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by Hap Rocketto

There are several never ending debates in the shooting world. The first is the .45 ACP verses Nine Millimeter for self defense argument. This is probably the hoariest of all. In itself it may be responsible for the deforestation of thousands of hectares of Brazilian rainforest to harvest the pulp wood necessary to provide the innumerable reams of paper used to rehash this controversy.

Basically the two camps divide along these lines, bigger is better is the claim of the .45 camp whose main voice is the late Jeff Cooper. The nine mil folks say the more the merrier because a 9mm pistol usually caries 14 rounds to a 1911s seven. According to Dave Barry, the only reason that the metric system has any hope of catching in the United States is the increasing popularity of the nine-millimeter bullet.

Another discussion centers about what is the best home defense weapon, a pistol, a rifle, or a shotgun. The pistol is convenient to store in your bed stand but takes a lot of practice to use effectively. The rifle is easy to use but cumbersome and had far too much penetrating power making occupants in adjacent rooms, or even houses, just a vulnerable to damage as an intruder. The last is a shotgun, my personal favorite. Nothing says stop, turn around, and leave my home like the no nonsense sound a 12 gauge shell being chambered.

A third is a two part question that swirls around earning Distinguished Rifleman designation. The first has to do with the seemingly increasing ease by which service rifle Distinguished is earned and the second is a comparison of service rifle and smallbore Distinguished.

I take a stand here because I am an old curmudgeon who began hunting service rifle Distinguished with an M1 on the 5V target. In those days shooting pants and mats were not allowed, the aiming black was smaller, the rapid fire time limits were 50 and 60 seconds, you had to load from the body, carried your gear in a shooting stool, and all of the rifles used 30 caliber ammunition issued on the line. Shooters chasing Distinguished now have it much easier, a situation which is richly evident by the fact that there are a host of youth of both genders who wear a Distinguished badge but are still months away from even qualifying for a driving license learner’s permit.

Because I came of age in the “Wooden Rifle and Iron Men” era I enjoy the right to lord over the 22 caliber Distinguished shooters. I do so because when I was coming up I had to suffer the withering sarcasm of the Distinguished shooters who earned the Badge with the Springfield ’03 and shot a 1,000 yard stage to boot! They laughed at our 10 karat Distinguished Badges because theirs were 12 karat, with an occasional 14k Badge, and said we had it easy because our rifles loaded by themselves.

I am sure the present crop of Distinguished, who use a small light rifle with little recoil, will beat up the next generation because they will be using hovercraft instead of the old tried and true range carts, won’t have to worry about wind, reloading, and recoil because of the new laser service rifles, and will not have any sense of the camaraderie found in the pits because of the universal use of electronic targets. They will brag about their four digit serial numbered gold filled Badges and scoff at the sprayed plastic six digit Badges the youngsters hope to earn.

There is another realm of Distinguished and that is smallbore. The National Rifle Association awards Distinguished status for shooting position and prone. The rules for getting this award are simple. You need to end up in the top ten percent of all competitors, Distinguished or non-Distinguished to earn a step. You need four steps and one must be at the Nationals. The discussion is which is ‘harder’ to get, service rifle or smallbore.

As a rule service rifle shooters look down upon the smallbore award which I find interesting as nowadays their rifles are also smallbore. Having earned both Badges, it is my experience that smallbore is harder to get because you are always shooting against Distinguished competitors to break into the top ten percent, not just non-Distinguished, as in service rifle.

Personally the toughest of the three is Distinguished prone because prone shooters are like wine-they getter better with age, prone Distinguished shooters never miss Perry, and, because they never seem to die, they just keep on showing up at the Nationals. Ergo, the Distinguished ranks never diminish but rather the population increases.

