Once upon a time in the Land of Oz, the government saw fit to hand out high powered automatic rifles to the country's youth, and told them to learn to shoot or go to jail. How times have changed. Anyway, that's how I found myself in charge of a platoon of recruits, with instructions to turn them into soldiers. They were good boys really, mostly from the country, and some pretty fair rifle shooters amongst them. But, like any young males, they were also rather prone to test the boundaries whenever an opportunity presented itself.
So one time we found ourselves on a field firing exercise. No fancy ranges with mounds and stop butts and suchlike, but impromptu arrangements in the bush - you crept up a gully with an instructor behind you, and targets popped out from behind trees - that sort of thing. The range in question though, was a partly cleared patch of bush with several wires strung out between trees, the first at perhaps 15 meters, and the furthest at maybe 25 meters. From these wires hung an assortment of objects, ranging in size from paint tin lids and drink cans down to matchboxes. The purpose of the exercise was for the men to exploit the self-loading capabilities of their rifles by engaging these objects in rapid succession.
The shoot went well, and we found ourselves with time on our hands before it was our turn to move on to the next range, so I rested the men in a shady patch behind, and slightly to one side of the firing point. It seemed like a good chance to further their education, so I explained to them that their shooting was still a long way from what I expected of them, that they were all basically slack and idle, and that I could not understand why the government had not conscripted them into the Girl Guides rather than the Army. In other words, all the usual sort of stuff appropriate to such occasions. That is, until I said the fateful words that went something like, "Bloody hell, at that range you should be able to cut the wires, never mind hit the tin cans."
As soon as the words were out I realized my mistake, and, sure enough, one of the budding Diggers suggested a demonstration, "To help motivate us to aspire to your high standard of marksmanship, like, Sergeant, if you know what I mean." Now, leadership is all about respect, and I knew I must accept this challenge or lose their respect forever. "O.K., who has the best rifle?"
My brain was in a whirl. Sure, I could blast a few tin cans, but so could most of them. Then there was that stupid comment about cutting the wire. No way was I good enough to hit a wire bobbing up and down in the breeze, even at only 15 paces or so. I carefully examined the rifle that had been thrust into my hands in order to gain more time. O.K., but the wire didn't bob up and down where it was looped around the trees. I should be able to put down, say, a one inch group at that range, even standing unsupported, if I was aiming at a tree. The wire was horizontal, so windage didn't matter, only elevation. A one inch group with a one third inch bullet hole……perhaps, just perhaps….
So many times I had used the words, "If you can't be a soldier, at least try to look and act like one". Time to take my own advice. I stepped smartly to the firing line and accepted a loaded mag from the Range Officer, who was grinning from ear to ear at my predicament. Load, wrench back the cocking handle and allow the action to slam forward, swing the rifle to the shoulder, safety pushed forward, all in one fluid movement.
I picked a spot on a tree just above the wire to allow for the height of the sights above the bore…… breathing, concentrate on the foresight, squeeze, and the first shot was away. The boys were expecting to see a tin can go ballistic, but, of course, nothing moved. Not a sodding thing. I ignored the snickering behind me. Not a bad shot actually, to the right but just a smidgen above the wire, and that was all that mattered. I reminded myself that I was shooting for a group, not at the wire, so held my point of aim. Concentrate on that foresight, squeeze, and the second shot was off. Damn, a bit further to the right, and again just a smidgen above the wire. Minor panic on my part, and up went the prayer. "Oh merciful Lord, remember all those hours I sat in Sunday School bored out of my mind……………"
Well, you guessed it, the third shot saw the wire come clattering down in a most spectacular and satisfying manner. Whoops and cheers from behind me now, but before I realized what I was doing I was already lining up a point on the next tree. I can't remember exactly how many shots it took - I think it was four - before that wire joined the first. At that stage I was smart enough to call it quits, unload, have the rifle cleared by the Range Officer, and finally turn to face the men.
No whoops and cheers this time, just a stunned silence. I could see the common thought running through the collective minds, "Holy hell it wasn't a fluke, the bastard was fair dinkum!" To this day I don't know if any of them figured out how I had cheated - they were slightly to the side, so could not have seen what I was aiming at. But I'll tell you one thing, from that day on I had the most conscientious platoon in the battalion.
Yep, there is a God!