THE DAY A “GARBAGE RIFLE” MADE A GENERAL SALUTE By noon the range felt like a frying pan—heat rippling off the gravel, sweat rolling down helmets, young Marines barking jokes to hide the fact they were all watching each other more than the targets. And then there was me. Plain flannel shirt. Weathered boots. A rifle so old the stock looked like it might splinter if you breathed on it too hard. “Hey, Pops!” the Corporal shouted across the line, loud enough to make sure his whole squad heard it. “