Platoon rifle drill.  Excerpt from the book: “I am The Rifle. For me, time can stretch, and a second of time can feel to me, like an hour would feel to a human. My space has no boundaries, and I sense things happening a hundred miles away from me.  My human can smile, my human can cry, and my human can tremble in fear. I have no such feelings, for I am The Rifle. “Platoon!”, shouts the drill sergeant harshly. The alerted platoon is standing at attention, with their rifles’ butts on the ground, and the rifles’ forestock held close to their right- sides in a secure right-hand grip of the rifle on the forestock. The soldiers are expecting this drill order. The drill-sergeant pauses then he shouts out slowly and with the last syllable drawn out with a long breath, "Slope . . . . . !”  The humans in the platoon all stand motionless, almost lifeless, in a neat formation of three parallel lines of seven soldiers. They stand straight upright, heads held high with eyes fixed and looking forward. They all take a slow deep breath anticipating the next command. They brace ready to act instantly, and the resemblance of the group’s unblinking lifelessness is an illusion. The drill sergeant finally, after a breath-holding long-second of time bellows, at his loudest, a short exaggerated high-pitched, one-syllable final order, “ARMS!”. One platoon corporal shouts the pace “One, two-three-one, two-three-one”. The words are shouted in very abbreviated form and are unrecognizable to the unknowing. They are simply vocal pacing drum-beat-like guttural utterances sounding like “wuh, ooh-eeh- - wuh, ooh-eeh- - wuh”. This counting sets a military- pace to the drill and facilitates extremely precise group-movement timing. Each utterance of “wuh” (one) is shouted emphatically in a standard tone. That “one” triggers a snappy movement from the platoon, and the other words “two-three” are measured time-pauses within the series of simple actions.  I feel my human’s right-hand snappily hoist me straight upwards, let me go, and then snatch back downwards to re-secure me in a Y-grip, on the small of my rifle stock, a wood part near the trigger. At the same moment, his left arm sweeps around horizontally at elbow level, to slap my wood covered mid-barrel section called a forestock, and grip it in a wrapping finger-grasp on the first count of a guttural “one”. For one stimulating microsecond, I was in free flight. The 21-platoon soldiers all grasp their own rifles’ forestock, so synchronized in time that the 21-rifle-slaps sound like a loud single slap.  That left-hand grip on the forestock ensures I remain in a perfect vertical posture, at my human’s right side. That left-hand slap reverberates pleasingly through my very existence. The hardness and loudness of a human hand slapping my wooden forestock, at the microsecond before his hand wraps itself tightly around my rifle barrel, feels meaningful. I thrive on such hard slapping. Hearing those precision- timed platoon whacks on my brother rifles invigorates the reason I exist. On the second count of “one” my human’s left-hand releases my forestock, and my human’s right-hand swings me towards his left, to now rest on his left shoulder. My muzzle points angled 45-degrees off vertical, towards the rear, and the barrel-tip is higher than my man’s head. My man’s left hand next grasps my rifle butt now, with his forearm pointing forward and held horizontal. On the final count of “one”, my man pulls his right-hand back to his right side, within the blink of an eye. His arm is military straight. His fingers are wrapped in a fist formation, with his thumb to the front.  Before this drill-command when my butt was on the ground nearly touching my man’s boot, my butt-toe had pointed forward. Now I rest on my human’s left shoulder, with my butt held in his up-facing left hand, and my butt-toe points to the left. All 21 of the soldiers executed this action of hoisting their rifles up to their left shoulders, called the “sloping of arms”, with identical timing of the three movements. I appreciate military drill. To me, the shouted commands and rifle slapping-sounds of the platoon being drilled, are as synchronized and in harmony, as if the platoon was a highly trained voice-choir. I derive gratification from rigid protocolized handling of my engineered structures, especially when it occurs simultaneously with the same human handling of wood and steel by a full platoon of twenty-one soldiers. It feels even greater when it is done by a battalion of four hundred soldiers drilling together, each man with his killing-device. Military drill and marching are my foreplay before I serve my true and main purpose of killing humans.”  Read the book, “I am The Rifle,and I kill” - available on Amazon (Click). Write to the author your book review, or any questions and other comments. AUTHOR (click)

Platoon rifle-drill is micrometer precise, and is as coordinated as a troup of classical ballerinas dancing.

