CHAPTER VII
THE MATCH
Brigadier-general Harding, grizzled, grim, but possessing that humanquality without which no commander of men is entirely successful, gazedinto the level, steady, smiling brown eyes of the boy who stoodstraight, tall and every inch a soldier before him.
"Anyone who understands shooting at all ought to be able to tell what heknows and how he does it," Herbert answered. "Shooting is a good deallike anything else that's lots of fun; you've got to love it and studyit and have good eyes and then practise. And then, too, there's the gun.You've got to have a perfect gun to make A-1 scores and to do any fancyshooting."
"Well, that's a good gun, isn't it?"
"No; not very. I guess they make them so fast and so many of them thatthe boring tool wears and the rifling is not the best. Then, too, thesights may not be perfectly centered--you've got to look to that. Thestock, too, is queer; it doesn't fit like a gun should."
"I have been led to suppose that this is as good as a rifle could be."
"It may be as good as an army gun can be made on contract, cheaply andin great quantities. But I doubt even that. As a fine shooting-piece itis not to be mentioned alongside of the high-grade sporting rifles youcan buy. If you wanted to go into a rifle match, or if you went afterlions or elephants or grizzly bears you wouldn't pick out this; you'dget a gun with a reputation and that you could rely on perfectly. With agun of that sort a nearly perfect score on a six-inch bull's-eyewouldn't be out of the way."
"But these guns are all inspected, I am told," argued the general.
"You can only inspect the shooting qualities of a gun by trying itcarefully; the bore might look all right, but yet the grooves maykeyhole a bullet or cut one side out of it and make it shoot almostaround a corner."
"You keep your gun clean, of course? A dirty gun may give bad results."
"Perfectly clean! A dirty gun will never shoot straight."
The general turned to Roy Flynn.
"And you can do this sort of hitting, too? Let's see you."
And Roy did it, not exactly punching a big hole in the center of hisbull's-eye with a few only a little nearer the edge, as Herbert haddone, but all his shots were safely in the black. Again the letter "P"went up and genuine admiration was expressed by the little coterie ofonlookers. Roy, answering direct praise from Colonel Walling, indicatedhis chum.
"Owe it to him, sir. He taught me to shoot. Couldn't hit a flock ofchurch steeples comin' at me before he showed me. I used to have a sortof bright idea that the harder you pulled the trigger the harder sheshot, until he told me and which end to put to me shoulder. But I agreewith him about these fowlin' pieces; they weren't rightly made forshootin' at all, but I think for beatin' carpet. You ought to just seeme own gun and Whitcomb's."
"What calibers are your guns?" asked the general.
"They shoot a 30-30," Herbert said.
"Would you boys prefer using them?"
Both expressed themselves as most pleased to be allowed to do this.
"Then send for them; we shall have them bored for the governmentcartridge, if you are willing, and see if you can show them superior.Will you see that this is done, Captain Leighton? Now, Whitcomb, wheninstructing, how would you go about it, first?"
"Show a man how to hold a gun and how to pull it hard against hisshoulder. Then to see his sights, hunting sights at first, with botheyes open."
"Both open?"
"By all means, sir. That doesn't strain the sighting eye; it doesn't dimthe object fired at; it permits, on the plan of the stereoscope, to getsome idea of the distance of the target. I think that nearly all veryexpert shots open both eyes; all trap shooters do."
The officers all laughed outright and the general queried:
"How about that, Captain Pierce? You are an expert shot, I believe."
"Not that expert!" The officer addressed waved his hand at the targets."Perhaps the reason is that I shut one eye. But the best marksman I everknew, excepting present company of course, an old fellow in the West,used to open both eyes; he said no man could shoot excellently with oneeye shut. And yet, general, our physical examiners condemn a bad righteye and admit a bad left one."
"That's a question for them to settle at Washington. Well, gentlemen,have these scores all turned in for a general conference on the subjectand we shall pick our quota of men for this new formation and recommendofficers. I shall name Whitcomb in ours, for one squad, and as aninstructor until they leave. Come, there is much else to do."
"Fine, fine, fine business, old scout!" caroled Roy when the two werealone. "I knew you'd catch the boss."
"But, Roy, it isn't fair. I couldn't get in a word--but you also deserveto be made a corporal."
"Cor-nothing. A corpse, mebbe. And if you don't have me in your squad,then, me for a deserter, by cracky! Say, I wonder what they are going todo with us as lead slingers, anyway."
But this query was to remain unanswered for many a long day, duringwhich time the business of the camp, that of making expert soldiers,went on through the summer months, the boys seeing many changes takeplace in the make-up of the troops.
After a time some were sent to the South; others came: regiments ofrookies, National Guardsmen, regulars or some companies made up of allof these, the purpose being for the experienced men to set thegreenhorns an example.
But almost unchanged, though increasing in numbers, the marksmen'splatoon, at first so called, but growing at last under instruction intoa full provisional company, went bravely on perfecting itself in the artof getting ready to knock over individual Germans at long range, or topot a low-flying enemy airplane.
At this latter practice especially Herbert became the admiration of thecamp. Airplane-shaped balloons were sent up on windy days for the men topractise shooting at as they were blown swiftly by, but the majoritywere unsuccessful in hitting them, though a degree of excellence on thepart of many rapid-firing marksmen was gained.
