Naming My Rifle

Twenty-one days down. Seventy-nine to go. Memory 22/100:

We stood in lines, ranks to be exact. I squeezed my rifle tightly as sweat loosened my grip. I felt it slipping.

“Quit moving!” His face contorted with angry eyebrows, and his breath revealed the breakfast burrito he had an hour earlier. I can’t say it smelled as good as it must have tasted.

“Sir, aye aye, sir!” I made sure to sound off extra loud.

The decision came upon me: let the rifle fall, or move to correct it. I chose to adjust my grip. The detailer had a clear view as I pulled my arm back to alleviate the rifle’s weight on my wrist, allowing for a new, firm grip.

“I just told you NOT to move!” He began to impart his opinion on my choice, and I had the opportunity to sniff his burrito-breath once more.

After he moved on from me, the other detailers announced that we would name our rifles. They instructed us to name them as if they were our girlfriends (or boyfriends for the girls.) Each in turn, we announced the names, “Sir, my rifle’s name is Jamie, sir!” or “Sir, my rifle’s name is Megan, sir!”

One notable rifle name came from Rene. He proudly exclaimed, “Sir, my rifle’s name is Shelly, sir!” It would seem an innocent name, had our squad leader not been Mr. Shelly.

I knew I had to come up with something original. That was my Plebe Summer technique: be weird, and they’ll leave you alone. I first thought of the girl in the comic, Bloom County, Lola Granola. I didn’t think anyone would get the joke, so I figured I had to drop it a level. My mind raced as the detailers moved down the line toward me.

I had nothing, but time, tide, and formation wait for no one. It was show time.

“What about your rifle?”

I took a deep breath and yelled as loud as possible with crazy eyes, “SIR, MY RIFLE’S NAME IS RIFLE, SIR!!!”