The First Hundred Thousand Part 9

"All right. Now for our fold in the ground. _End of mansion-house_--_eight o'clock_--got that?"

There is an interested murmur of a.s.sent.

"That gives you the direction from the house. Now for the distance!

_End of mansion-house_--_eight o 'clock_--_two finger-breadths_--what does that give you, Lance-Corporal Ness?"

"The corrner of a field, sirr."

"Right. This is _our_ field. We have picked it correctly out of about twenty fields, you see. _Corner of field. In the middle of the field, a fold in the ground. At nine hundred--at the fold in the ground--five rounds--fire_! You see the idea now?"

"Yes, sirr."

"Very good. Let the platoon practise describing targets to one another, Mr. Little. Don't be too elaborate. Never employ either the clock or finger method if you can describe your target without. For instance: _Left of windmill_--_triangular cornfield. At the_ _nearest corner_--_six hundred_--_rapid fire!_ is all you want. Carry on, Mr.

Little."

And leaving Bobby and his infant cla.s.s to practise this new and amusing pastime, Captain Wagstaffe strolls away across the square to where the painstaking Waddell is contending with another squad.

They, too, have a landscape target--a different one. Before it half a dozen rifles stand, set in rests. Waddell has given the order: _Four hundred_--_at the road, where it pa.s.ses under the viaduct_--_fire!_ and six privates have laid the six rifles upon the point indicated.

Waddell and Captain Wagstaffe walk down the line, peering along the sights of the rifles. Five are correctly aligned: the sixth points to the s.p.a.cious firmament above the viaduct.

"Hallo!" observes Wagstaffe.

"This is the man's third try, sir," explains the hara.s.sed Waddell. "He doesn't seem to be able to distinguish anything at all."

"Eyesight wrong?"

"So he says, sir."

"Been a long time finding out, hasn't he?"

"The sergeant told me, sir," confides Waddell, "that in his opinion the man is 'working for his ticket.'"

"Umph!"

"I did not quite understand the expression, sir," continues the honest youth, "so I thought I would consult you."

"It means that he is trying to get his discharge. Bring him along: I'll soon find out whether he is skrim-shanking or not."

Private M'Sweir is introduced, and led off to the lair of that hardened cynic, the Medical Officer. Here he is put through some simple visual tests. He soon finds himself out of his depth. It is extremely difficult to feign either myopia, hypermetria, or astigmatism if you are not acquainted with the necessary symptoms, and have not decided beforehand which (if any) of these diseases you are suffering from. In five minutes the afflicted M'Sweir is informed, to his unutterable indignation, that he has pa.s.sed a severe ocular examination with flying colours, and is forthwith marched back to his squad, with instructions to recognise all targets in future, under pain of special instruction in the laws of optics during his leisure hours. Verily, in K (1)--that is the tabloid t.i.tle of the First Hundred Thousand--the way of the malingerer is hard.

Still, the seed does not always fall upon stony ground. On his way to inspect a third platoon Captain Wagstaffe pa.s.ses Bobby Little and his merry men. They are in pairs, indicating targets to one another.

Says Private Walker (oblivious of Captain Wagstaffe's proximity) to his friend, Private M'Leary--in an affected parody of his instructor's staccato utterance--

"_At yon three Gairman spies, gaun' up a close for tae despatch some wireless telegraphy_--_fufty roonds_--_fire_!"

To which Private M'Leary, not to be outdone, responds--

"_Public hoose_--_in the baur_--_back o' seeven o'clock_--_twa drams_--_fower fingers_--_rapid!"_

II

From this it is a mere step to--

"b.u.t.t Pairty, '_shun!_ Forrm fourrs! Right! By your left, quick _marrch_!"

--on a bleak and cheerless morning in late October. It is not yet light; but a depressed party of about twenty-five are falling into line at the acrid invitation of two sergeants, who have apparently decided that the pen is mightier than the Lee-Enfield rifle; for each wears one stuck in his glengarry like an eagle's feather, and carries a rabbinical-looking inkhorn slung to his bosom. This literary pose is due to the fact that records are about to be taken of the performances of the Company on the shooting-range.

A half-awakened subaltern, who breakfasted at the grisly hour of a quarter-to-six, takes command, and the dolorous procession disappears into the gloom.

Half an hour later the Battalion parades, and sets off, to the sound of music, in pursuit. (It is perhaps needless to state that although we are deficient in rifles, possess neither belts, pouches, nor greatcoats, and are compelled to attach, our scanty accoutrements to our persons with ingenious contrivances of string, we boast a fully equipped and highly efficient pipe band, complete with pipers, big drummer, side drummers, and corybantic drum-major.)

By eight o'clock, after a muddy tramp of four miles, we are a.s.sembled at the two-hundred-yards firing point upon Number Three Range. The range itself is little more than a drive cut through, a pine-wood.

It is nearly half a mile long. Across the far end runs a high sandy embankment, decorated just below the ridge with, a row of number-boards--one for each target. Of the targets themselves nothing as yet is to be seen.

"Now then, let's get a move on!" suggests the Senior Captain briskly.

"c.o.c.kerell, ring up the b.u.t.ts, and ask Captain Wagstaffe to put up the targets."

The alert Mr. c.o.c.kerell hurries to the telephone, which lives in a small white-painted structure like a gramophone-stand. (It has been left at the firing-point by the all-providing b.u.t.t-party.) He turns the call-handle smartly, takes the receiver out of the box, and begins....

There is no need to describe the performance which ensues. All telephone-users are familiar with it. It consists entirely of the word "Hallo!" repeated _crescendo_ and _furioso_ until exhaustion supervenes.

Presently Mr. c.o.c.kerell reports to the Captain--

"Telephone out of order, sir."

"I never knew a range telephone that wasn't," replies the Captain, inspecting the instrument. "Still, you might give this one a sporting chance, anyhow. It isn't a _wireless_ telephone, you know! Corporal Kemp, connect that telephone for Mr. c.o.c.kerell."

A marble-faced N.C.O. kneels solemnly upon the turf and raises a small iron trapdoor--hitherto overlooked by the omniscient c.o.c.kerell--revealing a cavity some six inches deep, containing an electric plug-hole. Into this he thrusts the terminal of the telephone wire. c.o.c.kerell, scarlet in the face, watches him indignantly.

Telephonic communication between firing-point and b.u.t.ts is now established. That is to say, whenever Mr. c.o.c.kerell rings the bell some one in the b.u.t.ts courteously rings back. Overtures of a more intimate nature are greeted either with stony silence or another fantasia on the bell.

Meanwhile the captain is superintending firing arrangements.

"Are the first details ready to begin?" he shouts.

"Quite ready, sir," runs the reply down the firing line.

The Captain now comes to the telephone himself. He takes the receiver from c.o.c.kerell with masterful a.s.surance.

"Hallo, there!" he calls. "I want to speak to Captain Wagstaffe."

"Honkle yang-yang?" inquires a ghostly voice.

"Captain Wagstaffe! Hurry up!"

Presently the bell rings, and the Captain gets to business.