Could you hit a target 1,000 yards away? These sharpshooters can
The National Rifle Championships are the Super Bowl of long-range shooting
Shooters compete for five weeks in numerous disciplines and varying conditions
The event is held at a national guard base outside Port Clinton, Ohio
Sherri Gallagher is 26 years old and has dark hair, pretty brown eyes and a shy smile. She likes Top 40 music, is unfailingly polite and occasionally wears her hair in pigtails. She is also so proficient with a rifle that if you were standing 1,000 yards away from her -- which is to say, 10 football fields or almost two thirds of a mile -- she could put a bullet within 10 inches of your heart 100 out of 100 times.
Not that she would, of course, but she could.
At the moment, Gallagher is prone on the ground and staring down the scope of her .308 Palma rifle at one of 40-odd competition targets on the horizon. It is August in northern Ohio and the air is gelatinous from the heat, yet Gallagher is wearing a sweatshirt under her Army fatigues so that she can cushion her shoulder and muffle the vibration of her heartbeat. At the moment, her pulse is so low that she could be mistaken for being asleep, and she is modulating her breathing to create eight-second windows of physiological stillness. This is important, for even the slightest deviation in the position of the muzzle -- say, the width of a piece of paper -- can send her bullet off course by as much as a foot. The same goes for the wind, currently gusting from the west, which, when combined with the effects of gravity, mean she essentially has to "lead" her target. So great is this effect that, if you were to slow it down, the arc of her bullet would resemble a big, looping curveball, rising nearly 30 feet above the ground and then swooping to the right before punching a hole through the bull's-eye.
On either side of Gallagher dozens of shooters are similarly splayed out -- most of them men, most damp with sweat. Every half second or so, one of them fires, and the cumulative effect is like the final throes of a bag of microwave popcorn or someone stomping on bubble wrap. Behind the shooters is a parking lot full of trucks that are loaded with ammo and scopes and guns. Lots and lots of guns; if the Midwest were to suddenly devolve into lawlessness, this crew would be in great shape. There are also bumper stickers. I'M A FIGHTER NOT A LOVER reads one; GEORGE W. BUSH: SAVING YOUR ASS WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT reads another. Those who aren't competing in this round wheel their gear around in custom-made carts, roller bags or, in one case, a small red Radio Flyer wagon such as the kind a five-year-old boy might pull. Draw your own metaphor from that one.
The shooters -- old, young, male, female, fat, skinny, military, civilian, laconic, voluble, Southern, Northern -- have come to the Camp Perry National Guard base outside Port Clinton, Ohio, for the 2009 National Rifle Shooting Championships (this year's championships, which are annual, run from Aug. 14 to 18). Think of it as the Super Bowl of long-range shooting. Or, if you choose, as a gathering of a couple thousand of the deadliest humans on the planet.
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The first National Shooting Championship was held in 1873 and sponsored by the National Rifle Association, which was then just two years old. Though commonly thought of as a lobbying entity today, the NRA was originally formed as a way to train America's gun owners in response to what was viewed as poor marksmanship during the Civil War. The goal of the association, according to co-founder William C. Church, a colonel in the Union army, was to "promote and encourage rifle shooting on a scientific basis."
As the equipment became more advanced, so did the competition. Skill wasn't enough; one needed to understand the mechanics of shooting. By the 1960s gun manufacturers were producing rifles capable of consistently hitting targets at 1,000 yards. By the Vietnam War top U.S. military snipers were able to pick off targets as far as 2,000 yards away. (They can now reliably hit a human silhouette at a distance of a mile or more, and last year a British soldier named Craig Harrison set a distance record when he toppled two Taliban fighters from 8,120 feet, or over a mile-and-a-half).
Today the championships are a month-long carnival of firepower, complete with a mess hall and a long alley full of vendors. (Representative pitch: "Are your guns safe at home right now? Snap Safe Closet Vault!") The event lasts five weeks and draws 6,000 competitors in a smorgasbord of events. Within long-range rifle shooting alone, there are all manner of classifications -- 200 yards, 600 yards, cross-course, standing, prone -- but the ultimate test is the overall Long Range High Power championship, for which the winner receives the Tompkins Trophy. To win, a shooter must excel in a number of disciplines over four days, often in varying conditions (including, at times, torrential rain), and at distances that can be hard to comprehend with the naked eye.
