Private Godwin’s Daily Letter
Plattsburg, Tues. the 19th September.
Dear Mother:—
We have had a long day on the rifle range, slow fire at three hundred, five hundred, and six hundred yards, working for a total of 50 on each target, and a possible grand total of 250 when, some other day, we have our two tries at rapid fire. The work was hard for some of us, the coaches and scorers, exciting for the rest. The captain worked hard from first to last, trying to make it possible for us, with our slight preparation, to qualify as marksmen, with a total of 160, or perhaps even to do better, as sharpshooters scoring 190, or as expert riflemen with 210 points. Our new overcoats, for which we have him to thank, saved the lives of many of us, for there was the keenest little north wind blowing. I lay down in mine once, and slept very comfortably; and all the fellows were grateful for the protection. There isn’t a man in the company that hasn’t done his best today for the captain’s sake, if not for his own.
Our company were waked a little early, and were extra prompt to breakfast, which was extra good (eggs and bacon!)—again the captain’s foresight. He started us promptly for the range, surely the oddest sight that we have presented so far. In front went a huddle of men with benches, chairs, and tables, lamps for blacking the sights (lest they glitter and confuse the eye), the captain’s megaphone, and the ammunition. We followed at route step in our greatcoats, some of us carrying ponchos, and except for our rifles and belts, no other equipment. Discipline was relaxed today, for the captain, hopeful of good scores, was as gentle as a lamb.
Of the three dozen targets we had twelve for our share, and companies I and J used the remainder. In front of our section of the line the company flag was set up, the benches were placed, the scorers took their seats, the platoons were ranged for their turns. Companies I and J came marching on, and before very long we were rapidly getting used to the orderly disorder of the range. The coaches were called up for their opening try, and suddenly I heard the order for the first round to begin. The shots began to rap out, sharp and heavy.
Behind each set of three targets a platoon was stationed. The men stood and watched, or sat and waited, or lay and tried their squeeze. Orderlies, sergeants, and platoon commanders hurried to and fro. Loretta came to our group and said “Don’t stand there, men, like a flock of sheep”; but when we paid no attention, faded away. The Captain’s powerful voice was every few moments heard: “Another man here on target 36. Fleming in hospital? Then send up the next man. We must waste no time.” “Ammunition here at No. 27.” “Every man ready with his score card and his score book.” In but a few minutes the firing, which at the first was so noticeable, became a commonplace, yet it was worth listening to. From along the line came scattered reports, like the blows of a heavy rod on very heavy carpet, now slowly separate, now close together, now sharply double. In answer the whip-like echoes slashed out from the woods. The drab men stood, or sauntered, or hurried; the figures of the shooters lay prone, each with an eager coach crouching over him, correcting his position, urging steadiness, repeating “Squeeze! Squeeze!” Behind the line sat scorers at their wooden stands, behind them the first sergeant received the records. The company flags, marking the line beyond which the waiting men might not advance, flapped steadily in the breeze.
And in front of all, three hundred yards away, stood up the gray sandbank, the stopper of the bullets. Some shots went over, to land in the distant woods beyond, whose encircling signs warn all wanderers to keep out. “There are hornets in those woods today, gentlemen,” said the captain yesterday as we passed beyond the range. “We will keep away.” There are thirty-six blackboards numbered in order, and between them are the great targets of manila paper, with their circles and the heavy spot at the centre. As a man shoots his target sinks, its mate immediately rises in the same spot, and then upon its face appears, moved by the markers concealed in the pit below, the record of the shot. A red flag slowly waved—a miss!—a black cross on a white circle, a red disk, or best of all, a white disk that obliterates “the bull.” The scorers interpret. “A four at three o’clock,” “a three at nine o’clock,” “a clean five, high up,” “a nipper four at twelve o’clock,” and with a little chuckle, “a ricochet five!”