Wait, which one is my rifle again?

Ah, I remember those late nights behind the barracks, cleaning the rifle. I used to go out there so as not to disturb my fellow recruits’ sleep. Unmolested rest was precious in those days. The drill sergeants were hard on us—more hard on us than anyone’s been hard on me since, that’s for sure. I remember they called us “fresh meat” when we arrived. Well, by the time we were in our bunks on the first night, we were beat meat.

I recall that during the first week one kid got jerked off the obstacle course, apparently because he hadn’t polished his helmet the night before. He got sassy, slapped the sergeant, and just like that he was in the stockade, looking at a very messy discharge.

That made an impression on me. I could tell then that if I wanted to make it, I was going to have to take my destiny in my own hands.

I wish I’d had one of these Forever Flashlights back then! How much easier would it have been to clean the ol’ rifle if I could have seen what I was doing? I wouldn’t have had to worry about batteries, either, just given the thing a shake.

Ah, what does it matter now? Those days are long past. I could probably still perform a complete rifle-cleaning in the dark, though. Some things you never forget. Like my military days. That whole chapter of my life was seminal.

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