“Hey you!” 

    Mystified, I can’t tell where the Voice is coming from. Waving hands and pointing fingers force me to look past the crowd of upturned faces to the Range Master standing at the foot of the bleachers.    

    Putting a hand to my chest, I call out, “Me?”

    “Who the hell do you think I’m talking to, trooper?” Roars the Range Master. “Get your ass down here. Now!”

    “Uh, yes, Sergeant!”  

    A path opens before me as I descend. Steadying myself on a few shoulders, I leap from row to row and soon stand in the presence of god. He’s over six feet tall and wearing impeccably starched fatigues. His boots and highly polished brass belt buckle glint and shimmer in the morning sun. Even his dark skin seems to glow. His hands are locked at his belt. He’s glaring. 

    “Sergeant?” 

    “Was that you playin’ the harmonica all this time?”  

    “Uh, yes, that was me, Sergeant.” Unsure as to the purpose of the question, I keep a straight face and avoid making eye contact with the cagey, scary individual in front of me.

    His dark brown eyes move about my person like he’s trying to figure who I am, or how I got here. Curiosity and anger flash in his eyes; but there’s something else, something I can’t quite make out.

     Abruptly turning, he briskly strides away, yelling over his shoulder, 

“Follow me.”  

    “Yes, Sir!” There’s sweat on my forehead.

    Running to catch up, I notice he’s headed for the tower. Once there, he points to the time worn ladder and barks, “UP! On the double!” 

    Glancing up the twenty-five feet of diminishing wooden rungs, I mutter, “Uh, Sergeant?”   

    “Climb!”  

    “Yes, Sergeant!”    

    At the top, I enter the sanctuary of the Voice and quickly survey the entire range. Wow, he does see everything. 

    The booth is a relic of a place. Like everywhere else, the wood is covered with tired, withered paint. One of the windowpanes is broken, others are cracked. Beneath a broad window facing down range is a bench covered with schedules, stacks of tattered targets, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, and a couple of nasty looking plastic coffee mugs. Finally, my eyes are drawn to a large shiny microphone resting squarely in the middle of the bench–the mouthpiece of God. 

    As I survey the booth, the sergeant approaches the bench pointing to the microphone. Locking his eyes onto mine, he growls, “Play!”

    “What?”

    “You heard me trooper. PLAY!”  

    Tearing away from his gaze, I search my pockets for my harmonica and approach the bench. As I situate myself in front of the microphone, he flips the black plastic switch to the ON position. Towering over me with folded arms, his gaze is so intense that I’m forced to look away. 

    With sweaty brow, I put the harmonica to my trembling lips. It’s cool, man, be cool.

    Leaning over the microphone, I tentatively play a bluesy riff. Under the stern gaze of the Range Master I awkwardly find my way through a range of troubled thoughts, emotions, and musical hues. Before long I slip into that elusive and indescribable sweet spot. I give myself to it. That fine chrome microphone is doing its job, I can hear the gritty tune soar and reverberate throughout the rifle range. 

    As I play, I catch the Range Master off guard. His face is soft. His eyes are mellow. He’s smiling. Grooving to the music. The far-away look in his eyes tells me he is someplace beyond this grungy rifle range tower, the military, the war. Maybe he’s back home, sitting on his front porch sipping beer surrounded by loved ones and friends. Maybe he’s making music or holding hands with his sweetheart. The unmistakable longing for home, his roots, and good times past are written across his face. 

    Well I’ll be damned, the man’s got a heart after all!

    But just as quickly as the mellow gaze and the dreamy smile appear, they’re replaced with a deadly glare and a violent gesture at the microphone. The message is clear: “Keep playing!” He’s the Range Master after all, the Voice of God, and no one, absolutely no one had the right, yet alone a lowly private, to see him out of role.

    What the hell…  

    And so, I continue playing every bit of the blues I have in me into that giant shiny chrome microphone. I play the blues for the Range Master, his family and friends. I play the blues for the platoons on the bleachers down below. I play the blues for every GI in training and for all my friends back home. I play the blues for all the sad, fearful, and resigned young men from across the country headed for Viet Nam. I keep playing, and playing, and playing.