The small bore rifle range, built in the basement of the ROTC wing at Houston high School, was quiet except for the rustle of shooting mats being adjusted to exactly the right angle on the cold, concrete floor. It was dark, except for dim reflections from the flaring lights illuminating the targets fifty or so feet away. 

    Deacon was one of five shooters in this relay. He was not called Deacon in high school. Here, he was Ceded Major Callahan in his ROTC classes, Bob Callahan in his other classes, and Bobby Callahan at home. Later, when he joined the First Marine Division in Korea, he would be christened “Deacon” because of his Baptist church ties and his strong religious beliefs. 

    On this bright, sunny day in early May of 1950, only two things occupied Deacon’s thoughts: winning this rifle match, and high school graduation, which was just three weeks away. But the more immediate concern was the rifle match, and Deacon had to get ready for it. 

    When he was finally satisfied with his mat’s position, he picked up his Remington 513T target rifle, being very careful to keep the muzzle pointed at the targets even though the bolt was open and the chamber was empty. ‘No one was ever killed by a shot from an empty rifle,’ Sgt. Smith, the rifle team coach often said, ‘but a hell of a lot of people have been shot by rifles that people thought were empty.’

    Deacon, oblivious to the other four shooters in his relay, prepared for the match in an almost ritualistic manner. He adjusted the rifle sling so that when he put the rifle butt into his shoulder, it would help hold the rifle tightly in place so that he and the rifle could form a solid, immovable unit. 

    He stood at the back of his shooting mat, grasped the butt of his rifle in his right hand, dropped to his knees, and in one smooth motion, fell forward, broke his fall with the butt of his rifle, quickly rotating his left elbow under it, slipped the rifle butt onto his right shoulder, and rested his cheek on the stock just behind the precision Redfield match sight. He smiled as he looked through the slight and could see that he was almost perfectly aligned with his target. Only a slight movement of his body was needed to put him in perfect position. He lowered his rifle butt to the mat and rested, being careful not to move his left elbow or the rest of his body. 

    It would probably be another minute or two before the match started. By now his eyes were accustomed to the dimmer light of the range. Deacon looked to his right and found Hollywood, who was already ready and resting. Hollywood’s real name was Harry Iver’s, but he got the name Hollywood in Korea because of his aviator sunglasses, the way he tilted his hat back on his head, and that flashy oval ring with the tiny diamonds on the sides.

    Hollywood returned Deacon’s look and flashed a slightly nervous smile, acknowledging that this was the ‘big one.’ If they won this match, they were the state small bore rifle champions. If they lost, it would be a wasted season, because second is not first. 

    The ranger officer looked up and down the line. Seeing that all five shooters were pretty much settled down, he called, “Are you ready?” One man raised his hand, signaling that he was not quite ready. “Get ready,” the range officer commanded. Deacon smiled. This was a common ploy used by the other team. By saying he was not ready, he tried to make the Houston shooter’s more nervous by a longer wait. 

    After another minute, the ranger officer again called, “Are you ready>” This time there were no raised hands. “Coaches, you man use your first five rounds,” he said. 

    Sgt. Smith, a wire Army Master Sergeant who was an ROTC instructor at Houston High and the rifle team coach, stepped forward and placed a bullet block containing five rounds of .22 cal. Match grade ammunition in front of Deacon, Hollywood, and the jewish kid, the three Houston team members in the first relay. As he did so, he grasped each man’s shoulder and whispered, “Good luck.” Then he would step back to his spotting telescope where he would keep track of rounds fired and would give sight adjustment instructions to the shooters as the match progressed. 

    When the range officer saw that the ammunition had been distributed, he commanded, “Lock and load.” Deacon put his rifles safety catch in the locked position, removed a single round from the bullet block, inserted it in the chamber and closed the rifle bolt. His heart began to pound as he looked toward the targets. 

    “Unlock!” The range officer commanded. Deacon put his safety catch into the firing position, carefully keeping his finger away from the trigger until he was ready to fire his first round.

    “You have five minutes for five rounds,” the range officer said. “All ready on the firing line! You may commence firing.” From this point on, nothing would be heart except the staccato sound of each bullet as it was fired from a rifle. 

    Deacon sighted in on the first of the five half-dollar sized black targets on his target sheet. If he did everything just right, each shot would cut into the tiny bulls eye, smaller than the diameter of a .22 bullet, at the center of each target. A bulls eye scored ten points, and each successive ring surrounding it scored one point less. The outermost ring scored five points. Anything outside that was a miss. 

    In practice, Deacon could easily hit the bulls eye twenty times in a row in the prone position. But in practice, his heart was not pounding and causing the muzzle of the rifle to bounce up and down with each heartbeat. Deacon took a long, deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Be still,” he said to himself. As if on command, his heartbeat slowed and steadied until the rifle muzzle came under control. 

    Finally, Deacon heart the crack of the first round fired by one of the other shooters. That was what he was waiting for. He never wanted to fire the first round. Two more rounds followed quickly, including one from Hollywood. Deacon flinched slightly at the first round, but not at those which followed. Now he could shoot undisturbed. 

