Back when I was 16, I was skinny. Skinny enough that I had to spin around three times, just to cast a shadow. I could turn sideways, stick out my tongue and be camouflaged as a zipper.
So: My uncle gave me a 1917 Enfield and an unlimited supply of ammo. Like any 16-year-old, I wanted to shoot! Shoot! Shoot!
Call it my summer of masochism: That steel butt plate danged near beat me to death.