iring positions. Two hundred yards away the big targets were
lined up like billboards along the line of pits.

From the range control tower in the middle of the firing line, the
bullhorn speakers blared. "Familiarization fire. Prone position."
Twenty riflemen dropped to their knees and then forward onto their
bellies, their cheeks cuddling the stocks of the rifles.

"Twenty rounds. With ball ammunition, load and lock." Twenty bolts
snapped shut.

"Ready on the right? Ready on the left?"

The flank safety officer signaled. "Ready on the firing line," the
speakers blared. "Commence firing."

Jed squinted down the sights and carefully squeezed off a shot. A
ragged volley followed down the line. Jed was in position Number
Eighteen and down range, his target atop a large painted sign bearing
the same number, dropped. Jed rolled over and yelled at Corporal
Weisbaum. "Hey, corporal. I must have done shot 'n broke that there
target. It just fell down."

Weisbaum grinned. "You didn't break nothing, hillbilly. You just got
lucky and hit somewhere on the target. Every time you hit it, they
pull it down and mark where your shot hit so you can correct your
sights. See, here it comes back up again."

Target Number Eighteen rose above the pits. In the dead center of the
small black bull's-eye was a small white dot. Weisbaum stared at the
target, then swung a pair of binoculars to his eyes. "Man, talk about
luck. You hit it smack in the center of the black."

The target dropped again for a pasted patch over the hole. Then it
came up.

Jed grinned happily and rolled back to the prone position, looked
briefly down the sight and squeezed off another round. The target
dropped again. In a moment it was back up, the same white marker disk
showing in the black. Weisbaum put the glasses to his eyes again. "I
knew it was luck. You musta missed it, hillbilly, cause that's the
same mark you had last shot."

Jed frowned and waited for the target to be pulled and pasted, then
fired again. Once more it came up with the identical white marker in
the center. It was Weisbaum's turn to frown. "Better check that sight,
Cromwell. You can't shoot on luck forever. Them last two rounds never
touched the target."

The range radio safety operator came up to the corporal and handed him
the walkie talkie. "Pit wants to talk to you, corporal."

Weisbaum took the handset and held it to his ear. "This is Corporal
Weisbaum. Yeah. He WHAT! You sure? Y