I don't personally know, but, dad was in the 3rd Battalion 5th Marines, H&S Co., Vietnam, in Sept. '67, and was hit 3 times with an AK. One grazed his elbow and took out some meat (the scar looks like an ice cream scooper just went across his arm), one grazed his stomach. The third went in near the belly button, and out under one buttock, taking some intestine with it.
The first two, he said it felt like it was on fire, like a branding iron or something. He fought several hours like that (they were overrun numerous times that night by a large NVA regular force that had them surrounded), but the third one put him in shock and he nearly died from blood loss. A buddy kept him alive all night until the a.m. When dawn broke, air support was finally able to run off the NVA. Choppers came in, his buddy walked off to tend to some others, the medics put dad in a body bag and zipped it up. His buddy came back over and asked what the heck they were doing, unzipped the bag, and pulled him out. Believe it or not. Operation Swift, Sept. 6, 1967. I was born 3 years later, dad met mom at Ft. Sam Houston where she volunteered to help the war wounded in the hospital. It's a wonder I'm even here at all, eh?
I have no desire to know what it's like to be shot. Suffice it to say I bet it sucks, big time.