I Am the Bullet - Training
and Tactics
I am the bullet—and I have no
conscience.
You will treat me with respect
because, once I leave, you have no control over my actions. Once I’m gone, I
will do as I please, governed only by the laws of physics. And the next time
you see me, I will have done my work, bringing on your life a potential gamut
of emotions ranging from pleasure, satisfaction and exhilaration to anger,
pain, grief and regret.
Use me wisely and with discretion,
for I can snuff out the flame of a king’s life as easily as I can bring delight
to a ten-year-old’s face by recording for posterity a first bullseye on a
humble paper target.
It took the fire of a crucible to
conceive me, but now I’m no longer molten metal—and therein lies the
deceptiveness of my power. When I was cast in the mold of hot lead, you knew I
was dangerous, but now you underestimate me as I lie in the womb of the
cartridge case, a solidified metal teardrop the size of your fingernail.
Beware, for the day I’m born I will go from womb to tomb in a fraction of a
second. For me there will be no childhood, no puberty, no adulthood—just a
nano-second of flight before I find my terminal resting place.
You must be mother, father, teacher,
and priest, because you will guide me on my short life’s path. I am but an
emotionless inanimate object with no conscience. Once the hot gases of
propulsion give birth to my destination, they will also signal my death knell.
Instant birth to instant rest, with but a momentary tick of the clock to bring
pleasure or pain.
The responsibility for my actions
rests squarely on your shoulders. You conceived me, you entombed me in a
cartridge case with my brother primer and sister gunpowder, slaves to your
bidding.
If you didn’t cast, size, lube and
load me yourself, you bought me just like you bought Mister Gump’s box of
chocolates. But unlike the box of chocolates, with me you know what you’re
going to get. I am the corked bottle encasing a quiescent genie. Once the genie
is free, you know exactly what potential can be unleashed—but you had better
choose your three wishes wisely.
The acquisition of firearms and
ammunition is sequential, one way or the other. Rarely does one initially have
a vast supply of ammo of a specific caliber and subsequently acquire a firearm
to use or expend this supply. While people often buy a secondary or tertiary
weapon for this reason, usually one purchases the gun, cleaning equipment,
accessories, and a storage unit—be it a case, bag or gun safe—before any
thought is given to what ammunition is going to be obtained and used in the
weapon.
And after spending a king’s ransom
on all this equipment, you head for the local gun emporium and spend a pittance
on a case of the cheapest garbage military surplus ammo you can find.
Then when you miss, you blame it on
me. When you accidentally discharge a firearm because you neglected to extract
me from the chamber, you blame it on me. When I plow my way through bone and
muscle, and fail to incapacitate a madman, you blame it on me. But when you
achieve the result you wanted, then it’s because of your masterful ability, and
I’m forgotten—used, expended, and spent.
Such is my lot—Man’s ingratitude and
lack of respect for the humble bullet. Because you paid for the ammunition, I
become your possession. But you don’t own me—I own your soul. I will make you
or break you in my short lifespan.
The slightest marksmanship error on
your part and I will embarrass you in front of your peers. The slightest lapse
in concentration while manipulating a firearm and I will take an innocent life.
I will ricochet off a windshield, belt buckle, or baseball cap bill when you’ve
been told I should have penetrated the material—and I will just as easily over-penetrate
an apartment wall and snuff out the future of a defenseless child.
Doctor Mann spent a lifetime trying
to find out why I didn’t always perform as external ballistics would demand I
do—and he went to his grave with my secret intact. But you insist on imbibing
alcohol and firing bullets into the air in a puerile Yuletide celebration,
understanding nothing of the physics of my flight path—or my power to change
your life forever.
You spend endless hours discussing
the merits and demerits of my size and velocity, but when all is said and done,
it really doesn’t mean anything. The truth of the matter is that, once I depart
your gun muzzle, you no longer have control over me—and I, too, no longer have
control over my own destiny.
The next time you see a humble
unfired bullet, remember that without me your gun is as useless as fingers on a
rooster. And once loaded, I can be as dangerous as a drunk in rush hour
traffic. Once my power is unleashed, there can be only two results—delight and
satisfaction, or disaster and horror. And this will reach fruition in the blink
of an eye, for I have no childhood, no puberty, no adulthood.
Treat me with respect, for I am the
bullet—and I have no conscience.
This first appeared ten years ago in the December 2004 issue, demonstrating
that Louis Awerbuck’s articles are timeless.
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