A brand-new Army recruit was finally sent to the rifle range, the place where excuses die and reality hits hard. The Drill Instructor paced behind the line, boots crunching against gravel, eyes scanning every movement like a hawk hunting prey. This was supposed to be routine. Simple. Hit the target. Prove you belonged.

The recruit took position, steadying his rifle, breathing just like they taught him.

Bang.
Miss.

Bang.
Miss again.

Rounds kept flying. Fifty shots in total. Not one hit. Not even close.

The range went dead silent. Other recruits stopped what they were doing and stared. Some winced. Others silently thanked the universe it wasn’t them. The Drill Instructor slowly lowered his sunglasses and marched over, fury building with every step.

He stopped inches from the recruit’s face.

“What’s the matter with you?!” he roared. “Are you blind?! Are you stupid?! Why can’t you hit the target?!”

The recruit snapped to attention, standing tall despite the verbal assault. His voice didn’t shake.

“Sir, with all due respect, sir… I don’t believe the problem is me.”

The Drill Instructor blinked. That was not the answer he expected.

“Oh really?” he growled. “Then what is the problem?”

The recruit hesitated, glanced downrange, then pointed toward the target.

“Sir… the target keeps moving.”

The Drill Instructor spun around and stared downrange. The target stood perfectly still, swaying slightly in the breeze.

He turned back slowly.

“Moving… how?” he asked.

The recruit swallowed. “Sir… every time I pull the trigger, sir… it refuses to cooperate.”

There was a long pause. Too long.

Then the Drill Instructor shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

He turned to the range officer and barked, “Mark him down for perfect confidence and zero accuracy.”

The recruit remained at attention, proud as ever.

After all, in his mind… he never missed. The target just wasn’t ready.