At Plattsburg

by Allen French

But as for this game of shooting, it is certainly a test of nerve. Nothing else can quite equal it—the strain to get position, to line the sights just right, to hold steady, and then to squeeze. By me on the firing-line the irregular shots were loud and startling, and people were talking and calling all around. Golf, with its reverence for the man about to play, is mild compared to this. The nervous strain of firing is greater, the bodily shock is abrupt and jarring, you have no real chance to make up for a miss by later brilliance or by any luck. No, golf teaches patience and it requires poise, but—as played by the ordinary man—it is no such game as this.

And as between the experts, target shooting is still the bigger sport. The knowledge and judgment required to meet the varying conditions, the steadiness demanded, the fact that the rifleman is preparing himself to meet his country’s greatest emergencies—these put golf (and you know I have loved the game) into the lower place.

I put on my greatcoat again, took the nap that longed to be taken, and then, refreshed and more confident, went to my next turn.

This was at five hundred yards. If you will consider that I was shooting from our house across the meadow, across the railroad bridge, at a circle twenty inches in diameter (about the size of our largest pewter platter) you will understand my task. But I was fussed to begin with, for someone had taken my rifle from the rack, and I had therefore not blacked the sights, nor adjusted the sling, of the one that I hastily borrowed. As I came to the stand I was met by an artillery corporal, evidently a kind of super-coach, who curtly ordered me to do the one thing and the other, and hurried me to my place. I told him how the captain had wanted the sights set for this distance; I had put them so. “That doesn’t go here,” he said, readjusted them himself, and ordered me to lie down. He was so overbearing, and I was so uncertain of my rights, that I took my position and fired my shot. A miss! He blamed me severely, and in general treated me like the dirt under my feet. At my next shot, a poor two, he said, “There you go, thinking you know all about it, and jerking your trigger again.” I said, “On the contrary, I’m not used to the pull of this trigger, and the gun went off before I expected.” From that time on I paid no more attention to him, and perhaps from my manner he saw that it was just as well to let me alone; but he attacked the other man on this target, who feebly protested, and who made a wretched score. My score was coaxed along by our company coach, a nice chap named Haynes, who was most interested and sympathetic. As for me, the artilleryman vexed me so that I shot to kill him, and by imagining him at the target made a thirty-six.

It was an entirely new sensation, to be so bedevilled by such a man, and to know that in wartime I could not reply. When at noon we were marched back to camp and dismissed I sought out Haynes and asked, “What is your opinion of that artillery coach?” Said he, “I’m going to speak to the captain about him.” “Thanks,” I said. “You’ll save me the trouble.” And when again I came back to the post in the afternoon, though the corporal was there, he was very quiet and good.

This incident makes me doubt the value, for such volunteers as we, of the regular non-coms whom they hope to have here next year, if by that time the troops are off the border. What help could such an overbearing conceited drill-master, with no inkling of our difficulties or our point of view, give to such a squad as ours? Would he last a week out of hospital, or we a week out of arrest? No, give us a Plattsburg veteran of one camp as corporal, and appoint as sergeants those who have served two, and we shall come on faster. Further, more men would thus be trained for responsible positions.

In the afternoon we shot at 600 yards. We now had sandbag rests for our left hands (not for our guns) and once more the captain showed his foresight. He had us bring intrenching shovels and a dozen new burlap bags, and soon we were provided with the best sandbags on the range. I had the same nice little Haynes who had coached me on my second target. Unsatisfied as I still am with my showing, I think he drilled into me some idea of my errors, and my score again improved, standing at forty. I feel better than if it had wavered up and down, even if the total had been the same, and can reasonably argue that if the captain kept on increasing the distance, say to 2000 yards, I should make a perfect score. But many men, I find, did their worst at this distance, Randall ending up at 24. Lucy has pegged steadily along, and got into the thirties.

The supper-tables buzzed tonight as never before, every man having his tale to tell, generally a tale of woe. Poor Knudsen is very sore, as his last shot went into his neighbor’s bullseye, and though the neighbor had finished shooting, the shot could not be credited to Knudsen. There are many other stories of misses that spoiled the score, and on the other hand when a man has made a ricochet hit he is not inclined to brag of it. Even those who from my point of view did very well are a little inclined to grumble; and the only really satisfied man is Percy of Squad Nine, who holds today’s record.

Concerning Knudsen’s miss, I now have the whole story. He had as scorer an artillery sergeant who read the flags through field-glasses, and was an unusually long time in scoring the last shot. At last he said “A bull,” and scored a five, which gave Knudsen a perfect record; but he, suspecting something, made the man admit that the bulleye was in the wrong target. Knudsen changed the score himself, a bit of personal heroism that roused the wonder of Pickle, who told me the tale, and ended “Chee, I couldn’t a done it!”

Here is a story of Lieutenant Pendleton, told me by a man who watched the incident. Our top-sergeant was scoring badly at six hundred yards, and the lieutenant said, “Let me try your gun.” So he lay down, and without putting his arm in the sling, rested the gun on the bag, drew it tightly into the shoulder by a hand-grip of the strap, and fired. It was a “two at one o’clock,” which means that the shot struck the outer side of the target about the line, on a clock face, between one o’clock and the centre. “Your sight is too high,” said he, and corrected it. Then he tried again, and got a “three at three o’clock,” which means that he struck on the level of the bull, but still out at the right. “You must correct for windage,” said he then. “I’ll give her one and a quarter.” So once more, with the same rest and grip, he fired. Before the targets could be changed and the shot marked the lieutenant got up, gave the gun to the sergeant, and walked away, saying, “That’s a bull’s eye. You can depend on that sighting, sergeant.” Then the scorer called the shot. A bull’s eye it was, and the sergeant went on to shoot a string of them.