The interior of the butts is an unexpectedly spacious place. From the
nearest firing-point you would not suspect their existence, except
when the targets are up. Imagine a sort of miniature railway
station--or rather, half a railway station--sunk into the ground, with
a very long platform and a very low roof--eight feet high at the most.
Upon the opposite side of this station, instead of the other platform,
rises the sandy ridge previously mentioned--the stop-butt--crowned
with its row of number-boards. Along the permanent way, in place of
sleepers and metals, runs a long and narrow trough, in which, instead
of railway carriages, some thirty great iron frames are standing side
by side. These frames are double, and hold the targets. They are so
arranged that if one is pushed up the other comes down. The markers
stand along the platform, like railway porters.
There are two markers to each target. They, stand with their backs to
the firers, comfortably conscious of several feet of earth and a stout
brick wall, between them and low shooters. Number one squats down,
paste-pot in hand, and repairs the bullet-holes in the unemployed
target with patches of black or white paper. Number two, brandishing a
pole to which is attached a disc, black on one side and white on the
other, is acquiring a permanent crick in the neck through gaping
upwards at the target in search of hits. He has to be sharp-eyed, for
the bullet-hole is a small one, and springs into existence without any
other intimation than a spirt of sand on the bank twenty yards
behind. He must be alert, too, and signal the shots as they are made;
otherwise the telephone will begin to interest itself on his behalf.
The bell will ring, and a sarcastic voice will intimate--assuming that
you can hear what it says--that C Company are sending a wreath and
message of condolence as their contribution to the funeral of the
marker at Number Seven target, who appears to have died at his post
within the last ten minutes; coupled with a polite request that his
successor may be appointed as rapidly as possible, as the war is not
likely to last more than three years. To this the butt-officer replies
that C Company had better come a bit closer to the target and try, try
again.
There are practically no restrictions as to the length to which one
may go in insulting butt-markers. The Geneva Convention is silent upon
the subject, partly because it is almost impossible to say anything
which can really hurt a marker's feelings, and partly because the
butt-officer always has the last word in any unpleasantness which may
arise. That is to say, when defeated over the telephone, he can
always lower his targets, and with his myrmidons feign abstraction or
insensibility until an overheated subaltern arrives at the double from
the five-hundred-yards firing-point, conveying news of surrender.
Captain Wagstaffe was an admitted master of this game. He was a
difficult subject to handle, for he was accustomed to return an eye
for an eye when repartees were being exchanged; and when overborne
by heavier metal--say, a peripatetic "brass-hat" from Hythe--he was
accustomed to haul up the red butt-flag (which automatically brings
all firing to a standstill), and stroll down the range to refute the
intruder at close quarters. We must add that he was a most efficient
butt-officer. When he was on duty, markers were most assiduous in
their attention to theirs, which is not always the case.
Thomas Atkins rather enjoys marking. For one thing, he is permitted
to remove as much clothing as he pleases, and to cover himself with
stickiness and grime to his heart's content--always a highly prized
privilege. He is also allowed to smoke, to exchange full-flavoured
persiflage with his neighbours, and to refresh himself from time
to time with mysterious items of provender wrapped in scraps of
newspaper. Given an easy-going butt-officer and some timid subalterns,
he can spend a very agreeable morning. Even when discipline is strict,
marking is preferable to most other fatigues.
Crack! Crack! Crack! The fusilade has begun. Privates Ogg and Hogg are
in charge of Number Thirteen target. They are beguiling the tedium
of their task by a friendly gamble with the markers on Number
Fourteen--Privates Cosh and Tosh. The rules of the game are simplicity
itself. After each detail has fired, the target with the higher score
receives the sum of one penny from its opponents. At the present
moment, after a long run of adversity, Privates Cosh and Tosh are one
penny to the good. Once again fortune smiles upon them. The first two
shots go right through the bull--eight points straight away. The third
is an inner; the fourth another bull; the fifth just grazes the line
separating inners from outers. Private Tosh, who is scoring, promptly
signals an inner. Meanwhile, target Number Thirteen is also being
liberally marked--but by nothing of a remunerative nature. The
gentleman at the firing-point is taking what is known as "a fine
sight"--so fine, indeed, that each successive bullet either buries
itself in the turf fifty yards short, or ricochets joyously from
off the bank in front, hurling itself sideways through the target,
accompanied by a storm of gravel, and tearing holes therein which even
the biassed Ogg cannot class as clean hits.
