Soldier of the Horse by Robert W. Mackay Page A

you would a dancing partner, if you had one. Ferguson! Nice shot.”
    Slowly, the ragged volleys became more synchronized. Magazines were reloaded and the men told to fire at will. When magazines were empty and bolts drawn back to demonstrate there were no rounds in the breeches, the privates rested their weapons on the ground. Planck led them down range, where they removed the now-shredded paper targets. They placed new ones, then lined up at a hundred yards, twice the previous distance.
    Tom noticed that Lieutenant Inkmann had reappeared and ridden his horse to the back of the firing line. He dismounted, tied his reins to a post, and stood, hands clasped behind him, watching the action.
    This time around Planck had to use binoculars to spot the bullet holes. The men shot two more magazines, and Planck ordered them once again to ground rifles.
    Inkmann spoke up. “Macrae, you didn’t do so well at this range.”
    â€œI thought I did, sir.”
    Planck led the men to the butts, mounds of earth banked up to absorb the rounds after they passed through the targets. Tom’s target had three shots outside the bull; the rest had been in the black. The centre of the bullseye was shot away.
    Inkmann mounted and joined them at the butts. “Couldn’t see bullet holes from back there,” he muttered. He yanked on his reins, forcing his horse to cramp its neck back and stamp nervously, and raised his voice to add, “You missed three, Macrae.” His horse shook its head, and Inkmann turned it in a tight circle. “Carry on, Sergeant.” He dug his heels into the horse’s sides and trotted back toward barracks.
    Ferguson nudged Tom in the ribs. “I don’t think he likes ye much. What’d ye do t’ him?”
    â€œI knew his brother back when. It’s a long story.”
    â€œCut the cackle on the firing line,” Planck interrupted. “Back you go, men. Prone position, stand by to reload.”
    Johanson spoke up. “Hell, Sergeant, why don’t we fire standing up? See who can really shoot?”
    â€œStanding? Let’s see you cowboys show me you can shoot prone first. I haven’t seen much yet.”
    An hour later, amid grumblings about tender shoulders, Planck decided they’d had enough. Tom’s ears were still jangling from the gunfire, but his shooting was the best of the lot. Shooting had always seemed straightforward: line up the sights, deep breath, let half out, stay on the target, squeeze, and . . . fire.
    Planck turned to Tom. “Where’d you learn how to shoot, Private?”
    â€œWhen we were kids we had to get a rabbit with a .22 before we had any breakfast.”
    Johanson had walked up. “Don’t give us that! I know you Red River types—you’d have oatmeal, not rabbit. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
    Planck interrupted. “Right—enough chatter. Fall in.”
    The men shambled to attention and squared off.
    â€œRight turn. Quick—march!”
    Planck drove the men hard all the way to their barracks, at times halting them, turning them back, then marching them forward again. Whenever he was out of earshot, the privates kept up a running commentary about Limeys, sergeants, and other irritants.
    Ferguson panted, “How come, for Christ’s sake, we sign up to fight the Hun and we have t’ fight the army first? And I thought the police force was hidebound!”
    Tom laughed.
    Planck stopped the section and stalked from one end of the line of men to the other, eyeing each of them. He stopped a foot from Tom. “So we’re pretty tough, are we? Spoiling for a fight? Is that what you want?”
    What Tom wanted was to get dismissed, now that they were back at barracks, and make use of a weekend pass. Mixing it up with a sergeant would not help with that. “No, Sergeant.”
    â€œEasy to talk, isn’t it?” Planck snarled, once again pacing in front of