[A fact that really happened, described by those who heard direct testimony]
He was a volunteer. One of those who never back down. Not one of those who brags to friends about being lucky "because I'm in a place where you don't shit".
He, rather than anything, started helping others. He was a real bersagliere.
He loved his work, as a friar loves his blessed poverty. If he could not train enough he would shoot at the shooting range.
He was not in love with either arms or war. Much more simply he thought that being precise always makes the difference and, when you have a weapon in hand, the difference is very important: life or death.
Above all if you can not kill anyone with precision.
The bullets are spinning, turning ... but basically they go where you want, if you can point them out pretty well.
Luck in these things does not exist. The bullet goes where it has to go.
One day, in a real "hot" activity, while he was sitting in the front seat of a VM, passenger side, he suddenly saw the windshield break, pierced by a bullet.
Instinctively, he gripped the grip of the Stayer rifle that he held between his legs, ready to react to the attack. But the hand, flowing on the barrel, immediately perceived a defect.
The blow had hit her, making the shotgun useless, but allowing him to tell this story.
Since then the laws of ballistics remain unchanged.
The bullet goes where it has to go, if you address it well ... and with a little ass.