A lanky, loose-jointed, slow-moving young fellow from the mountains ofKentucky, Jed Shoemaker by name, long practised in the truly fine art ofbarking squirrels and knocking the heads off grouse, alternated withHerbert in holding the record for puncturing and bringing down thesemake-believe flying-machines; and in several contests between the two atringed targets on short range the Kentuckian led slightly in scoring,but at long range, over a hundred yards, Herb generally had a little thebetter of it.
At these matches the utmost good nature was shown by both principals,though there were several rooters for Herbert who tried to belittle themountaineer's shooting. But the big fellow did not let this mar thekindliness in his soul nor lessen his natural generosity toward acompetitor. He would not boast over his winning.
Every time Herbert made a particularly fine shot or won a match hisopponent would slap him on the back and shout:
"Center! Right in theh middle, b'gosh! Good! That's theh dern timeyou-all seed yer sights fine an' wiped my eye! Good boy!"
And Herbert was not to be outdone in this matter. He recognized theKentuckian's real worth and a warm friendship sprang up between them.Roy Flynn, ever jolly, bright and big-hearted, and strong-minded BillyPhillips, made up a quartet that always pulled together and that neverpermitted to go unchallenged any snobbish reference or slurs at themountaineer's backwoods' crudity. An army camp is a mecca of democracy,and any departure from the "Hail, fellow! Well met!" scheme of things isalmost unanimously condemned.
Nevertheless, soldiers are but human, and in spite of their grim workthey want something to laugh at, to make merry over, to relieve thetension of long hours of hard and almost constant effort. And suchfellows as Jed Shoemaker, in appearance, manners, talk, could not helpfurnishing his companions with the desired means for hilarity at the bigfellow's expense.
But the thing went further than this. There are in every big bunch ofboys some who seem to get actual satisfaction out of turning jest toearnest, of making hateful reference out of happy chance; and such inthe camp also took their wh
ack at poor Jed.
Among this fish-minded, low-diving fry was Martin Gaul, he of thewhisky-imbibing tendencies. He did not seem to be able to see theharmless, jovial, that's-a-good-joke-on-me character of the Kentuckianand so he turned what ludicrousness there was into bitter ridicule.
Whitcomb, Phillips, and Williams had agreed to say nothing aboutFlynn's scrap with Gaul, and Roy himself was the very last man to tellof it. Therefore Gaul came to recognize this and to gradually takeadvantage of it, exerting again his bluster and bullying tactics wherehe thought he could get away with them. Gaul was never jovial orgood-natured, but in time became known in Company H barracks as "thegrouchy one."
Shoemaker, of Company D, now also an instructor in rifle practise and anewly appointed corporal in the marksmen's platoon, was talking toseveral men outside of barracks when Gaul joined them.
"We-all," announced the Kentuckian, "are a-goin' tu have a leetle riflematch atween two picked teams, an' hit's goin' tu be a corker! Me an'Whitcomb's captins of theh two bunches, an' jedgin' from theh way someo' theh fellers is shootin' lately, it'll be a sight tu make yer eyeswatter."
"If your eyes watered much there wouldn't be anything left of you, youbig simp!" snapped Gaul. "You don't think you can get a bunch that canshoot with Whitcomb's crew; do you? Won't have a show." Gaul seemedunusually bitter.
"Mebbe not! Mebbe not! Cain't jest tell till they try. Theh's rightsmart fellers tu pick from."
"Good land, fellow, where did you learn to talk? You murder the languagelike a butcher sticks hogs. Can't you speak English better?"
"Well, I hain't had no chanct tu go tu school none, er not much, anyway.Sort o' reckon I kin make me understood, though, some, even though Icain't spout like you-all, b'gosh!"
"'You-all! Hain't! Reckon! Chanct!' Saints have mercy! If I had to talklike that I'd commit suicide. When you came here from where you hang upyour hat why didn't you bring some brains, or don't they have 'em downthere?"
"They has 'em, sure," laughed Jed, "but mebbe they don't try to use 'emnone, for mighty few of 'em goes tu jail er Congress. When this heh waris over how'd you-all like tu come down theh in our mountings an' learnwe-uns some o' your blame smart orneryness?"
This raised a laugh at Gaul and it very naturally made that fellow losehis temper. And with him to get angry was to want to fight, or threatenit, getting away with the bluff, if possible.
"What you want is a good, hard wallop, you lop-sided ignoramus, andmebbe you'll get it if you get too gay with me!" Had Gaul turned thenand seen Herb and Roy standing observant across the company street hewould have been less blustering, but now he had to talk loud to offsetShoemaker's wit.
But lanky Jed wasted no more repartee on that evidently quarrelsomefellow, the sting of whose sarcasm he had repeatedly felt before. Heonly laughed, then grew suddenly grave. He thrust his long face almostagainst that of Gaul.
"I'm a-waitin' fer thet wallop!" he invited.
Gaul was more of a moral coward than a physical one; he could never haveit said that he refused such a dare, especially from an ignorant guy whosurely could know nothing of the manly art. And so Gaul made the mistakeof drawing back for a swinging punch and in that second Jed's face waswithdrawn and with one swift leap upward, which stunt previously no onewould have given him credit for, he shot out two long legs theextremities of which caught Gaul in the chest and sent him to earth in aheap. The others had to lift him to his feet.
The Brighton Boys in the Trenches Page 7