This may sound like a competition geared toward snipers, but one of the first things you learn upon delving into the world of shooting is not to confuse marksmen with snipers. In military terms, snipers infiltrate locales, negotiate a variety of terrain and, on occasion, take a shot; but it is only one element of their jobs, which also might include scouting, defusing explosives and holding positions. A marksman, however, trains year-round at shooting but doesn't see combat action, instead spending his time competing at a series of events and training military recruits. As a result, each community sees the other with a certain amount of disdain: Snipers view marksmen as "paper punchers" (a reference to the paper targets), and marksmen view snipers as less skilled.
Consider the rescue two years ago of Capt. Richard Phillips of the American cargo ship Maersk Alabama. Perhaps you read about it at the time. From 75 feet, three Navy SEAL snipers picked off a trio of Somali pirates who were holding Phillips hostage in an 18-foot covered lifeboat. The operation required three shots, the difficulty of which were staggering. The snipers had to use night-vision scopes and synchronize their shots from a swaying ship at a bobbing craft on the open sea. One of the targets was visible only through a window. The stakes couldn't have been higher; one of the pirates had an AK-47 to the captain's head. But the shots themselves? "I respect the engagement but really, that's a very easy shot," explains Gunnery Sgt. Justin Skaret, an elite shooter and captain of the Marine Corps Reserve team who was part of the 16-member squad that represented the U.S. in the 2007 Palma International competition, the shooting equivalent of the World Cup. "That was, what, 100 feet? We start at 700 yards." Or, as Army Marksmanship Unit coach Sgt. Emil Praslick says, "For our guys, that's like poking someone in the eye with a stick."
As for the sniper viewpoint, retired Gunnery Sgt. Jack Coughlin, a legendary Marine sniper with more than 60 confirmed kills in combat, spoke for his compatriots on the subject of marksmen in his autobiography, Shooter. "Paper targets don't shoot back," he wrote, "so that's really kind of boring."
The Army and the Marines have their own differences. The Marines complain that many of their best shooters are constantly being deployed (usually to Afghanistan or Iraq), while the Army's top guns are often specialists who are recruited and groomed solely to compete and run training courses for the military. Sgt. Lance Dement has been shooting competitively for the Army for 18 years and was on the 2000 Olympic team, which uses air rifles at shorter distances. He says, "Sure, I could go over there, go out in the field and take out targets, and, yeah, I'd probably hit whatever I aimed at, but I'd be one gun. Over here I can train 1,000 people. It's like a force multiplier. You wouldn't send brain surgeons out to be field medics."
Of course, you also probably wouldn't send brain surgeons (or their analogous equivalent) to a nowhere town in Ohio, 75 miles from Cleveland and 45 from Toledo, to spend weeks downing paper targets unless you had a good reason. For the military branches, competing at the championships is a matter of establishing a track record (good for recruiting), winning bragging rights (the rivalry between the Army and Marines is, in the words of Dement, "huuuge") and generating some good PR. "This is about our profile, about backing up the assertion that we have the best unit," says Praslick.
Praslick and his fellow servicemen don't come out and say it, but it's also about proving that military shooters can best civilians, something they've had a hard time doing. In the 23 years that the Tompkins trophy had been contested prior to 2009, only civilians had won. There are, of course, reasons for this. Most military shooters must be proficient with a variety of rifles, whereas civilians can specialize. Army shooters didn't compete in the all-around until seven years ago because they could only use service rifles, which are sturdy enough for combat but less accurate on a range. Now they are allowed to use a variety of rifles, but even so the best civilian shooters still have an advantage. They can spend tens of thousands of dollars to customize their rifles and painstakingly test and tweak their equipment and ammunition. It's the difference between playing golf with a loaner set of clubs or your own bag brimming with top-of-the-line equipment.