"We hae gotten eighteen that time," announces Mr. Tosh to his rival,
swinging his disc and inwardly blessing his unknown benefactor. (For
obvious reasons the firer is known only to the marker by a number.)
"Hoo's a' wi' you, Jock?"
"There's a [adjective] body here," replies Ogg, with gloomy sarcasm,
"flingin' bricks through this yin!" He picks up the red-and-white flag
for the fourth time, and unfurls it indignantly to the breeze.
"Here the officer!" says the warning voice of Hogg. "I doot he'll no
allow your last yin, Peter."
He is right. The subaltern in charge of targets Thirteen to Sixteen,
after a pained glance at the battered countenance of Number Thirteen,
pauses before Fourteen, and jots down a figure on his butt-register.
"Fower, fower, fower, three, three, sirr," announces Tosh politely.
"Three bulls, one inner, and an ahter, sir," proclaims the Cockney
sergeant simultaneously.
"Now, suppose _I_ try," suggests the subaltern gently.
He examines the target, promptly disallows Tosh's last inner, and
passes on.
"Seventeen _only!_" remarks Private Ogg severely. "I thocht sae!"
Private Cosh speaks--for the first time--removing a paste-brush, and
some patching-paper from his mouth--
"Still, it's better nor a wash-oot! And onyway, you're due us tippence
the noo!"
By way of contrast to the frivolous game of chance in the butts, the
proceedings at the firing-point resolve themselves into a desperately
earnest test of skill. The fortnight's range-practice is drawing to a
close. Each evening registers have been made up, and firing averages
adjusted, with the result that A and D Companies are found to have
entirely outdistanced B and C, and to be running neck and neck for the
championship of the battalion. Up till this morning D's average worked
out at something under fifteen (out of a possible twenty), and A's at
something over fourteen points. Both are quite amazing and incredible
averages for a recruits' course; but then nearly everything about
"K(1)" is amazing and incredible. Up till half an hour ago D had, if
anything, increased their lead: then dire calamity overtook them.
One Pumpherston, Sergeant-Major and crack shot of the Company,
solemnly blows down the barrel of his rifle and prostrates himself
majestically upon his more than considerable stomach, for the purpose
of firing his five rounds at five hundred yards. His average score
so far has been one under "possible." Three officers and a couple of
stray corporals gather behind him in eulogistic attitudes.
"How are the Company doing generally, Sergeant-Major?" inquires the
Captain of D Company.
"Very well, sirr, except for some carelessness," replies the great
man impressively. "That man there"--he indicates a shrinking figure
hurrying rearwards--"has just spoilt his own score and another man's
by putting two shots on the wrong target."
There is a horrified hum at this, for to fire upon some one else's
target is the gravest crime in musketry. In the first place, it counts
a miss for yourself. In the second, it may do a grievous wrong to your
neighbour; for the law ordains that, in the event of more than five
shots being found upon any target, only the worst five shall count.
Therefore, if your unsolicited contribution takes the form of an
outer, it must be counted, to the exclusion, possibly, of a bull. The
culprit broke into a double.
Having delivered himself, Sergeant-Major Pumpherston graciously
accepted the charger of cartridges which an obsequious acolyte was
proffering, rammed it into the magazine, adjusted the sights, spread
out his legs to an obtuse angle, and fired his first shot.
All eyes were turned upon target Number Seven. But there was no
signal. All the other markers were busy flourishing discs or flags;
only Number Seven remained cold and aloof.
The Captain of D Company laughed satirically.
"Number Seven gone to have his hair cut!" he observed.
"Third time this morning, sir," added a sycophantic subaltern.
The sergeant-major smiled indulgently,
"I can do without signals, sir," he said "I know where the shot went
all right. I must get the next a _little_ more to the left. That last
one was a bit too near to three o'clock to be a certainty."
He fired again--with precisely the same result.
Every one was quite apologetic to the sergeant-major this time.
"This must be stopped," announced the Captain. "Mr. Simson, ring up
Captain Wagstaffe on the telephone."
