Oct. 7, 1777, Bemis Heights, Saratoga, N.Y.: Timothy Murphy was up in a tree. His orders from his Colonel, Daniel Hunt Morgan, were clear: “That gallant officer is General Fraser. I admire him, but it is of necessity that he must die. Do your duty.” Murphy had qualified as a sharpshooter with a rifle by consistently hitting a 7” target at 250 yards, but, though the target was clearly visible in his scarlet uniform, he was almost 300 yards away, and moving about on his horse.
“Click… BOOM!” Damn it! A miss.
“Give me another rifle, boys!”
“Click… BOOM!” The horse may have been nicked, for it startled, but a sudden turn of the horse just prior to the shot meant another miss.
“Gimme another one!”
“Click… BOOM!”
Gen. Simon Fraser, in the midst of rallying the right flank of the British line, slumped from his saddle, mortally wounded. Upon seeing this, the morale of the British and mercenary Hessian soldiers under his command dissipated, and they retreated. The Battle of Saratoga was won. The French, upon learning of this victory, joined us in our cause. The victory at Yorktown years later was due to the French fleet blocking the harbor and joining us in the siege, and thus American independence was won.
Jan. 17, 1781, Cowpens, S.C.: Daniel Hunt Morgan was by now a Brigadier General, facing off against the notorious Banastre “Bloody Ban” Tarleton. Morgan lined the woods on both flanks with riflemen. The militia in the center fired a couple of volleys, then deliberately fell back to a solid line of regulars, who in turn fell back, creating a horseshoe maelstrom of rifle fire into the advancing British. Then suddenly the American line turned about, driving the British back at bayonet point through that fire and sweeping the field. Tarlton’s defeat was a main reason why Cornwallis eventually decided to get resupplied and refitted at… YORKTOWN.
Sept. 12, 1814, North Point, just outside of Baltimore: Fresh from burning Washington, British General Robert Ross was advancing on Baltimore, arrogantly proclaiming, “I don’t care if it rains militia.” To this day, we don’t know whether it was militia riflemen, 19-year-old Daniel Wells, or 18-year-old Henry McComes who fired the fatal shot (both were bayonetted by furious British soldiers), but one of them blew him out of the saddle. Again, morale fell, and the attack faltered and failed.
Jan. 8, 1815, Rodriguez Canal, Chalmette Plantation, 5 ½ miles south of New Orleans: Riflemen militia from Kentucky and Tennessee in Andrew Jackson’s line open up on the advancing British from as much as 300 yards away. When the smoke finally cleared, Jackson was awed by the sight of wounded British soldiers struggling to come out from piles of their dead comrades. “I never had so grand and awful idea of the resurrection as on that day,” he later recalled.
Feb. 22 - March 6, 1836, Alamo, San Antonio de Behar, Texas: One of the reasons the Alamo was able to hold out against a vastly superior Mexican force for 13 days was a problem the zapadores (sappers/engineers) had that slowed down the work of siege trenches, which was later described by a Mexican officer, Capt. Rafael Soldana. It was a man who would appear upon the wall of the Alamo who was:
…a tall man with flowing hair who wore a buckskin suit and a cap all of a pattern entirely different from those worn by his comrades. This man would rest his long gun and fire, and we all learned to keep a good distance when he was seen to make ready to shoot. He rarely missed his mark, and when he fired he always rose to his feet and calmly reloaded his gun, seemingly indifferent to the shots fired at him by our men. He had a strong resonant voice and often railed at us. This man I later learned was called ‘Kwockey.’
You have three guesses, dear reader, as to who “Kwockey” was, and the first two don’t count.
1942-1945, Central Pacific: Marines engaged in their bloody island-hopping campaign thought very little of Japanese marksmanship, mocking them, and attributing what they saw as their poor aim to the wartime stereotype of the “Jap” whose squinty eyes hindered sight. But these Marine teenagers (and most of them were) didn’t know that the Japanese were as good with a rifle as the troops of most nations of the day. They didn’t realize that their rifle training was unique. EVERY Marine is a rifleman. You are not a Marine until they give you that eagle, globe, and anchor upon graduating from boot camp, and you cannot do that until you qualify on bullseye targets, not silhouettes. Here is their creed:
1. This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
2. My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.
3. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will …
4. My rifle and myself know that what counts in this war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit….
5. My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage as I will ever guard my legs, my arms, my eyes and my heart against damage. I will keep my rifle clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will ….
6. Before God, I swear this creed. My rifle and myself are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.
7. So be it, until victory is America’s and there is no enemy, but peace!!
Let the world know that what Americans aim at, we HIT.
Author’s note: The featured photo is a functional reproduction of a Kentucky rifle in the author’s collection.
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