fle came romance, and the
element of responsibility. We were henceforward fighting men,
numbered units, it was true, with numbered weapons, but for all that,
fighters--men trained to the trade and licensed to the profession.

Our new friend was rather a troublesome individual to begin with. In
rising to the slope he had the trick of breaking free and falling on
the muddy barrack square. A muddy rifle gets rusty, and brings its
owner into trouble, and a severe penalty is considered meet for the
man who comes on parade with a rusty rifle. Bringing the friend from
the slope to the order was a difficult process for us recruits at the
start the back-sight tore at the fingers, and bleeding hands often
testified to the unnatural instinct of the rebellious weapon. But the
unkindest kick of all was given when the slack novice fired the first
shot, and the heel of the butt slipped upwards and struck the jaw.
Then was learnt the first real lesson. The rifle kicks with the heel
and aims for the jaw. Control your friend, humour him; keep him well
in hand and beware his fling.

I was unlucky in my first rifle practice on the miniature range,
and out of my first five shots I did not hit the target once. The
instructor lay by my side on the waterproof ground-sheet (the day was
a wet one, and the range was muddy) and lectured me between misses on
the peculiarities of my weapon and the cultivation of a steady eye.

"Keep the beggar under control," he said. "You've got to coax him, and
not use force. Pull the trigger easily, as though you loved it, and
hold the butt affectionate-like against the shoulder. It's an easy
matter to shoot as you're shooting now. There's shooting and shooting,
and you've got to shoot straight. If you don't you're no dashed good!
Give me the rifle, you're not aiming at the bull, man, you're aiming
at the locality where the bull is grazing."

He took my rifle, slid a cartridge into the breech, and coaxed the
trigger lovingly towards him. Three times he fired, then we went
together to look at the target. Not a bullet fired by him had struck
it. The instructor glared down the barrel of the gun, made some
nasty remarks about deflection, and went back to yell at an orderly
corporal.

"What the dickens did you take this here for?" he cried. "It's a
blooming wash-out,[1] and was never any good. Old as an unpaid bill
and worn bell-mouth it is, and nobody can fire with it."

[Footnote 1: "Wash-out" is a term used