dave! Print your name four times…three bats and balls…two balloons on a string…and a snowman. As I finished the message and began screwing the covers on my scope Dave, without a hesitation, or a glance in my direction, was filling in the scorecard blocks with four Xs, three tens, two nines, and an eight. He hurriedly scribbled his name on the scorer’s line and thrust the card into the astonished shooter’s proffered hand for his signature. As the range officials and hangers on gaped in amazement he snatched up his gear and quickly left. That, my friends, is teamwork.
