By Tommy Guns

Finally, I came to that part of the story that is always the most difficult to tell to someone who has not been down that road themselves. I had been selected for advanced sniper training based solely on my performance during firearms training in Boot Camp. Being from New York, I had never fired a weapon before that first day, but I seemed to have an uncanny ability to put three rounds in a very tight grouping at 300 yards. My DI recognized my raw marksmanship skills immediately, and soon was lying down next to me on the range. He asked me how long I’d been shooting, and didn’t believe me when I replied that I had never fired a weapon before in my life.

My DI took the M14 rifle from me and made a couple of adjustments to the sight and windage setting, and gave it back to me. I zeroed in on the target down range and squeezed off three more rounds that went dead center and were so closely grouped that you could cover them with a quarter. This apparently impressed my DI to the point that he left me there to fire off the rest of my magazine. When I finished off, instead of returning to the rear area to clean my weapon, my DI instructed me to remain where I was. He had a new target placed on the frame, handed me a fresh magazine, and instructed me to take my time and fire off all 20 rounds in single shot.

I got all 20 rounds in or very near the center of the target. This was enough to convince him that I was a natural at it, and for the next three days I must have fired more than a 1,000 rounds at targets from different ranges, all with the same result. I knew that I had accomplished something that few boots ever get to do. I had impressed my DI. At the same time, my newfound skill on the range also gave me a confidence in myself I had been lacking, and I became a much better Marine for it. By the time we graduated, I had become first a squad leader, and later the Honor Man of my platoon.

After graduating from Boot Camp, Billy and I went on to ITR at Camp Lejeune, still in the same company, and got to spend more time with each other than we had before. The two weeks leave we had before reporting were spent in a hotel in Augusta, GA. We partied each night and made mad passionate love to each other, trying I guess to make up for the months we had spent in Boot Camp where we could barely manage a stolen moment together. We were bonded for life, but as with all such love stories, there comes a time of parting.

Billy and I were separated after ITR. I had been assigned to MCSC Quantico for sniper training, while Billy was off to the West Coast for further transfer to Nam. He had a few days leave, and went with me to Quantico, where we spent a few last days together before I had to report in, and Billy had to catch his plane to San Diego. It was the last I was to see of him for four long years.

After graduating from sniper school, it was off for Recon Training, followed by advanced sniper training, and a host of interviews, evaluations, medical tests, and still more training. For the next two years I was training in some of the worst, most desolate places on earth, honing my skills at camouflage, sniping, escape and evasion techniques, and God only knows what else they threw at me. I guess I made it through to the final cut, because in January 1967 I got TAD orders to Nam where I was to report to the Special Operations Group for the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam, also known by the acronym SOG, MAC-V. I flew into Ton Son Nhut airbase, landing at night, and disembarked from the aircraft to be met by a civilian in a Jeep who had my picture. He had me stow my gear in the back, and it was off to a secluded area of the base where we entered a well guarded, barb wired compound filled with Quonset huts. I was given a bedroll and led over to a hut with only a few beds inside, but had its own refrigerator that was stocked with all different brands of beer.

That first night I was alone in the hut, but despite drinking way too much beer, I couldn’t fall asleep right away. In the back of my head was this idea that I was finally in theater, and this was the real thing. No more training. No more paper targets or silhouettes. This was it. I guess I finally dozed off for awhile, because the next thing I knew my rack was being kicked by somebody who was saying, “Rise and shine boy. We got us a mission today.” I opened my eyes to see this wild eyed asshole at the foot of my rack. He was wearing camouflage utilities and a floppy hat, and had a bandolier of ammo across his shoulder and an M14 rifle with a scope in his arms. I finally got my feet on the floor, and asked this guy who the fuck he was. He introduced himself as, “Roy, just Roy, from Nashville.” I started to introduce myself, but he stopped me in mid sentence to tell me he didn’t give a shit who I was, and was only interested in whether or not I could cover his ass. I told him that I guess he’s find out one way or the other, and this seemed to please him. He said, “Well you ain’t like some of the other assholes they’ve sent here, thinking they knew everything and were the greatest thing since sliced bread. You might do after all.”

Roy and I left the hut and went over to the supply hut, where I was issued my own set of cammies, a floppy cover, a rifle with scope, and a few other odds and ends. I checked the action on the rifle and sighted in the scope on the far wall to check out the optics. This, too, seemed to please Roy, and he told me to hurry up and get changed because we had a chopper to catch to get us up country. A few minutes later we left and got in a Jeep and headed back to Ton Son Nhut. When we got there, we went to one of the far corners of the field where there was a chopper warming up. We got aboard and were airborne in a matter of minutes, flying low and fast up river for about thirty minutes. It finally set down in an open field, and no sooner had Roy and I disembarked than it was off again flying back South.

