Soldier of the Horse by Robert W. Mackay

work.”
    Planck turned to his latest tormentor. “You’re in the cavalary now, and your main weapon is your sword. If you don’t like the Ross, I couldn’t care less. You’ve still got to use it. I don’t give a damn about what you did in the police or when you were cowboys or what you used to fight off the redskins.” He glared at the men. “The British army has been fighting wars since Christ was a boy soldier. You’re in the army now, and you’ll do as the army says.”
    â€œWe’re not in the British army,” Johanson observed.
    â€œAll right, enough,” fumed Planck. “Retrieve your rifles. Fall in.”
    Tom picked up his rifle and lined up with the others, standing at attention.
    â€œRifles at the high port,” bellowed Planck. The men let out a collective groan and raised their arms overhead, their rifles, weighing in at just under ten pounds, held horizontally.
    â€œRight turn.” The men turned into a single file. “Double—march.”
    They moved off at the double, an awkward, painful run over rough ground, the rifles heavier with every step. Tom had been in the army only a few short weeks, but he had seen quite enough of this form of punishment.
    â€œRight wheel.”
    Tom was at the front of the file of doubling men. He turned right and the rest of the section followed him. Planck kept them running, wheeling every forty or fifty yards, in a square pattern, while he stood in the centre and watched them.
    Tom’s back ached from the unnatural posture. His arms shook, and just as he started to waver and stumble, there was a commotion behind him. He saw over his shoulder that Martens had collapsed. Johanson tripped over him and fell.
    â€œHalt. Shoulder arms.”
    Tom and the rest of the section fought for breath while Planck growled at Martens and Johanson. “You two—on your feet. All you men will report for extra stable duty tonight.”
    Planck ignored the chorus of groans. “Now, back to the task at hand. Fall out. On the firing line, prone position. Open breeches. Check your bores are clear and magazines empty.”
    Guiding them through safety procedures on the rifle range, Planck paced behind the soldiers, correcting firing postures, adjusting grips, ensuring rifle butts were firmly tucked against right shoulders.
    â€œLoad magazines.”
    Tom took five .303 shells from his pouch and pushed them into the rifle’s magazine.
    â€œReady.”
    Eight rifle bolts opened, caught shells pushed up from eight magazines, and closed, propelling shells into breeches. The rifle felt cool to Tom as he moved his right hand from the bolt to the pistol grip, index finger to the trigger. His left elbow was on the ground, hand clamped firmly on the forestock. The Ross was cocked, ready to fire.
    â€œAim.”
    Tom peered through the rear sight and lined up the foresight on his target, the second one from the right. It was only fifty yards away but suddenly looked a lot farther as he squinted down range.
    â€œFire.”
    A scattered volley of shots rang out. Tom flinched at the deafening reports on both sides of him, then bore down, sighted again, and fired. The Ross leapt, banging his shoulder.
    â€œOpen your bolts,” Planck ordered.
    Ears ringing, Tom slid his bolt back.
    Planck pointed out what hopeless specimens they were; at only fifty yards there were just two bullseyes, Tom’s and Ferguson’s.
    On Planck’s order bolts were cycled, pushing fresh rounds into the breeches. The firing drill was repeated, each shot followed by Planck’s comments.
    â€œYou bleeding hayseeds,” he complained. “The British army is over in Belgium right now firing fifteen aimed shots a minute. So let’s get it right, shall we?”
    He was scathing and meticulous as he stalked from man to man. “It’s not going to bite you, Martens. Press it into your shoulder. Grip firmly, like