One well-armed deer

We were doing a field exercise in Basic Training. While four or five guys would run the lane to practice our spanking new Infantry skills, the other guys in the platoon would be doing what was called ‘concurrent training’. This was where you’d rehearse the more sedentary aspects of soldiering: running a radio, getting into your gas attack gear, basic medic skills and suchlike.

I was helping to set up the concurrent training spot with the other guys who weren’t going to be running the practice lane for a few hours. I’d leaned my rifle up against a tree to help one of the guys, and, of course, as soon as I was out of arms reach, one of the Drill Sergeants appeared. I seem to recall that he appeared in a puff of smoke and a corresponding stench of sulfur, but that might just be my memory playing tricks. In any case, I heard my name called, and turned to find the Drill standing next to my rifle. He looked me in the eye, looked at my rifle, then back at me.

“Private Lee, is your weapon supposed to be leaning against this tree?”

“No, Drill Sergeant.”

“What is the maximum distance you should be from your weapon, Private Lee?”

“No more than arm’s length at any time, Drill Sergeant.”

“Why is that, do you think, Private Lee? Why should you never get more than arm’s length away from you weapon?”

“Because that’s how Private's lose their weapons, Drill Sergeant.” I was at attention, just waiting to be ordered into some sweat-causing physical activity as punishment for my transgression. This was known as ‘getting smoked’, and it was never a favorite activity of mine.

“That’s right, Private Lee. That is how Private's lose their weapons. They lose their weapons by leaning them against trees, and forgetting them." He was still looking me in the eye, with his hands behind his back and eyes shaded from the Smokey-the-Bear hat he was wearing. Then, I swear to god, his eyes twinkled, just a little. "Or, sometimes they lose their weapons by being surprised by a deer in the woods, throwing the weapon at the deer, and having the deer run off with the weapon.”

And the Drill proceeded to tell us about how, two or three training cycles before ours, Delta Company had spent three days in the wood looking for a weapon lost in just those circumstances. Seems a Private had been startled by a buck while taking a dump, and had indeed just hucked his M-16 at the beast. The weapon’s sling had become entangled in the buck’s antlers, and Bambi’s Dad had gone running off into the underbrush, taking the no doubt aghast Private’s weapon along with it. By the time the Drill was done. The other guys and I were in tears.

“Drill Sergeant, did the guy’s weapon at least have a bayonet on it?” I asked when I could breathe again. “I mean, did he at least think he was gonna spear it to death?”

“No, he didn’t have a bayonet. And they never did find the weapon.” The Drill picked up my M-16 and handed it to me. “Be a little more careful than he was, Private Lee.”