It was a little rocky, but I succeeded
Your assignment today is to recall a time when you rallied from being at the brink of colossal failure, caused by your Aspie-itis, only to rally to achieve incredible victory, thanks to the same Aspie-itis.
For my tale, we must go back to the fall of 1971. Because my draft lottery number was low, I faced an unwanted involvement in the military. As a basic trainee at Fort Leonard Wood., Mo., I was horrible at everything the Army considered vital to the nation’s defense — making the bed, shining shoes, folding underwear.
But I was the most inept at shooting the M-16 rifle. I would forget to use the front sight on the 100-meter range, or my oversized steel helmet would fall off as I squeezed off a round, or I would contemplate still being in basic training in my 60s because I couldn’t past the shooting test and go into panic mode, during which time I couldn’t hit the target if I held it in my hand.
The drill sergeants didn’t help when they screamed that they had never encountered a troop with so little common sense, and suggested that I repeat basic training however many cycles it took until I developed a sufficient quantity of native wit.
Which only worsened my anxiety. I was already going to be at Fort Leonard Wood until retirement age, and now I would die there because I’d never grow enough common sense to please the Pentagon.
Time trudged on. I failed to get the requisite scores at range-fire and quick-fire. If I didn’t get eight out of 10 at night-fire, I would bolo on marksmanship and begin my long-term stay in Central Missouri.
Looking back, I now know that basic trainees were rarely recycled unless they developed medical issues. I now know that the Defense Department could threaten to make a pathetic M-16 shooter a permanent resident of the Show-Me State, but it would never come to pass unless one of his bullets not only missed the target, but lodged into the chest of an innocent person.
But my 1971 self was convinced I would never again see the East Coast, or the West Coast, or even the back 40 unless I could somehow ace night-fire.
They marched us to the 25-meter range and issued 20-clip magazines that contained several tracer rounds. In the pitch blackness, we were supposed to see where the tracers flew and adjust our shot patterns.
The odds wouldn’t have favored Annie Oakley, much less me. There wasn’t even a sliver of moon. The firing range looked like so much pine tar. So this is what abject disaster feels like, I thought as I got into the prone firing position. Sharp pieces of gravel skinned my knees. Hey, might as well have some physical pain to accompany the upcoming devastation of the human spirit.
But I focused as I bled.
(Important mid-column notice to Aspies: We may or may not be able to pour lead, but we sure as powder burns can focus, right?)
There were small amounts of hope as I did a quick Q-and-A with myself. Where is my firing post? At the extreme end of the range almost out of sight. Are any cadre members in the vicinity? No. Is it true that the targets are programmed to go down upon any sort of contact, legal or not? Yes. Will I be able to connect on even one if I play fair? Lord, no.
I ignored the order to lock and load. Instead I gathered gravel with a frenzy, scooping all my fingers could feel. When the shooting started, I hurled rocks down-range at what I hoped was my target.
Lots of rocks. Flung high, low, near, far. If I failed night-fire and was sentenced to Missouri for life, it wouldn’t be because of a lack of a throwing arm.
The smoke cleared and the cadre members reviewed the results. First one and then another murmured my name in disbelief. Could it really be? Did I pass shooting? Will I get to see my mother in Virginia?
The senior drill instructor called out our platoon and had me step front and center. Until this moment, he bellowed, Mathews was a poor excuse of a man, much less a soldier. But when the pressure was at its greatest, he went on, Mathews succeeded in miraculous fashion.
The DI held up a sheet of paper. The rocks and I had a perfect score. Let this be a lesson to all of you, he continued, putting his hand on my shoulder. Until today this man was a bolo-boy. Now he is the pride of the outfit.
Words of praise continued. Not only did Mathews get a kill on every target, the DI thundered. Basic trainees to his immediate right and left were equally deadeye. Not only did Mathews excel, he inspired those around him.
I found my common sense in the gravel. Later that week, I graduated basic training.
It’s true what they say. You can go home again.