We are all mortal and I am pretty sure that even real old prone shooters eventually die when they get to ages of a Biblical proportion. However, I am convinced that their relatives keep bringing the mummified remains to Perry and plop them on the firing line where they still seem to come out on top, keeping me from earning my final prone leg. The heirs and assignees get away with it because, given the nature of prone shooting, it is often difficult to tell whether a prone shooter is alive or dead until it is time to change targets or rush to the challenge window.

What is harder? What is easier? The answer is succinctly summed up in the words of an old Infantry master sergeant who was asked his opinion of a discussion over an obscure philosophical point that occupied two fresh from college second lieutenants. One of the shave tails turned to the 30 year veteran of three wars, who left school in tenth grade to fight the Axis, and asked if the metaphysical argument or the teleological argument was most appropriate to the discussion. Shifting his quid he squinted and opined laconically, “Well, El Tee, I don’t rightly know but I suspect it all depends if you be on the outside lookin’ in or the inside lookin’ out.”

by Hap Rocketto

One of the great weights that have been lifted from my shoulders since I retired from the National Guard and left the All Guard Shooting program is the need for excuses. It seemed you always had to have a good reason, read that excuse, in hand, to cover a poor score or performance. The competition at the top is always tough and if things go wrong sometimes you cannot blame yourself or you will loose too much confidence. Therefore, it is amazing how many barrels go bad, triggers get gummy, and bad rounds turn up when you are having trouble. All of your friends nod wisely in agreement, tell you it was a tough break, and then salt the excuse away to use if the occasion arises for them. Since I am now paying my own expenses, I don’t have to answer to anyone but myself. I am a hard enough critic anyway and I can’t fool myself.

Christy Mathewson, one of the greatest baseball players ever, once said that, “You must have an alibi to show whey you didn’t win. If you haven’t one you must fake one. Your self-confidence must never be undermined. Always have an alibi, but keep it where it belongs-to yourself.” This is good advice

The need for a good excuse usually keeps the gunsmiths pretty busy on the armorers’ vans that support the major military teams. If something is not going right, the usual solution is to “take it to the van.” Self-confidence must always be maintained, even if means having perfectly good equipment examined.

Civilian shooters know that tax dollars support these moving machine shops, and therefore believe that they should also have access to them. It is part of the traditional relationship between military shooters and civilians. Civilians pay the taxes and in return, the military leaves its brass. I guess gunsmiths think the same way because I have never heard of a civilian with a problem being turned away from a van. Maybe they can’t help because “we don’t set up our guns this way”, but they always try. Many are the six packs of beer dropped off at a van as a thank you when an apron-garbed military gunsmith successfully solved a civilian’s rifle problem.

The military teams also runs clinics as part of this symbiotic relationship. Once, at a Marine Corps Highpower clinic the instructor was discussing the effects of wind on the bullet at long range. After going over wind values and the method to determine the wind’s value he gave a hypothetical wind condition and had the students determine the windage they would put on the rifle. He then said they had released the shot and when it was disked the spotter was a nine o’clock nine. He then asked, “You’re a High Master on the Marine Team. Your first shot at 600 yards is not the X you called. You know you doped the wind correctly and broke the shot perfectly. What would you do next?” He was waiting for one of the obvious answers such as checking to make sure the condition did not change or to insure that you had clicked on the correct windage.

An eager hand popped up in back and the Marine acknowledged the shooter and asked for his solution.

“Gunnery Sergeant.” replied the self-confidence and well-informed shooter. “ If I were a High Master on the Marine team and I shot a nine that I knew should be an X the first thing I would do would be to take my rifle to the van.”

by Hap Rocketto

When I was a young cub chasing Distinguished there were many of my fellow shooters who looked upon my quest as a life misspent. One who would give me an occasional good natured jab about the barbaric nature of the life of a high power competitor was my friend Jay Sonneborn. Jay and I go back a long way and we even traveled to Camp Perry to shoot smallbore one year. Jay, a bit older and more experienced, took a good part of the 12-hour drive trying to get me to see the error of my ways. Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show had nothing on Brother Jay’s preaching to the pagan on Interstate 80 West. As it turned out all was for naught as Jay went his way and I went mine.

