19

At the rifle range, one platoon was sent into the “butts”, a sandbagged, deep trench in front of the targets. From this point the targets were raised and lowered, and the shots marked for the rifleman by a disc on the end of a long pole. This allowed him to adjust his sights and aim. A perfect score would place five bullets into the bull’s-eye of the target.

Discipline on the firing line was strict, and only ten men could shoot at the same time. They each had their own .303 Lee-Enfield rifle, equipped with a sling, and operated by single-shot bolt action. If one was left-handed, the process was merely more difficult. Ammunition was issued in clips of five rounds, and every man had to return the empty brass cartridge cases. The firing was done from the prone position, or lying down. Thus, the soldier is stationary, the target is stationary, and the conditions are ideal. Although that is a rare occurrence in actual combat, the rifle is the soldier’s best friend and they have to become acquainted. A red flag flew from a pole, which had no political significance.

The instructor sergeants fired a few preliminary bull’s-eyes to show that it could be done, and then retired behind the firing line to relax with their platoons. The English ex-major chatted with Sergeant Cyples, and they were joined by the ex-Imperial Regimental sergeant major from the detention barracks nearby. He enjoyed dropping over to the range for a sniff of gunpowder when he wasn’t devising new torments for his prisoners. He wore a uniform of officer’s material and the full coat of arms of Great Britain embroidered on his cuffs. He also wore a sword belt and a sweeping white moustache. His status was barely short of Valhalla.

“Good to hear the old bang-bang again, what?” he asked the ex-major. “Great day for potting the Hun….” He laughed. He had been potting plants in his greenhouse in the backwoods of Nova Scotia until this war restored him from grumpy retirement to glory. He wore a spangle of ribbons on his left chest and was said to have been wounded in the Khyber Pass. He walked with a slight limp.

The ex-major of the Territorial Army envied this fellow countryman and his soft job running the detention barracks. However, he laughed dutifully and shifted rather uneasily on his feet. These two men knew one another’s exact position on the social grid of Great Britain, and those roles were inescapably fixed, despite their present positions. Neither of them knew that Sergeant Cyples was also a part of that iron tapestry; they knew only that he came from Winnipeg and was temporarily slotted in their minds without category, excepting his army rank.

Sergeant Browne was aware of this little gathering, of course, but he evaded any contact with Sergeant Cyples. He busied himself on the firing line with false solicitude towards his troops, and cast wary glances at the Regimental sergeant major. He knew very little of the background by which these men were assessing one another, and he was always apprehensive when a superior was nearby. Sergeant Cyples laughed in his staccato manner and jerkily puffed on a cigarette.

Private MacQueen sat in the high grass holding his rifle and idly watching the performance at the far end of the firing line. With no officers present, the Regimental sergeant major was striking the pose of a field marshal, which rather amused MacQueen. The dread inspired by the rumours of a terrible fate in the detention barracks seemed at odds with the Pickwickian aspect of the Imperial RSM. It made Sergeant Cyples look like an angular youth beside those two venerable old warhorses, thought MacQueen. The idea rather startled him—he had never really thought of his friend’s age before.

MacQueen knew enough members of the British hierarchy to mentally catalogue them. With Canadians, it was more difficult. Discounting the natives, which everyone did, the only truly feudal caste were the Quebec and Acadian seigneurs. The old “family compact” bunch in Toronto were tradesmen grown large, and MacQueen knew what the Brits thought of trade. The officers of the militia aped either the English or the Scots, depending on their regiment. The loyalist families were really transplanted Americans. Except for the Governor General, who had been born a German prince, it was a second-hand and slightly fraudulent county fair, and he couldn’t help puzzling over the importance his friend attached to it all. Without the king, they would be nowhere—except possibly rich…. Even their dollars had his head stamped on each one.

MacQueen snapped out of his reverie with Sergeant Browne shouting his name. He jumped to his feet and, holding his rifle, ran to the firing line. Taking his rifle in his left hand he spread his right onto the groundsheet and kicked his legs out behind. The sergeant threw a clip of five rounds beside him and said, “You’re number two.” MacQueen opened the bolt and forced the cartridges into the magazine well. He closed the bolt, forcing one cartridge into the chamber, then adjusted his helmet and peered along the gunsights with his right eye. He aligned the front and rear sights with the target, held his breath, and slowly squeezed the trigger. The rifle recoiled against his shoulder with a crack. The disc signalled that he was slightly to the left of the bull’s eye. He quickly slid the bolt open, ejecting the empty casing, then thrust it forward again to reload. He had not compensated for the breeze that was fluttering the red flag.

When MacQueen had expended his rounds, he rose onto one knee. His score had been fairly good, and he was a quick shot. He watched the other targets as the little discs scored for his fellows. Five feet away he noticed his neighbour, Andy, was wiggling and angling his rifle awkwardly. In an instant, MacQueen turned his head and saw the arched back of Sergeant Browne.

“I’m goin’ to kill that bastard,” Andy muttered, squinting along the rifle.

“Andy, no!” shouted MacQueen. He flung himself towards the other soldier just as the rifle exploded.

MacQueen felt as though he had been hit with a baseball bat. He could smell something burning, and his left shoulder pulled him into a grotesque cartwheel that threw him off the bank of the firing line. He landed sprawled directly at the feet of the startled Regimental sergeant major. The gravel was ground into his face. He then rolled over and saw the tree line disappear from his view. The face of Sergeant Cyples appeared as though at the end of a long tunnel. MacQueen opened his mouth to speak, but then knew that something had gone terribly wrong. Then it was pitch black. Then there was a woman’s face smiling at him. He asked for a cigarette. Then it was black again. He saw his friend Sergeant Cyples standing on a dirt road, aiming a gun at him. He cried out and it was night again. There was no pain, there was no tomorrow, and there was no yesterday. It must have all happened to somebody else, and the darkness was eternity. Then there was not one star in the sky.