"I know
you hate me like the devil for it," he said, "but you're coming on
finely." And he sent us to the galleries for more practice. We went in
some surprise at his opinion of himself. "Hate him like the devil?"
exclaimed Corder. "The devil we do!"

The waiting on the drill-field became very tedious. So poor is our
equipment that we have but eighteen gallery rifles for our hundred and
fifty men, and it was nearly an hour before I got my first try. My score
this time was the reverse of yesterday, for I got fifty-four out of a
possible fifty, one hundred and eight percent! That was because there
were thirteen holes in the paper, someone having presented me with the
extra three. Counting all the best shots as my own, my official score was
42; yet none of the shots were outside the second ring, and at worst my
score was 39.

In the afternoon my pride had a fall, for after the same tedious wait I
fired my ten rounds at the target. This time I fired prone, both clips
within two minutes. This position, flat on my belly with my legs apart
(in our close quarters it was difficult not to kick my neighbor, and
destructive of aim to have him kick me) with my elbows under me and the
gun, and my head bent back, is in itself hard enough to maintain during a
single shot. But for rapid fire the process is thus. After the first shot
the gun is kept at the shoulder, the muzzle slightly lowered and turned
aside to give the right hand a chance to work; I grasp the bolt handle,
turn it up, pull it back full length, shove it sharply home, turn it
down, and thus have reloaded. Then again I must sight the gun, be sure
not to cant it, be sure not to have my eye too close to the cocking
piece, must get the sights right, hold steady, and squeeze. All this on a
ten seconds' average. After the fifth shot there is a change, for the gun
must be taken from the shoulder and the fresh clip inserted. Then five
more shots at the same rate. No wonder that, though all these days I have
been hardening my elbows and toughening my neck, at the end of my ten
shots I fell over gasping.

And my luck was bad. First my clip would not go easily into the gun, and
made me feel hurried. Next a cartridge jammed, and lost me ten seconds.
Then out of the ten cartridges four missed fire, which put me off my aim.
My coach was ready with more, but they had to be loaded singly, and I had
time to fire only a total of eight, making a miserable score of sixteen.
The captain,