Twenty-five years later the both of us had met most of our shooting goals. Jay had become Distinguished with the smallbore rifle in both prone and position, been on several Dewar Teams-including coveted appointments as both Coach and Captain of that prestigious team, won the 2001 NRA Intermediate Senior Three Position Smallbore Rifle Championship, and retired after a long and successful career as a banker. On the other hand I had become Distinguished with the service rifle, the smallbore rifle in position, been a line coach on several Dewar Teams, won the 2002 NRA Intermediate Senior Three Position Smallbore Rifle Championship, and retired after a long and successful career as a teacher. I am seeking my final leg on prone Distinguished, the all important Perry leg and Jay is looking for his first service rifle leg. We had both come 180 degrees.

I confess to a little surprise at Jay’s hunt for Distinguished. However, it made sense for him to do so as he was a smallbore shooter who had nothing more to prove to himself in that game and was seeking a new challenge. Much to my astonishment he came to me for advice. Little did Jay know that my minor successes in shooting, greatly magnified in my retelling, came in spite of myself. For some reason I am viewed as some sort of Grand Panjandrum of shooting when in reality I am more like the Great Oz, a magnificent façade hiding a less than imposing reality.

He wanted to know how to deal with 300-yard rapid fire. Knowing that Jay had the best of equipment and hand loaded his ammunition with the precision of a bench rest shooter the answer had to have him focus on the few remaining aspects of the position and its mechanics. I first reminded him that 300 yards is shot prone and was rewarded with a well-deserved tart look saying, “What do you take me for, a fool?” Jay is no fool, and I know that, but the first step to solve the problem is it to put the 300-yard stage in perspective. Jay knows prone.

“The National Match Course is 60% prone and you are an excellent belly shooter” I reminded him. “Your knowledge of the position and wind doping is extensive. For 300 rapid prone you need a high tight sling to keep your position from breaking up through the magazine change, to maintain your natural point of aim, and to negate the effects of recoil.”

“A regular cadence, with a short “dog pant” breath taken between each shot, will insure that each shot is executed in a consistent manner. Additionally the regular breathing will insure that you have sufficient air in your lungs to keep your vision clear and your nerves calm.” All of this is important, I reminded him, but it is mechanical and should become second nature through correct training.

“The most important thing in rapid fire, in my humble opinion,” I pontificated, “is how you deal with the sights. With good position sight alignment becomes automatic. Once eye, rear sight, and front sight are in line the next issue is sight picture and it is possibly the most important thing in rapid. Once you establish either a “Navy” hold, favored by shooting legend Gunner D.I. Boyd, or a pumpkin on the fence post picture, you must concentrate on keeping the post in focus.”

“Your eye cannot focus on two points simultaneously. If you switch focus back and forth you have introduced inconsistency into your sight picture, and inconsistency is the kiss of death in shooting. If you keep the post in focus you go a long way to insuring that your sight alignment will not change. It is OK to have the bull look like a blur, you still will shoot Xs and tens, but to loose sight alignment is disaster.”

“That all there is to it” I concluded. “Now what advice can you give me to be a success at shooting smallbore prone?” I asked, expecting just as elaborate and detailed directions down the road of success as I hade given him.

Jay, my favorite banker, cut right to the point, “Don’t shoot nines.”

by Hap Rocketto

My wife Margaret and I pried ourselves out of the vintage and uncomfortable seats that fill Ward High School’s overused, undersized, and outdated auditorium. We very much like the local productions and attend them with regularity and enthusiasm, despite the seating. Vowing that the next school building referendum would include funds to update the auditorium we stretched. We made our way to the parking lot discussing the Westerly Theater Group’s production of Learner and Loewe’s musical, Brigadoon, the first major hit of the legendary musical pair. It is an old favorite of mine, as I happen to like the Scottish Highland setting, the music, and the fact that the play opened the same year I was born, 1947.

