There are hot days at the range, and then there are days when God apparently decides Pennsylvania needs to experience the climate of a rice paddy
This was the latter.
By 9:30 in the morning, the thermometer was reading 94 degrees, the humidity was somewhere around 85 percent, and the air was so thick you could practically chew it.
Naturally, we decided this was the perfect weather to spend six hours shooting an M1 Garand with surplus .30-06 M2 armor-piercing ammunition.
Our guest for the day was a blonde shooting influencer who had agreed to help photograph the test, shoot the rifle, and provide commentary on the questionable assortment of junk we’d assembled downrange.
She arrived wearing a tan baseball cap, olive-green tank top, black tactical pants, and a ponytail that would spend the remainder of the afternoon getting progressively more disheveled.
She looked at the targets.
Then she looked at the ammunition.
Then she looked at me.
“Why is there a filing cabinet out there?”
“Government records.”
“Of course.”
The Rifle: Springfield Armory M1 Garand
Today’s rifle was a Springfield Armory M1 Garand chambered in .30-06 Springfield.
Nothing particularly exotic. Just eight rounds of American mechanical excellence, walnut furniture, iron sights, and the distinctive PING that has been making grown men smile since World War II.
Our ammunition was M2 AP, recognizable by its black-painted bullet tips.
Unlike ordinary M2 ball ammunition, M2 AP uses a hardened steel penetrator intended to defeat resistant targets.
It’s the sort of ammunition that makes you look at an abandoned engine block and wonder whether it has any plans for the afternoon.
We had 32 rounds.
Four en-bloc clips.
And an entire collection of things that had already outlived their usefulness.
Target One: The Steel Plate
The first target was an old steel plate that looked like it had survived three wars, two divorces, and at least one government procurement contract.
Our blonde guest settled behind the rifle, adjusted her hearing protection, and leaned into the stock.
The Garand barked.
Dust rose from the berm.
She fired again.
And again.
By the time the clip ejected, the plate had acquired several impressive new holes.
She walked downrange after the ceasefire, hands on her hips, examining the damage.
“Well, that’s ruined.”
“It was already ruined.”
“Now it’s officially ruined.”
Fair assessment.
Target Two: The Engine Block
Next came an old V8 engine block.
Nobody knew precisely what vehicle it had come from. Someone claimed Chevrolet. Someone else insisted Ford.
The engine had been sitting behind a barn for approximately fifteen years, which probably made it the most reliable piece of automotive equipment on the property.
The Garand went to work.
The first few impacts threw up clouds of rust and dirt. Later shots chipped the casting and left fresh scars across the exposed metal.
Our photographer moved around collecting pictures while our guest inspected the remains.
By this point, her olive tank top was darkened with sweat across the back, and her ponytail had begun sticking to her neck.
She wiped her forehead.
“How much longer are we doing this?”
“We haven’t gotten to the ATF yet.”
She smiled.
“Oh, well, obviously we can’t leave now.”
Target Three: ATF RECORDS DEPARTMENT
The centerpiece of the afternoon was an enormous white steel filing cabinet.
Four drawers.
Approximately forty years of rust.
And three words painted down the side in large black letters:
ATF RECORDS DEPARTMENT
We’d found it abandoned in a scrap pile, and somebody had suggested it would make an excellent target.
For the sake of realism, we stuffed the drawers with old telephone directories, expired appliance warranties, blank forms, and several hundred pages of instructions for assembling Swedish furniture.
We also included a sheet labeled:
FORM 1: REQUEST FOR PERMISSION TO REQUEST PERMISSION
Underneath, in smaller letters:
Estimated processing time: 11–14 business years.
Our guest nearly fell over laughing when she read it.
“That’s actually pretty accurate.”
The Garand came up.
Eight rounds later, the cabinet was considerably less organized.
The upper drawer had collapsed inward. The lower drawer was hanging at an angle, and paper was scattered across the gravel.
One particularly unfortunate appliance warranty had become confetti.
We walked downrange after clearing the line.
She pulled a mangled sheet of paper out of the wreckage.
“Look. They finally processed something.”
“Only took eighty years and an armor-piercing round.”
She posed beside the cabinet for several photographs, one hand resting on her hip, the other holding a shredded piece of paperwork.
It was probably the most efficient afternoon the ATF Records Department had ever experienced.
The Heat Finally Wins
By approximately 2:00 PM, the temperature had climbed to 97 degrees.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
The gravel radiated heat. The wooden shooting benches were almost too hot to touch, and even the shade under the range shelter offered little relief.
Our guest had been unusually quiet for the previous twenty minutes.
