The recoil bruised my shoulder. The brass shell casings disoriented me as they flew past my face. The smell of sulfur and destruction made me sick. The explosions — loud like a bomb — gave me a temporary case of PTSD. For at least an hour after firing the gun just a few times, I was anxious and irritable.Maybe some wag on the range handed him a .50 caliber Barrett rifle and told him it was an AR-15. It's difficult to imagine anybody experiencing this much angst from shooting the lowly .223.
Ernie Pyle, he ain't.