One thousand Two thousand

Hand grenades this week.

Extremely hectic week, mostly because of the A level results on Friday. On one hand, an early bookout and three day weekend. One the other hand, squeezing the most dangerous BMT high key event into 3 and a half days. We had very little sleep and admin time this week, compared to the endless hours of slacking we had in the bunk during Range week. I barely had anytime to wash my clothes, to the chargin of my poor mother.

Hand grenades. They are very simple machines. If I were to put you in a fight with a bear, the first thing you'd probably do is to find something to throw at it. Then you'd die, because, come on , its a bear. Hand grenades are very simple in that respect. Pull the pin and throw. How does something this simple deserve such a hectic week? Explosives.

When I went through grenade week, I gained a newfound respect for explosives. They're completely different from what you see in movies. Forget the spectacular flash, the pluming fireball of red and black belching out of the ground. An actual explosion is acutely uninteresting. The hush first settles over the range. The nervous recruit fumbles with the pin before separating it. The Officer raises his hand before bringing it down with a firm pat on the recruit's shoulder. The recruit chucks the grenade, with technique and target all but ignored. Everyone ducks. One thousand Two thousand. The grenade lands with a plop on the sand. Hard to spot from a distance of 200m. Suddenly, a puff of sand and smoke appears. It just appears. One moment its not, and another moment, its there. No fire, no other visual indicator. A crashing sound assaults your ears, imagine a metal dumpster falling from the third floor. The range recovers, the next bay is ready. This happened 250 times.

In retrospect, the BMT grenade course does not actually teach you how to kill others with a grenade. Of course there is a target for you to aim at, and a set distance that you're supposed to throw. But for a recruit standing at the bay, it all goes out of mind. The only thought in his head is getting the deadly high explosive as far away as possible and surviving this ordeal. The BMT Grenade Course teaches you more of how to not kill yourself with a grenade than to kill others. Almost like rifle range, you're being trained to inflict death. All the drills practiced with a rifle deal with how to hit a target, and how to rectify it if you're not hitting the target. A different mindset is present too. There is no lingering thought on your own safety when aiming down the scope. All presence of mind is focused on hitting the target. However, for grenades, all the drills are to ensure that you don't kill yourself with the grenade. The target and throwing distance is looked at as an ideal than anything else. Something to aim for, but don't bother trying to hit it. As you run down to the grenade range, all faces are grim. The sergeant's voice is nervous, and their actions are all to the letter. With the earplugs in your ears, only the sound of your breathing is audible in your head. Receiving the grenade, I couldn't imagine it exploding at all. It seemed an inert lump of metal. Strapping the grenade to my chest, I sat down at the waiting area. In a fit of gallows humor, I observed that death itself was strapped to my heart. All it took was a faulty pin, a fuse slightly out of alignment. For some reason, I thought of seeing everyone on bookout day, and that made me smile some. The loudspeaker rotates shifts. I doubled the 200 meters to the grenade bay. As I performed all the drills before throwing it, my mind was somewhere else, I watched myself in third person, reporting to the officer, preparing the grenade. The officer and I exchanged some small talk while waiting for my turn to throw, interrupted by him jerking me down behind cover as others threw first. I ran my hand down the outside surface of the bay. Solid concrete, pockmarked by thousands of tiny holes. I suddenly understood the nervous smile of the bay safety officer. He had to do this 250 times. Damn. My turn to throw. Pulling the pin out, all intent of hitting the target left me. My own breathing echoed in my earpluged ears. It was just me and the grenade. Instinct took over. I threw it as hard as I could and dropped to the floor. One thousand Two thousand. A strange force pushed air out of my lungs. Sound came after that. A crashing bang. The strange sound of tiny metal hitting concrete, and the whizzing of metal through the air. And it was over. I hastily thanked the officer and stumbled out of the bay.

That was grenade week.