Yet we can tell they are ripe to run.
Something wavers, and, while we wonder,
Their center trenches are emptying out,
And, before their useless flanks go under,
Our guns have pounded retreat to rout!
THE PARABLE OF BOY JONES
This tale was written several years before the War, as you can see for yourselves. It is founded on fact, and it is meant to show that one ought to try to recognize facts, even when they are unpleasant and inconvenient.
The long shed of the Village Rifle Club reeked with the oniony smell of smokeless powder, machine-oil, and creosote from the stop-butt, as man after man laid himself down and fired at the miniature target sixty feet away. The Instructor’s voice echoed under the corrugated iron roof.
“Squeeze, Matthews, squeeze! Jerking your shoulder won’t help the bullet.... Gordon, you’re canting your gun to the left.... Hold your breath when the sights come on.... Fenwick, was that a bull? Then it’s only a fluke, for your last at two o’clock was an outer. You don’t know where you’re shooting.”
“I call this monotonous,” said Boy Jones, who had been brought by a friend to look at the show. “Where does the fun come in?”