Roy had the map coordinates and the compass, and led us from one point to another, each time checking off something in a notebook he had with him. Finally, we arrived in a hilly area, and Roy went silent and motioned me down next to him. Through the overgrown vegetation I could see a village about 750 yards away from us, and Roy looked at me and said, “This is it kid. The guy we’re after is due here this afternoon. Pick your firing position and zero in on that center hut. That’s where the Headman lives, and the guy we’ve come to take out will be meeting him there.” Suddenly it all became real to me. This was it. I was going to take out my first target. I was concerned that I might choke and blow the mission, but realized that was why Roy was there. If I couldn’t drop the hammer, he was going to do it. This was my final exam. I would either pass and become a qualified sniper, or fail miserably and be returned to the ground forces, all my training wasted and my career ruined.

For the next couple of hours, Roy and I busied ourselves finding firing positions and egress routes. We had no idea just who this guy was, only that he had somehow made it on to the list and was to be taken out. They made a point of never giving us much information about our targets, just what we needed to know operationally to get the job done. If we knew too much about them, it might make them seem more human and harder to hit. Also, in case we were ever captured, not having any information could actually save our own lives.

Finally, late in the afternoon we heard a vehicle in the distance. It drove into the village and, sure enough, our target got out of the truck and went into the Headman’s hut. He was only in there a few minutes before he came out and began talking to the villagers. I took careful aim and, without any hesitation, I squeezed off a round and everything seemed to slow down. It was as if I could actually see the round as it spiraled toward the target. I know it’s impossible, but I swear that I saw it enter his open mouth and his head literally exploded in hundreds of pieces of brain matter and bone and a pinkish spray of blood. As soon as I saw what I had done, I had this sensation of power that came over me. My cock got hard and I shot a load in my trousers. At this point, Roy lowered his own weapon, turned to me and said, “Nice shot boy, but now it’s time to get out of Dodge! They’ll be on our asses in a few minutes.”

The next couple of hours were a blur. Roy and I were making our way as fast as we could out of the area, knowing that if we slowed down at all, we would very likely be taking a long dirt nap. Somehow we made it back to our rendezvous point, and in a few minutes the chopper came in fast and low. The pilot just hovered a few inches off the ground as Roy and I scrambled aboard, and we were up and away in less than a couple of minutes. There was some sporadic ground fire from below, but nothing hit us, and we made it back to base in one piece.

All this time, Roy had been watching me closely, and his eyes kept straying to the front of my trousers where my dried cum and formed an obvious stain. When we got off the chopper and back in the Jeep, Roy got behind the wheel and we were off to the compound. He didn’t say a word until we got back to the hut. He reached into the refrigerator, pulled out a couple of beers and handed one to me. He then said, “You know boy, I’ve been doing this shit for longer than I care to remember. You’re the first one I ever saw who not only took the shot without any hesitation, but it also seems like you enjoyed doing it.” I looked at him sheepishly and told him that I really couldn’t explain it, but that the sensation of power was just too overwhelming. He said, “Hell, boy, I’ve seen them not take the shot, totally miss the target, or take the shot and get so sick at what they’ve done they ain’t any good anymore. I may never have seen what happened to you today, but you’ll do nicely.” He then reached out his hand and shook mine, and said, “Welcome to the war boy!”

When I finished my narrative, I looked up at Dr. Ira, and noticed that he had a strange look on his face. It was as if I had taken him to a place that he had never been before, and didn’t quite know if he liked what he saw, or wanted to be there. Whatever it was, the moment passed quickly, and Dr. Ira came out from behind his desk and took a chair directly in front of me. He reached out his hand and put it gently on my knee and said, “Okay Gunny, what are you feeling right now, this very instant?” I couldn’t explain it to him. Somehow I felt confused and relieved at the same time. I was confused because I couldn’t figure out why I had taken him on such a tour of my mind, and relieved because I had done so. I guess I also felt relief at finally being able to tell someone what I had been through, but afraid that he wouldn’t understand, that nobody could understand, and that I and those like me would be forever branded as some sort of freaks.

 

The End

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Metal would like to thank the author Tommy Guns for “Brig Story,” which he tells me is 99.9% TRUE!

“I can assure you that BDSM was, and likely still is, alive and well in the Corps, particularly in the confinement facilities,” Tommy told me in an email. “[Brig Story] was really written as an introduction to the much longer story about my relationship with my best bud Billy, and my exposure to the world of leather and some really serious bondage and slavery.”

BONUS: To read more by this author, click for Billy and Me