"It's gey funny, sir."
"Not so very funny, either," replied the G.O.C., "especially when I look at your pencil. It's the exact circumference of a bullet, and a little paste on each side shows that you have been sticking it through the target."
"No' me, sir! No' me, sir!"
"Oh no—it was your pencil. Put him in the guardroom, colonel, and all of your companies must fire over again with neutral officers in the butts. Good-day." And off stamped the G.O.C. with a grim smile in his eyes. He knew Tommy Atkins, and had caught many a regiment before. In the next shooting many "marksmen" suddenly fell to the status of third-class shots. Thus was a Bisley standard foiled. Tamson got seven days' cells without the proverbial option. But he didn't mind. He was thirty shillings [pg 156] to the good. Colonel Corkleg's opinion cannot be printed.
Having performed the necessary musketry course, all hands were initiated into skirmishing and the need of taking cover. Skirmishing, as you are aware, was invented to dodge the unpleasant effects of "Black Marias," "Coal Boxes," and whizzing volleys of death in tabloid form. This new formation gives all the sporting chance of getting through a war and winning a medal and a wife. As for taking cover, that undignified game has robbed war of much of its chivalry, compelling the most austere martinet to hide behind a blade of grass. This sort of thing would not have pleased the army of Wellington. Imagine the Iron Duke's Guards, clad in the glories of red and gold, hiding in a mud-hole, or crawling along a ditch, like a lot of boy scouts. These gentlemen would have declared that the Army was going to the dogs. Speaking of dogs, the soldier of to-day is very much of a dog. He is expected to scent, crouch, crawl, and spring on his prey. The closer he gets to mother earth the better his chance of getting a bite. Of course, such a proceeding is very annoying to one with the girth of Falstaff or Bailie [pg 157] Nicol Jarvie. And it was a very difficult matter to get these gallants to understand the tricks of the weasel. The sudden flop on to mother earth at first dislocated the internal bag of tricks. Crawling, too, was bad for their tender knees. Nor did they realise that the effect of posing with their nether regions like humps of khaki meant an unpleasant wound. Think, then, of the difficulties. Imagine training one thousand men into crawling monkeys. You can picture the scene. How weird! How funny! But it had to be done. As the drill-book says, "You must see without being seen, and take advantage of all cover." Thus did the Glesca Mileeshy wriggle and crawl. Darwin would have been delighted. The sight would have convinced him that man did come from the crawling and clambering apes of the forest.
A week of this business fitted them for a more interesting stage—namely, "Artillery Formations," or, in other words, the tactical disposition of men to avoid the effects of artillery fire. The modern shrapnel shell has a forward throw of about 200 yards and a lateral spread of 50 yards. This necessitates the breaking of a company into four [pg 158] little groups. Two groups or sections are in the front line, about 50 yards apart; two in the rear line with about 200 yards between them and the first line, and about 50 yards between sections. The four sections then move forward in a sort of diamond formation. This really prevents a gunner getting the correct range, and even if he does get a hit he can only blot out one of the sections. The sporting chance of life, you will observe, is there for all. Quite a cunning device of our General Staff; presenting to every man the opportunity of glory and the chance (sometimes meagre) of getting home to one's own fireside.
Artillery formation was at first a weird business to the old soldiers accustomed to the straight business and marching with their whiskers in line. The idea of manœuvring in a lot of disordered groups distinctly upset their precise barrack-square drill. It didn't look well, and that seemed a weak point in the scheme. However, as the G.O.C. remarked, "They would be glad of it when the Kaiser had his guns going at them." But we must get on. Well, on reaching, say, seven hundred yards, all were impressed with the need of urgently and rapidly extending [pg 159] to avoid the rude effect of the enemy's rifle-fire. An enemy has little respect for football-like crowds advancing to the attack. Their machine-guns usually squirt out lead injections at a furious rate, with the most startling results, hence the open order at the range indicated. It is here, too, that the soldier must get behind a blade of grass or a jam tin, anything likely to stop the bullet from putting him on the roll of honour. From a vantage point, all are expected to create as many German widows as they possibly can. Quite a murderous job, but delightfully thrilling to the man who has the hereditary thirst for blood. In such a phase, the third-class shot is of little account. The marksman, however, has the time of his life. He can inoculate the brain or the little Mary of his foe at will. Indeed, he can play nasty tricks with the angles of the square-headed Teuton. If such is the case at seven and six hundred yards, imagine the deadliness of matters at five, four, and lesser ranges.
Mistakes will happen in field-firing practices, as officers know to their sorrow. Many rifle-ranges are used as grazing grounds for cattle and sheep. These quadrupeds, [pg 160] as you are aware, have very bad manners. They persist in getting in front of the targets just as a company is opening out a deadly volley. Officers under such circumstances are always careful to cease fire and clear the offenders away. But on one occasion at the Mudtown range the officers happened to be having a little refreshment in the range-keeper's hut. During this interval a flock of prize sheep happened to stroll along in front of the khaki figures. Just then Sergeant Maloney bellowed out—"At the enemy in front—at four hundred—rapid fire."
"Z—r—r—r—p," rattled the volley—not at the targets. The devil had tempted the noble Militiamen to pot the sheep in front. Fifty fell, others screamed and ran blindly about with bullets in their skin.
"Cease fire!" roared Sergeant Maloney, but too late! The damage had been done. "What the ...?..."