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parade ground and then lined them up to fire.
    One by one, the men stepped up to the plate, aimed in the general direction of the target, and pulled the trigger. Time and time again, the shot went wide and the target remained unscathed.
    “This is target practice,” he admonished them, as yet another man stepped up, took desultory aim, and fired. “The point of the exercise is to aim at a target. To aim at and to hit the goddamned target. Not to fire in the air and hope to wing a passing undertaker bird.”
    It was hopeless. The men were too used to firing in a volley and relying on the density of the enemy numbers rather than on their skill with the rifle to make a hit. Half of them didn’t even know how to sight their rifles.
    He picked out the best marksman and had him demonstrate to the other men how to aim and fire with some degree of accuracy.
    The demonstration made little difference to the number of holes punched in the target.
    “We don’t have unlimited supplies of ammunition. Make every bullet count,” he advised the men.
    Neither did his advice help much.
    The sun was beating down on the back of his neck until he felt as if he were broiling on a grill. All he wanted was a bit of shade in the cool of the tent, and a long, cold drink. Preferably one with a good tot of gin in it. And a generous dash of bitters.
    In desperation he tried a different approach. “None of you will be dismissed for the day until each and every one of you has managed to hit the target at least once.”
    This threat had the desired effect. Now even the worst shots among the men took several seconds to properly sight their rifles and take careful aim at the target. Slowly but surely, the line of men who had hit the target at least once grew longer, and the line of those who had yet to make the hit grew shorter.
    His uniform was hot and prickly on his skin, and soaked with sweat. He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, suddenly desperate to escape the discomfort. Why on earth could they not be issued summer-weight uniforms to wear in the heat? Cotton would be so much more comfortable than wool.
    The men in the regiment were calling out advice and encouragement to the ever-dwindling line of poor marksmen. Some of them fired off twenty or thirty shots, still without marking the target.
    He groaned at this evidence of his men’s unpreparedness for war. Again, he only had himself to blame. He should have driven them harder, despite the heat and the boredom of their posting. The rumors that war was imminent were getting stronger by the day. They had to be ready for when the fighting started.
    His sweat was chilling on his body by the time the last man hit the target. The men all let out a cheer, and he joined in heartily.
    With his objective achieved, and just in the nick of time, he had the corporals quickly assemble the men into a column in preparation to marching them off the shooting range and over to the parade ground. It was nearly sunset and the various units of the company from the kitchen hands to the infantrymen were forming up in straight lines on the parade ground, their red tunics forming blocks of geometric color over the dusty ground.
    Raising and lowering the Union Jack was an important ceremony—it was the only time when the company assembled all together. Percy’s chest swelled with pride each time he saw the massed ranks of the company, the power they represented stretched from the dirt on which they stood all the way back to England.
    The company came to attention, the soldiers presented arms while the officers saluted and the Union Jack slowly made its way down the flagpole as the lone bugler played the mournful “Last Post,” signaling the end of yet another day. Satisfied all was well, the company commander dismissed the parade. The assembled men turned a smart ninety degrees to the right and marched the obligatory three paces before dissolving into an untidy mob.
    Percy called his men closer. “Clean your