We’d all had our turn with the Mauser and we’d all sucked. Granted it was a rifle made at the height of World War II and we were trying to hit a fairly small target 100 yards away on a downhill slope. But all excuses aside, we were clearly overmatched. All three of us that had picked up the weapon and failed were fairly practiced with firearms, we just couldn’t make this particular one work.

After struggling with the German instrument, my attention had turned to one of the other guns we’d brought with us to this muddy, unmonitored rifle range a couple of dozen miles away from Pinehurst, North Carolina. A mid-winter sun with decent strength had chased away most of the morning’s chill and we’d committed to rifles and shotguns as the day’s main event. With me, was my son, my nephew, Liam, he’s at the State Department currently stationed in Ankara and his brother, Rowan, a Captain in the Army with several hundred “jumps” under his belt.

While I was contemplating loading the M-14, I felt Rowan shouldering the Mauser for his own attempt to get a few shots “on paper.” I say, “felt” because that’s exactly what it was. What I experienced was the kind of feeling that something wild was about to happen, like the band was just about to walk on stage. In the martial arts, this nephew was a Rock Star. Looking up from behind Rowan, I could see the target over his head as he fired off the first shot, high and to the left, a volcanic eruption of dirt spoke to the bullet’s misplaced velocity. But, where the rest of us had slowly worked the bolt action of the rifle and patiently lined up the target between shots, Rowan compressed the same steps into about a fifth of the time we took. His second shot hit the upper left corner of the target, impressed with his adjustment, I could feel my body come alive like a 120 Volt current was passing through. This felt special. The third shot got off even quicker than the second, it was left a few inches of the bull’s eye. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of what I was witnessing: a trained killer in action.

In my mind’s eye, it wasn’t a target that was down range, not some plastic feeling piece of paper with black rings and a red center, it was an enemy that was not hard to imagine claustrophobically struggling to escape the inevitable result of coming up against a superior enemy. Rowan placed the last two bullets of his clip dead center. All five shots had taken less time than I’d used to pull the trigger twice. It was one of the most impressive and chilling examples of EXPERTISE that I’d seen in some time. The rest of us are “okay” with guns, Rowan is a master. Though he is my nephew and I remember changing his diaper, the man now standing before me with an 80 year old rifle in his hands was a very elite warrior, prepared for the gravest conflict. 

If I’m being honest, he presented as a superior man in this very animal context. In a survival of the fittest, there was no doubt he owned the title among us. His easy smile made him seem preposterously distant from the man pulling the trigger.

Military preparedness is a concept that’s easy to bandy about for this student of history. With real devotion I’ve read about armies, soldiers, battles and wars for half a century. I can’t get enough of war movies. Kelly’s Heroes, A Bridget Too Far and Patton can be quoted pretty much line for line. But I’d never experienced anything like watching Rowan shoot that Mauser. He wasn’t doing it for fun, to show up me and his brother or his cousin. He was using that gun as he’d been trained to, to stop an enemy. In Army parlance, Rowan is Special. Of this, I have no hesitation.

I hope there’s just one thing in life I can do to match that kind of expertise. At 59, I’m not sure if I do. With a few years left, I better get cracking.