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barrel of the rifle and shrouding the muzzle for a second or two in thick white smoke. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of gunpowder. A runner reported back two bulls and an inner ring.

    ‘So you see,’ said a grinning George to the recruits, ‘even a marksman has his off days. And you’ll have noticed that, while it’s easier to shoot straight on a still day, you have to wait longer between each shot for the smoke to disperse. On a windy day it’s blown away almost immediately. And that’s just the effect of one soldier firing. Imagine the smoke that’s generated by a troop firing volleys. But we’ll come to that. For now just concentrate on loading, aiming and firing independently.’

    And they did - for two whole hours, at the end of which time the recruits were a sorry-looking bunch, their ears ringing, their shoulders sore and their faces grimed with soot. About a third of the group had reached the necessary level of competence and was told to fall out.

    ‘The rest of you,’ George told them, ‘are going to have to do better. You’re either hitting the target but are taking far too long to load and aim or you’re firing too soon and missing. We need to split the difference.’

    George looked at his pocket-watch. It was five past eleven and Harris was due at noon. Nowhere near enough time, but they had to try. ‘You’ve got just under an hour. Get on with it.’

    As the firing resumed, George walked slowly along the line, ready to offer advice where needed. He stopped behind one recruit, a freckled-faced redhead of medium build, and watched him loosing off one wild shot after another. ‘What’s your name, Trooper?

    ‘Penhaligon, sir.’

    ‘And where’re you from?’

    ‘Near Redruth in Cornwall, sir.’

    ‘Well, you’re the first Cornishman I’ve met with a tendency to rush. Take your time. When you’ve got the target lined up, take a deep breath and hold it. Then gently squeeze the trigger.’

    The trooper did as he was bidden. Crack, sounded the next shot, followed by an imperceptible shudder of the straw target.

    ‘High on the right, if I’m not mistaken. Try again.’

    Penhaligon reloaded and took even more time. This time the bullet struck the outer ring.

    ‘Well done,’ said George, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You see the reward for a bit of patience? Keep at it.’

    George continued his pacing, encouraging the good shots and correcting the bad. With the time almost up, he asked Murphy how the men were doing. ‘Pretty well, sir,’ came the reply. ‘Most can manage four in a minute. Fingers crossed the colonel doesn’t choose one of the others.’

    ‘Luck be damned. Let’s reduce the odds by putting the poor shots at either end of the line. Colonel Harris is bound to choose one of the men in the centre: it’s human nature.’

    ‘Good thinking, sir. I’ll do just that.’

    The sound of hoof beats announced the arrival of Harris, Major Wingfield and Adjutant Bell. Harris dismounted and, with the others in his wake, strode up to George. ‘Good morning, Hart. I trust your men are up to scratch.’

    ‘They’re almost there, sir.’

    ‘Almost there, nothing. If they can’t manage five hits in a minute after a morning’s instruction, they’re not fit to serve in the KDG.’

    ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said George, frowning. ‘Did you say five strikes? The adjutant assured me that your requirement, at this early stage of the recruits’ training, was only four aimed shots a minute.’

    ‘Four? Nonsense. Even a child could manage four. No, I certainly said five.’

    ‘That’s as may be, sir. But the adjutant must have misheard you because he definitely said four to me.’

    Harris snorted and turned to Bell. ‘Did you say four or five to Cornet Hart?’

    ‘I most assuredly said five, sir.’

    ‘There you are, Hart. We both said five, so five it is. Carry on with the demonstration.’

    ‘Sir, I must protest. Adjutant Bell’s memory is faulty. If