Platoon rifle drill.  Excerpt from the book: “I am The Rifle. For me, time can stretch, and a second of time can feel to me, like an hour would feel to a human. My space has no boundaries, and I sense things happening a hundred miles away from me.  My human can smile, my human can cry, and my human can tremble in fear. I have no such feelings, for I am The Rifle. “Platoon!”, shouts the drill sergeant harshly. The alerted platoon is standing at attention, with their rifles’ butts on the ground, and the rifles’ forestock held close to their right-sides in a secure right-hand grip of the rifle on the forestock. The soldiers are expecting this drill order. The drill- sergeant pauses then he shouts out slowly and with the last syllable drawn out with a long breath, "Slope . . . . . !”  The humans in the platoon all stand motionless, almost lifeless, in a neat formation of three parallel lines of seven soldiers. They stand straight upright, heads held high with eyes fixed and looking forward. They all take a slow deep breath anticipating the next command. They brace ready to act instantly, and the resemblance of the group’s unblinking lifelessness is an illusion. The drill sergeant finally, after a breath-holding long-second of time bellows, at his loudest, a short exaggerated high-pitched, one-syllable final order, “ARMS!”. One platoon corporal shouts the pace “One, two-three-one, two-three-one”. The words are shouted in very abbreviated form and are unrecognizable to the unknowing. They are simply vocal pacing drum-beat- like guttural utterances sounding like “wuh, ooh-eeh- - wuh, ooh-eeh- - wuh”. This counting sets a military-pace to the drill and facilitates extremely precise group-movement timing. Each utterance of “wuh” (one) is shouted emphatically in a standard tone. That “one” triggers a snappy movement from the platoon, and the other words “two-three” are measured time- pauses within the series of simple actions.  I feel my human’s right-hand snappily hoist me straight upwards, let me go, and then snatch back downwards to re-secure me in a Y-grip, on the small of my rifle stock, a wood part near the trigger. At the same moment, his left arm sweeps around horizontally at elbow level, to slap my wood covered mid-barrel section called a forestock, and grip it in a wrapping finger-grasp on the first count of a guttural “one”. For one stimulating microsecond, I was in free flight. The 21-platoon soldiers all grasp their own rifles’ forestock, so synchronized in time that the 21-rifle-slaps sound like a loud single slap.  That left- hand grip on the forestock ensures I remain in a perfect vertical posture, at my human’s right side. That left- hand slap reverberates pleasingly through my very existence. The hardness and loudness of a human hand slapping my wooden forestock, at the microsecond before his hand wraps itself tightly around my rifle barrel, feels meaningful. I thrive on such hard slapping. Hearing those precision-timed platoon whacks on my brother rifles invigorates the reason I exist. On the second count of “one” my human’s left-hand releases my forestock, and my human’s right- hand swings me towards his left, to now rest on his left shoulder. My muzzle points angled 45-degrees off vertical, towards the rear, and the barrel-tip is higher than my man’s head. My man’s left hand next grasps my rifle butt now, with his forearm pointing forward and held horizontal. On the final count of “one”, my man pulls his right-hand back to his right side, within the blink of an eye. His arm is military straight. His fingers are wrapped in a fist formation, with his thumb to the front.  Before this drill-command when my butt was on the ground nearly touching my man’s boot, my butt-toe had pointed forward. Now I rest on my human’s left shoulder, with my butt held in his up-facing left hand, and my butt-toe points to the left. All 21 of the soldiers executed this action of hoisting their rifles up to their left shoulders, called the “sloping of arms”, with identical timing of the three movements. I appreciate military drill. To me, the shouted commands and rifle slapping-sounds of the platoon being drilled, are as synchronized and in harmony, as if the platoon was a highly trained voice-choir. I derive gratification from rigid protocolized handling of my engineered structures, especially when it occurs simultaneously with the same human handling of wood and steel by a full platoon of twenty-one soldiers. It feels even greater when it is done by a battalion of four hundred soldiers drilling together, each man with his killing-device. Military drill and marching are my foreplay before I serve my true and main purpose of killing humans.”  Read the book, “I am The Rifle,and I kill” - available on Amazon (Click). Write to the author your book review, or any questions and other comments. AUTHOR  (click)

Platoon rifle-drill is micrometer precise, and is as coordinated as a troup of classical ballerinas dancing.