Foremost among these civilians is the 36-year-old John Whidden, the 2008 champion from Nashville. Despite what one might expect, he bears little resemblance to a Gun Nut, that part-mythical creature who comes wrapped in a Confederate-flag bandanna, quotes Rambo and thinks grade-schoolers should be armed. Rather, Whidden is tall and skinny, doesn't hunt, favors running shoes with jeans and is aw-shucks amiable in the manner of the dad who coaches the seven-and-under soccer team. (In his case, he's the shooting coach for the 4H air-rifle squad.) He worked on his family's farm growing cotton and peanuts until a couple years ago, when he decided to try to make a living through shooting (primarily by selling gun-related products). Of course, it helps his cause that he has a 1,000-yard range at home, as well as his own gunsmithing shop.
Whidden's civilian peers include Michelle Gallagher (sister of Sherri and a three-time all-around champ) and the sport's resident heavyweight, David Tubb. Tubb is an 11-time national high-power rifle champion (in various categories, including five long range titles) and something of a one-man industry, the only civilian who is truly making an enviable living off shooting. He trains military snipers; hawks his comprehensive training manual, The Rifle Shooter; and sells everything from sights to ammo. He even has his own gun, the TUBB Gun, which sells for thousands of dollars.
Meticulous about everything from his appearance (a Jimmy Johnson hair helmet) to his preparation (he takes copious notes on every shot he fires), Tubb arrives at competitions in an extra-long GMC 4WD Yukon outfitted with interior steel lock boxes for his rifles. The type of man who leaves his car parked in neutral so that it can't be hot-wired, he is analytical, deeply knowledgeable about the mechanics of firearms and capable of long soliloquies of a highly technical nature. For example, when he talks about shooting, these are the kinds of things Tubb says: "The scope reticule is set up for a 4KDA solution. You hold your elevation, here's your number, then call the deflection and windage in miles per hour and then you hold it in miles per hour, instead of holding it in minutes of angles, or mills." Which, roughly translated, is a set of directions for aiming at elevation.
Entering the 2009 nationals, Whidden and Tubb were two of the favorites, along with a half dozen or so others, including the Gallagher sisters (their mother and stepfather are former champions), Skaret and Dement. All spent countless hours preparing, though some, like Dement, preferred to downplay the importance of training. "There are only two things to do when firing a rifle," Dement says. "Align the sites and fire the rifle without moving it." And while this is technically sort of true, especially for someone of his talent, it doesn't address all that must occur before you get to the point of just aligning and shooting.
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For example, if you wanted to become the kind of elite shooter who could compete at the national championships, here's what you'd need to do:
First, master the physical aspects of the sport. This means maintaining body position and breathing patterns, keeping the rifle snug against your shoulder to "eat the recoil" and having the combination of eyesight, fortitude and coordination that, if there were no wind at all, you could hit the bull's-eye from 1,000 yards every single time. This includes training your body to get "pumped down," as Whidden puts it, rather than pumped up during high-pressure competitive situations. Some shooters are so adept at this that they can actually control their heartbeats; watch on a monitor and there will be a slightly longer pause when shooting.
Next you need to master the equipment. This requires knowing your gun, including when its barrel is about to go (generally around every 2,500 rounds) and whether it performs better fouled (that is, after substantial firing) or clean. It also means understanding your ammunition: caliber, style, weight, which powder, how much powder, which primer, which cartridge case, how many times you can pull the trigger before deciding a cartridge case is worn out, and so on.
Those are just the basics, though. The next step is becoming an expert at reading the wind. You'd need to learn how to interpret downwind flags and the mirage -- the liquid-like waves of heat that come off the ground as a result of refraction, providing an indication of wind direction and speed. Based on those factors, you would need to be able to estimate the direction and speed of the wind with uncanny accuracy, because each mile per hour of wind equals a 10-inch variance in the bullet's path over 1,000 yards. Put in scoring terms, misjudging by 2 mph can be the difference between a score of 10 or 8 on a shot. Shoot more than one or two eights and your chances of winning disappear.
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