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Elementary Musketry

It was the beginning of their third week in camp—Curly and Race, the Booster and Blasty, Long Mac and jallow.Wat Hoe had been discharged as medically unfit, Dew bad gone to the Artillery, Laney to the Police, and Mills to the Engineers. The six still stuck together, though on that particular day Jallow was hut orderly. The remaining five formed part of a squad of twelve men who were receiving instruction in elementary musketry. Seated on their oil-sheets, in a semicircle, they Were listening to their instructor's words of wisdom concerning the care and cleaning of rifles in all sorts of emergencies. He explained and gave the names of the essential parts of the rifle and also cleaned the rifle thoroughly as a practical demonstration of how it should be done, using a pull-through, oil and flannelette, while the squad followed his example till their rifles were clean.

To explain what the sights were for and how to adjust them and take a correct aim with them was the next step. A wooden figure representing a man and painted khaki colour, with a six-inch black bull's-eye on a white board at the foot, had been set up about 100 yards away. A rifle was placed on a low iron tripod, which held the weapon firmly in position.

"Now I will aim at the bull's-eye," the instructor said. "It is a six-o'clock aim—that is, at the lowest point of the middle of the target."

He lay down beside the rifle and ran his eye along the sights. When he had the rifle sighted upon the bull's-eye—not the middle of it, but at its lowest point—he ordered man after man to step out and look along the rifle sights, so as to see what the target looked like through them. He told them they were to try their hands at sighting the rifle in the tripod. Curly was called first. He moved the rifle muzzle till he found the figure of the man, and then depressed the barrel till the black bull was covered by the foresight.

"That's right, I think," he said.

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The instructor cuddled the rifle-stock, his right eye looked unerringly along the sights.

"A little too much to the right. Have another go."

At the next trial Curly got the mark pretty accurately, though he was still a little high.

Blasty was the next. Rifles and he were strangers, save for. a few erratic shots at the moving ducks in a shooting-gallery. For several seconds after he had heaved himself into position the muzzle of the rifle continued to point at a chimney of the incinerator.

"Close your left eye—not both! Don't try to keep both eyes open!" said the instructor. Blasty laughed nervously and said, '

"It won't shut itself. I'll have to shut it."

With a rapid movement he closed it with his left hand and grabbed his rifle again. His left eye remained closed. The instructor smiled, but only said,

"Aim for the bottom of the centre of the black mark—low down. Can't you see it ?"

"I think that's got him," said Blasty.

"You want to train that eye," said the instructor. "A bit awkward to have to use your hand to shut it !"

The Rooster stepped forward with confidence when his turn came, and he aimed the rifle fairly at the midriff of the pale, flat target.

"Too high!" was the verdict. "You'd miss your man if he was charging at you with fixed bayonet."

They were told to seat themselves again, and, with rifles across their knees, to practise pressing the triggers.

"The whole art of marksmanship lies in this," the instructor said. "The eye and the mind and the finger must be in perfect unison, and you must stop breathing when you press the trigger." They tried and tried, the click and rattle of triggers making a jingling noise. From the semicircle of seated men, who seemed to be playing with their rifles, individuals were called up to be taught how to do the action correctly. The recruit gripped the small of the butt of the rifle, the instructor placed his hand over the recruit's hand and showed exactly how the pressure should be applied. Long Mac's hand was a huge one and the instructor's was a small one. It looked as though it never could make the big red hand do the thing correctly. And when their positions were reversed—in order to see if the lesson had been learned—the instructor's hand was lost to sight. But Long Mac showed that the lesson had not been wasted; and when the others page 86had been through the same schooling they were told that they would now do some exercises to strengthen the muscles that are used when firing.

The interested looks on the men's faces changed to expressions of anxiety.

"What d'ye reckon this will be?" Blasty whispered to Curly.

"Extracts from the Spanish Inquisition," said Curly—"thumbscrews and racks, you know, and things to pull your joints out of their grooves. Cheer up!"

Curly spoke in jest; yet their muscles ached when the arm and finger muscle exercises were finished. But the relief of being dismissed from musketry training for that day made them forget their aches.

On the second day Jallow was with them, and by a strange mischance the instructor pounced upon him as the "awful example" to demonstrate the intricacies of aiming-practice. The way in which he handled his rifle—as though he and it had never met before—tested the instructor's temper. And whenever Curly caught Jallow's eye, he chuckled at the figure cut by the ex-hut orderly.

"What is the matter with you?" the instructor asked. "Don't you remember what I taught you yesterday?"

"No, sir," said Jallow.

"You don't! Why, may I ask?"

"Because I wasn't here, sir. I was hut orderly yesterday, sir."

"Oh! Get back to your place. Come here, that man!"

Curly was screwing up his left eye at Jallow in a grimace. He thought it was the man next to him who was called.

"It is you I mean, Lord Nelson!" said the instructor, while the class giggled as Curly was motioned to step forward and demonstrate.

Clock! Clock! Rattle! Snap!—the class played with their rifle-bolts until they could load speedily. The next step was holding and loading their rifles in standing, prone, kneeling, and sitting positions. Then followed the methods of firing from various kinds of cover, such as walls, sandbags, and folds in the ground, after which came the inevitable muscle exercises.

The days that followed led them deeper and deeper into the mysteries of musketry. The twelve were told off into two ranks. The men of one rank had their rifles; the others held to their eyes metal discs which had holes in their centres, with an aiming-mark above the holes. The marksmen, lying prone, aimed for the marks, while the men who looked through the holes, also lying prone, cricitised the aim.

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"The object of this," the instructor explained, "is to teach men to take a quick shot and to know exactly where their rifles are pointing at the moment of pressing the trigger."

Making allowance for wind was the next lesson. "Aiming off for wind" it is called. After hearing the directions which followed clock-face comparisons, Long Mac held his head up as though he was smelling the wind.

"What do you make the wind?" asked Curly, smiling at the big man's earnestness.

"About half-past ten, within a second or two," was the cautious answer.

In allowing for movement of the target, the men were told that they must observe the speed of a man walking across the line of fire, of a man running, and of a horse galloping. Bill Race had never fired at any of these moving objects; but he know, or his eye knew, just how fast a grey duck on the wing would move, or a rabbit dashing from cover to cover. To him and to all of them this practice was an absorbing one, which made them yearn for the time to come to test the theory.

The class was engaged at practice in snap-shooting at the eye discs one day, when the Chief Musketry Instructor came across to watch them—it was just before Jallow was passed into the awkward squad, or the special squad, to give it its polite name. There was a great rattling of bolts and triggers, and the voice of Jallow, with his eye to the disc opposite Long Mac, rose monotonously,

"Correct, correct, correct!"

So he went on announcing that Long Mac was getting a hit at every shot. At the end of five rounds the instructor said to Long Mac,

"You must be a most marvellous shot if you got correct every time!"

Long Mac flushed and said,

"Yes, sir."

"Now go on and let me check you," said the instructor.

Long Mac aimed for the disc. Snap went the trigger.

"A little off to the right," was the verdict.

Again a rapid snap.

"Too high!"

Snap !

"Correct!"

That was too much for the long man's nerves, and his rifle's muzzle worked all round the timepiece in the ensuing shots, while he blessed Jallow for thus bringing the blaze of notoriety upon him.