The time came for us to proceed to the range. Where we normally stood in lane 2 of the firing line, there was now an opening for us to walk directly out onto the range.
It was an eerie feeling to stand and look back at the stalls where we had stood days before, sending round after lethal round through the very space I now occupied. I looked up at the angled ceiling baffles, which were peppered with holes; some of rounds, which struck near the edge, had passed clean through the supporting plywood. The backside of the baffles was made of steel, and was intact. The cinderblock wall was marked by stray rounds, farther downrange at the backstop, the remains of all of those thousands of rounds lay, looking like a jumbled heap of smashed grapes sculpted in lead.
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