blue.
The only mental relief came when we arrived at the shelter where a few
days ago we found Vera.

Corder looked at the sign in front of it, and read it out. "Machine gun
emplacement! Very appropriate!"

I couldn't help smiling, nor could the rest, except David, who for
politeness tried to be blank, and thoroughly warmed himself by the inward
struggle, turning quite red. When the captain got us back to the road and
"fell us out" (note the idiom!) we had calisthenics, with pushing matches
that put warmth into us. And then we marched in skirmish line through low
bushes for half a mile, till the captain lined us up for blank cartridge
practice.

We had struck another part of the same abandoned railroad, from which was
plainly visible, at perhaps two hundred yards, the gable of a deserted
shack. The captain sent to it a couple of men, who tacked up a target on
it. Then first the coaches, our experienced riflemen, and after them the
platoons one by one, came forward, every man being ready with his two
clips of blank cartridges. The slings were adjusted, each line as it came
up loaded with the first clip, and at the command "Targets--up!" threw
itself flat, took position, and began to fire. The lieutenant called out
the ten second intervals. Proper firing would bring the exhaustion of the
first clip at about one minute. Then the second clip would be inserted,
and should be finished with the second minute.

I cautioned my coach to remind me to keep my eye away from the cocking
piece, and after testing sling and ground, threw myself down and got into
position at the word. Well, it wasn't difficult to fire; though the noise
of the gun was much greater than that of the gallery rifle there was no
recoil; and I tried to be as steady as possible in aiming and squeezing.
The bullseye was the silhouette, life size, of a man lying prone and
firing at me. Instructions were to aim at the bottom of the target, about
a foot below him. The crack of my neighbor's piece, very loud and sharp,
was the most uncomfortable part of the performance, and I shall shoot
tomorrow with cotton in my ears; many decided likewise. I plugged away
steadily, the ammunition worked well, and I finished my second clip with
about fifteen seconds to spare. Then I stood up and brushed myself, with
no one to prove that I had not made a perfect score.

One hundred and fifty men shooting ten rounds each--that meant 1500
shells left on the ground, with 300 clips,