But the sergeant-major would not hear of this.
"The butt-registers are good enough for me, sir," he said with a
paternal smile. He fired again. Once more the target stared back,
blank and unresponsive.
This time the audience were too disgusted to speak. They merely
shrugged their shoulders and glanced at one another with sarcastic
smiles. The Captain, who had suffered a heavy reverse at the hands
of Captain Wagstaffe earlier in the morning, began to rehearse the
wording of his address over the telephone.
The sergeant-major fired his last two shots with impressive
aplomb--only to be absolutely ignored twice more by Number Seven. Then
he rose to his feet and saluted with ostentatious respectfulness.
"Four bulls and one inner, I _think_, sir. I'm afraid I pulled that
last one off a bit."
The Captain is already at the telephone. For the moment this most
feminine of instruments is found to be in an accommodating frame of
mind. Captain Wagstaffe's voice is quickly heard.
"That you, Wagstaffe?" inquires the Captain. "I'm so sorry to bother
you, but could you make inquiries and ascertain when the marker on
Number Seven is likely to come out of the chloroform?"
"He has been sitting up and taking nourishment for some hours,"
replies the voice of Wagstaffe. "What message can I deliver to him?"
"None in particular, except that he has not signalled a single one of
Sergeant-Major Pumpherston's shots!" replies the Captain of D, with
crushing simplicity.
"Half a mo'!" replies Wagstaffe.... Then, presently--
"Hallo! Are you there, Whitson?"
"Yes. We are still here," Captain Whitson assures him frigidly.
"Right. Well, I have examined Number Seven target, and there are no
shots on it of any kind whatever. But there are ten shots on Number
Eight, if that's any help. Buck up with the next lot, will you? We are
getting rather bored here. So long!"
There was nothing in it now. D Company had finished. The last two
representatives of A were firing, and subalterns with note-books were
performing prodigies of arithmetic. Bobby Little calculated that if
these two scored eighteen points each they would pull the Company's
total average up to fifteen precisely, beating D by a decimal.
The two slender threads upon which the success of this enterprise hung
were named Lindsay and Budge. Lindsay was a phlegmatic youth with
watery eyes. Nothing disturbed him, which was fortunate, for the
commotion which surrounded him was considerable. A stout sergeant
lay beside him on a waterproof sheet, whispering excited counsels of
perfection, while Bobby Little danced in the rear, beseeching him to
fire upon the proper target.
"Now, Lindsay," said Captain Whitson, in a trembling voice, "you are
going to get into a good comfortable position, take your time, and
score five bulls."
The amazing part of it all was that Lindsay very nearly did score five
bulls. He actually got four, and would have had a fifth had not the
stout sergeant, in excess of solicitude, tenderly wiped his watery eye
for him with a grubby handkerchief just as he took the first pull for
his third shot.
Altogether he scored nineteen; and the gallery, full of
congratulations, moved on to inspect the performance of Private Budge,
an extremely nervous subject: who, thanks to the fact that public
attention had been concentrated so far upon Lindsay, and that his
ministering sergeant was a matter-of-fact individual of few words, had
put on two bulls--eight points. He now required to score only nine
points in three shots.
Suddenly the hapless youth became aware of the breathless group in his
rear. He promptly pulled his trigger, and just nicked the outside edge
of the target--two points.
"I doot I'm gettin' a thing nairvous," he muttered apologetically to
the sergeant.
"Havers! Shut your held and give the bull a bash!" responded that
admirable person.
The twitching Budge, bracing himself, scored an inner--three points.
"A bull, and we do it!" murmured Bobby Little. Fortunately Budge did
not hear.
"Ye're no daen badly," admitted the sergeant grudgingly.
Budge, a little piqued, determined to do better. He raised his
foresight slowly; took the first pull; touched "six o'clock" on the
distant bull--luckily the light was perfect--and took the second pull
for the last time.
Next moment a white disc rose slowly out of the earth and covered the
bull's-eye.
So Bobby Little was able next morning to congratulate his disciples
upon being "the best-shooting platoon in the best-shooting Company in
the best-shooting Battalion in the Brigade."
Not less than fifty other subalterns within a radius of five miles
were saying the same thing to their platoons. It is right to foster a
spirit of emulation in young troops.