    He carefully put his eye directly behind the rear peep sight, centered the circular forward sight in the rear sight, and centered the first of his five targets in the forward sight. When they were lined up to his satisfaction, he held his breath, squeezed the trigger almost to the point of firing, made a final slight adjustment, and applied the last little bit of pressure that fired the round. Novice shooters are told that they should squeeze the trigger so that they do not know when the round will fire. That way, they are less likely to “buck” or flinch when it fires. Good shooters know exactly when the round will fire, but they do not buck or flinch. 

    Deacon finished his five rounds quickly, as was his habit. He took a minute or more to fire the first round, but the next four took less than two minutes. He lowered his rifle butt to the mat, and rolled onto his left side so that he could see Sgt. Smith. Sgt. Smith, with his big grin on his face, gave Deacon a thumbs-up sign, indicating that all five of Deacon’s shots shored perfect tens. Deacon returned the smile, although the score was not really unexpected. 

    But that was the prone position — the easiest of the four firing positions used in an official small-bore match. His next five rounds would be from the sitting position, which was usually a pretty good position for him. He would probably score forty-eight or forty-nine points, but so would the top shooter on the Dallas team. 

    Kneeling would follow sitting, and Deacon knew that the scores would go down. In the prone and sitting positions, both of the shooter’s elbows rest on something — on the mat in the prone position, and on the shooter’s legs in the sitting position. But in the kneeling position, there is nothing on which to rest the right elbow. The good shooters put it high in the air, pulling back on the rifle stock to hold the rifle butt tighter in the shoulder. 

    Deacon knew that he could not hold the rifle steady with the tiny black target centered in the front sight like he could in the first two positions. To compensate, he would have to squeeze the trigger when the target was lined up and not squeeze it when it was not lined up. This demanded a particularly steady hand and nerves — much like a golfer lining up a crucial putt. Deacon would be satisfied with a score of 46 or 47.

    The final position, standing or offhand, was the toughest of the lot. In this position, both elbows are unsupported, so the rifles heavy barrel is supported only by an unsupported left arm. If a shooter is not in good physical shape, that left arm starts to tremble almost immediately, and the muzzle bounces all over the target. Keeping the last two or three shots anywhere in the black scarring rings can demand an almost superhuman effort. Any score over forty was usually considered good, but that would not be good enough in today’s match, Deacon thought. 

    The sitting position went smoothly, with all five shooters getting their rounds off within the regulation time. This time, when Deacon looked at Sgt. Smith, the sergeant shrugged and help up one finger, indicating that Deacon had dropped one point. Pretty much on schedule, Deacon thought. With 99 of a possible 100 points, he was in good shape halfway through the match. 

    Deacon fired his fifth round in the kneeling position, rested his rifle on his knee, and looked at the other shooters’ targets. Without a spotting scope, he could not see hits in the black scoring rings of the targets, but he could see those outside of the black. Those indicated a miss, or at best, a score of five, the lowest scoring ring. 

    Deacon saw that one of the Dallas shooters had a shot clearly out of the black. Ten points down, Deacon thought. Then he heard a whispered but emphatic “Shit!” From Hollywood. A look at Hollywood’s target revealed a hole just out of the lack on the third target. He could not be sure, but Deacon thought it probably scored a five. 

    “Hang in there,” he whispered to Hollywood. “Get the next two in.”

    The range officer, who was quietly walking up and down behind the shooters, stopped behind Deacon. “No talking on the line,” he whispered. Deacon mouthed a “Yes, Sir,” and looked down range.

    Deacon looked at Sgt. Smith, who was intently staring at the targets through the spotting scope. Gradually the sound of the rifle fire diminished as the shooters fired the final rounds. Finally the range officer said, “Cease fire! Cease fire! Open your bolts and unload your rifles. Prepare for the offhand position.”

    Deacon got to his feet and removed the sling from his arm. As he readjusted it for the dreaded offhand position, he looked over at Hollywood. 

    “How Do you think you’re doing?” He asked. 

    “One fuckin’ miss!” Hollywood replied. “That could blow the whole damn match!”

    “I think you caught the five ring,” Deacon whispered, reassuringly. “It didn’t look all the way out.”

    “Fat chance, with my luck,” Hollywood said. Deacon smiled. He knew that Hollywood always looked at the worst possibly side of things, then was pleasantly surprised when things turned out better than he expected. Deacon, on the other hand, was the optimist. He expected the best, and his expectations were rewarded often enough to maintain his level of optimism. The occasional set-backs were just God’s way of keeping him from getting too cocky. 

    “Are you ready?” the range officer called. When there were no raised hands, he proceeded with the command sequence that was virtually a ritual on every rifle range. The ammunition was issued, rifles were loaded, and the shooters were ready. 

    Finally he called, “All ready on the firing line! You may commence firing!”

    Deacon took a deep breath to slow his pounding hard beat. This was the last five rounds that he would fire as a member of his high school rifle team. This was the biggest match of his career. This was the first time that he had ever gone fr a state championship in any sport. And his heart knew it. It would not stop pounding. 

