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that every butt in this boat is a graduate of that same fine institution. I don’t work with anything but. Now, every soldier in my group does time with every weapon in our box. I like versatility. Any problem with that?”
    â€œNo, sir, lieutenant.”
    â€œGlad to hear it,” he says.
    â€œ Ship o’ Sharpshooters is more like it,” Arguello says. “Maybe we get a prize at the end for wasting the fewest bullets and the mostest VC.”
    The jolliest tub in the Army laughs a little more. Me, I can’t help hearing my dad’s words saying almost the same thing with no humor at all: Bring the maximum of death to the minimum of people.
    I take the heavy, stumpy weapon and hand over my standard Army-issue M-16. The 40-mm grenade launcher is in its own way a pretty impressive thing, and it is immediately clear why it’s known as The Thumper. It looks and feels like a single-barrel, large-bore, sawed-off shotgun. With this, and my pistol and my knife, I may not be a sharpshooter, but I don’t feel defenseless, either.
    My eyes go wide as Lt. Systrom makes another trade. The other new guy, Kuns, hands over his M-16 and in return gets the beast that has mostly replaced the launcher I am holding. The M-203 is a leaner, meaner version of the M-79 grenade launcher combined with the M-16A1 automatic rifle. When I was a kid lying in bed, thinking about wars and seeing myself in them — which I did a lot — this is the very type of beautiful piece of kit I saw myself marching into battle with. An involuntary small, hungry grunt comes out of me as it passes by.
    â€œYou’ll get your shot,” Lt. Systrom says.
    Corporal Lightfoot gets an M-60 machine gun, while the other guys remain with their faithful M-16s.
    But the boss has something special.
    The lieutenant looks off in the distance, toward where we are headed, as he absently stands his gun up in front of him.
    I know this gun. I have studied this gun. I have had many impure thoughts about this gun.
    It is the M-21 Sniper Weapon System, and it is as beautiful as an Army weapon gets. It is long and sleek, with a high polish and a starlight scope perched on top for day and night hunting.
    It’s a hunting rifle. ’Cause that’s just what it’s for.
    â€œAre you ogling my M-21?” Lt. Systrom says with a sly side glance.
    I pull back, like I’ve been caught at something forbidden. I do tell the truth, though.
    â€œAbsolutely, sir.”
    Again I provoke laughter, but it is a more familiar thing now. This population agrees with me completely on this.
    â€œGet in line, boy,” Corporal Parrish says to me. “There ain’t a man here who wouldn’t shoot everybody else for a day with that beauty.”
    â€œGuess I should be worried, huh?” says the lieutenant.
    â€œSir,” I say tentatively, “could I just handle the weapon for a minute?”
    â€œPrivate Bucyk, you most certainly may —”
    Pop! Pop-pop-popopopopopopopop!
    The early morning air is cut up with rifle shots coming at us from maybe two hundred yards inland. Every man hits the deck. Cpl. Lightfoot fairly lights up the entire jungle with machine-gun fire. The other guys pepper the area blindly with rifle shots. It is a bright and sunny morning and there isn’t much hope of seeing where the shots are coming from. Muzzle flashes are faint, and these guys are good with the foliage, because there doesn’t seem to be any movement out there anywhere.
    â€œPrivate Bucyk!” Parrish screams at me. “Do you know what you are supposed to be doing with that thing, or does somebody need to help you?”
    â€œOh,” I say like a simpleton. “Oh, yes, sir.” I had made the cardinal error, already, of letting myself get overwhelmed and watching the action. My father would slap me stupid right now.
    â€œPrivate Kuns!” Parrish yells, louder. “Grenades! We have enough shooters.