PART 5
One afternoon, Corporal James Weston sat outside my tent cleaning his M110 sniper rifle like it was a newborn child.
Weston was Echo Company’s designated marksman.
That meant he had the confidence of a Wall Street banker and the grooming habits of a raccoon.
“This beauty,” he told two younger Marines, tapping the rifle, “is the difference between civilization and bad guys having a very permanent misunderstanding.”
I walked past carrying a tray of surgical instruments.
“You mounted that optic wrong.”
Weston stopped talking.
That alone should have earned me a medal.
“What?”
I kept walking.
“You’re over-tightening the rings. You’re binding the tube. Back off a quarter turn before you blame the rifle for your ego.”
The Marines went quiet.
May you like
Weston looked at Miller.
Miller looked at me.