The musical, based on a German story by Friedrich Gersäcker entitled Germelshausen, tells of two American tourists, Tommy Albright and Jeff Douglas, who stumble across an isolated village in the Highlands. Unknown to the pair the town is enchanted and appears only one day every hundred years. Albright falls in love with Fiona MacLaren, the lovely local lass for the play’s boy-gets-girl theme, while comic relief is provided by Jeff’s unsuccessful efforts to dodge the amorous advances of Meg Brockie, the milkmaid.

When we stopped at a local bistro for post play refreshment I couldn’t shake a feeling that there was something more familiar than there should be about the musical. As I toyed with the ball of vanilla ice cream bobbing in my root beer float with my spoon it slowly came to me.

The Brigadoon of my memory happened several years ago when Shawn Carpenter and Milt Beckwith, under the able guidance of Steve Rocketto, were chasing Distinguished. Milt had gotten a new rifle and Shawn, having recently gotten one of the many rifles he unintentionally destroyed back from the shop, needed to get some 600 yard zeros. Connecticut, the third smallest state in the Union, has a paucity of 600-yard ranges. However, Milt lives in a rural section of the state and his property is long and narrow.

Time was of the essence; there were only a few days left until the next Leg Match. Setting out with tape measure and high hopes the trio surveyed Milt’s property and found that they had a safe backstop and 600 clear yards, all within his property lines. No houses, other than Milt’s, were visible or in the danger zone. A couple of hacked up two by fours, some bent nails and hammered thumbs, and a clean target face later the newest 600 yard range popped up like a mushroom on the Beckwith homestead.

Steve repaired to the makeshift pit with a radio to report the location of the shots while Milt and Shawn set up on the firing line. After insuring that the area was clear Milt hammered 20 rounds down range and established a good zero. Next Shawn spread out his mat and set up. They were pretty much oblivious to the fact that in order to get the full 600 yard distance they had to set up on the verge of the road. When one is in the hunt for Distinguished they tend to get fixated on the goal and ignore the reality about them.

In this case the reality was that danger did not exist from flying bullets, they were too shooting safety conscious to allow for that to happen, but rather from passing cars. What they were doing was easily observed by motorists and they were so close to the road that if a startled or curious driver happened to swerve to the right the two shooters would be road kill. As you can see the quest for ‘The Golden Acorn” oft times has a deadening effect on common sense.

Shawn was finishing up his string with Milt hunched over the scope, intent on watching Shawn’s shots, much like Archimedes when the Romans took Syracuse and the centurion who took his life cast a shadow over his calculations. The crunching of tires and the metallic thump of a closing car door did not disturb him, however a shadow did. Milt glanced aside and his eye caught a pair of polished black boots that were sticking out of charcoal gray trouser legs decorated with blue and gold stripes. Looking up further he saw a black belt full of pouches topped by a light gray shirt, and a face whose eyes were shielded by sunglasses and crowned by a neatly blocked gray Stetson hat.

The Connecticut State Policeman politely identified himself. He mentioned that a neighbor had called about the sound of gunfire and he was investigating but, as no laws were being broken, there was no reason that they should stop. “Except for common sense public relations and the good name of gun owners” he said as an aside. “It seems you guys know what you are doing, and you have got real quality stuff,” he continued. There followed a few minutes of good gun talk with a fellow aficionado before he climbed back into his cruiser and drove off.

In less time than it takes to tell they had their gear packed, the target frame dismantled, and the brass they had scattered about policed up. A few minutes they were sitting in the shade on Milt’s front porch, overlooking the range, enjoying a glass of ice-cold lemonade and a plate of Mrs. Beckwith’s famous sugar cookies.

The range had disappeared as if it had never been there. Like Brigadoon it had emerged from the mists of time and to the mists of time it returned. Life does, indeed, imitate art.