    He tried to bring the first target into his sights, but the muzzle of his rifle was bouncing around too much. He lowered the rifle and took another deep breath. “Calm down, dammit!” He said to himself, then through sheer force of will, he slowed his heartbeat and calmed his nerves. Later in life, he would use this same power to calm himself in other critical situations, and people would interpret his calm demeanor as a lack of concern. 

    Again, he raised the rifle and sighted in on the first target. Other shooters had started firing, but Deacon did not hear them. This time, he was able to slow the movement of the muzzle until he could bring the target into alignment. He started squeezing the trigger until he knew that just another slight pressure would cause the round to fire. One final swing of the muzzle… and… now. He squeeze of the round. Did I flinch? Where is it? 

    He lowered the muzzle and stared at the target. No holes out of the black that he could see. He looked back at Sgt. Smith who had a big grin on his face and gave Deacon the thumbs up sign. Must be near the center, Deacon thought. Only four more to go. 

    The next three shots were easier. Although he thought that one of them was not too good, he could not see anything out of the black. That meant that it probably scored at least a seven or eight. 

    He took his time with the last shot. He wanted to Mae it good. A couple of deep breaths. Calm the nerves. Slowly raise the rifle… Slowly… Final adjustment… Now squeeze it off… 

    And it was all over. He let out a big sign and looked at Sgt. Smith again. This time the grin on his face was even bigger, and he held up four fingers, then seven. 47! In offhand! That meant two bulls eyes and three nines. Or three bulls eyes, an eight, and a nine. Or four bulls eyes and a seven. No matter what, it was one of the best offhand scores that he had ever fired in a competition! 

    He looked at Hollywood’s target. No holes out of the black, and Hollywood had also finished. This time Hollywood was smiling a little, so he must have done all right too. 

    Soon all shooters were finished, and the range officer called, “Cease fire! Cease fire! Open your bolts, unload your weapons, and step back from the line.” Even though Deacon’s bolt was already open and he knew the rifle was not loaded, he looked at the chamber out of force of habit. He and Hollywood carefully kept their unloaded rifles pointed up until they were safely stored in their racks. They removed shooting jackets and gloves, retrieved a football from Hollywood’s bag, and went outside into the sunshine. 

    They would not know the results of the match until the next relay was finished, when scores would be totaled and they would know the identity of the new state champion. Until then, Deacon and Hollywood would work off their pent-up energy by passing the ball. So they opened the door of the ROTC armory and stepped out into the bright Texas sunshine. Taking the steps two at a time, they quickly arrived at the top of the short flight of steps that put the at ground level and just fifty feet from the school’s athletic field with its quarter-mile track and football field. 

    Marty Silverstein, the Jewish kid, was right behind them when they reached the top of the stairs. There, they met their other two team members, Tony Porter and Don Braddock, who would fire in the second relay along with the final three members of the Dallas team.

    “Did you give us any chance at all?” Don asked them. 

    “I probably managed a 160 or 170,” Deacon said somberly. 

    “Be serious,” Tony said. “You haven’t shot that low since you were a sophomore.”

    Deacon’s face broke into a wide smile, and he said “I’m not sure, but I think I got a 192 or 193!”

    “Way to go!” Don said. “How about you, Hollywood?”

    “One fuckin’ miss,” Hollywood said. “Be lucky to break 100.”

    “It was probably a five,” Deacon corrected. “He did okay.”

    “I think I got a 184,” Marty chimed in.

    “Good going, Marty,” Tony said. With that, Don and Tony descended the stairs to the rifle range.     

    “Sounds like you three did alright.,” a voice said from behind them. They turned to see Lt. Wilson, a recruiting officer from the Houston Marine Corps Reserver Unit. Upon seeing him, all three stood, not quite at attention, but not in a high school slouch, either. Instinctively, they showed respect for a regular military officer. Cant. Bryant, the chief ROTC instructor at the school had taught them that. 

    “Well, I don’t know for sure,” Deacon said, “But I think we have a good chance to win it.”

    “Yeah,” Marty said, “We didn’t have any misses, and they had at least one.”

    “Don’t forget that one of mine,” Hollywood said bitterly.

    “It wasn’t a miss! It was a five,” Deacon said, showing a little impatience with his good friend. Lt. Wilson smiled. He had heard it all before, but he would put up with it again because he needed two more recruits to make his quota for the month. 

    “This is your last match, isn’t it?” He asked. Deacon and Hollywood acknowledged that it was. The jewish kid was a junior, so he had another year to go. 

    “You are both excellent marksmen. Wouldn’t you like to keep shooting on an organized team?” Lt. Wilson asked. Again, both agreed that they would. “You know, the Marine Reserve unit has a team that fires matches against other teams across the U.S. And we could use two expert shots like yourselves. That way you could keep up your competitive shooting, and make some extra money at the same time. Interested?”

    On a Saturday morning two weeks later, Deacon and Hollywood took their written tests and physical examinations and were sworn in. That afternoon, they fired their first match with the Marine Reserve rifle team. They did not know it at the time, but it was also their last.