She was sitting on the edge of the bench, elbows resting on her knees, holding a bottle of water.
“You all right?”
“Yeah. Just hot.”
She took another sip.
Then she stopped.
“Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“I don’t feel good.”
She stood up, took two steps, and immediately bent forward with her hands on her knees.
The photographer was beside her in seconds.
“Bathroom?”
She nodded.
At the far end of the parking area stood a bright blue portable toilet that had been baking in direct sunlight since sunrise.
Under normal circumstances, entering it would have constituted a punishment prohibited by the Geneva Conventions.
Unfortunately, circumstances were no longer normal.
The Blue Porta-Potty Incident
She grabbed the photographer’s hand and started walking toward the blue plastic structure.
He followed, carrying a water bottle and a clean towel.
“Are you seriously coming in there?” she asked.
“You’re about to pass out.”
“Fair point.”
The door swung open.
A wave of hot, humid air escaped.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she muttered.
They disappeared inside.
The door closed.
For the next twenty minutes, the rest of us sat under the range shelter contemplating the fact that two adults were voluntarily occupying what was essentially a plastic greenhouse containing a toilet.
At one point, somebody asked whether we should check on them.
“Give them a minute.”
Five minutes later, the photographer called out that she was awake and they needed more water.
We brought it over.
She’d thrown up, and he’d helped her clean herself up. He was trying to keep her comfortable while she recovered enough to get outside.
When the door finally opened, she emerged looking thoroughly miserable.
Her cap was crooked, strands of blonde hair were plastered against her forehead, and she was clutching the towel.
The photographer followed immediately behind her.
Both looked like they’d just survived an expedition into the Amazon.
She glanced back at the portable toilet.
“Burn it.”
“What?”
“That thing. Burn it.”
“We can’t burn the porta-potty.”
“Then put it next to the ATF filing cabinet.”
Recovery at the Shooting Bench
We shut down the range for the afternoon and got her into the air-conditioned clubhouse.
Once she was feeling better and had cooled down, she insisted on sitting outside under the shaded pavilion for a few minutes.
The photographer sat beside her.
She leaned against him, then gradually lowered her head onto his lap.
He rested a hand on her shoulder while she closed her eyes.
From about twenty yards away, somebody took one last photograph.
The late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees. The Garand lay unloaded on the bench, and the wrecked filing cabinet stood in the distance.
“Feeling better?” the photographer asked.
“Somewhat.”
“Want anything?”
She considered the question.
“Air conditioning. A shower. And about twelve hours of sleep.”
“Anything else?”
She opened one eye.
“Never make me go in that blue thing again.”
The Morning After
The next morning, the barracks were quiet.
Sunlight came through the windows, illuminating a pile of range bags, boots, and discarded clothing beside the bunks.
Our guest was still asleep, wearing an oversized T-shirt and a pair of shorts, her blonde hair spread across the pillow.
The photographer was already awake, reviewing the previous day’s pictures on his laptop.
He’d captured everything.
The Garand.
The engine block.
The ATF filing cabinet.
The blue porta-potty.
And the exhausted blonde who had somehow managed to become the main character in what was supposed to be an ammunition test.
She eventually woke up, rolled over, and squinted at him.
“Did you get good pictures?”
“Yeah.”
“Of the rifle?”
“Yeah.”
“The filing cabinet?”
“Definitely.”
She stared at him.
“Not the bathroom, right?”
He hesitated.
She picked up a pillow.
“Delete them.”
Final Range Report
Category
Results
Rifle
Springfield Armory M1 Garand
Ammunition
.30-06 M2 AP black tip
Rounds fired
32
Malfunctions
0
Steel plate
Perforated
Engine block
Severely damaged
ATF Records Department
Permanently closed
Paperwork processed
More than usual
Temperature
97°F
Humidity
Absolutely miserable
Porta-potty experience
0/10
Photographer’s dedication
Questionable but impressive
Overall range day
10/10
Conclusion
The M1 Garand remains one of the finest American military rifles ever produced.
M2 armor-piercing ammunition remains a fascinating piece of military history.
And somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, a battered filing cabinet marked ATF RECORDS DEPARTMENT stands as a monument to the remarkable efficiency of the United States government.
Our blonde guest has already agreed to return for another range report.
She has, however, established three conditions.
There must be air conditioning.
There must be cold water.
And under absolutely no circumstances is anyone allowed to mention the blue porta-potty.
Naturally, we’ve already ordered a commemorative plaque for it.
ATF FIELD OFFICE — RECORDS PROCESSING ANNEX
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