Free Soldier of the Horse by Robert W. Mackay Page B

handing him his tunic and cap, which he eventually managed to put back on. Planck was very pale, his lips pressed together into a determined line. He didn’t thank either of them.
    The next day was cloudy, bringing warmer fall temperatures to the men of the 1st Reinforcement Troop, and Sergeant Quartermain cut short the morning ride to allow Lieutenant Inkmann and Sergeant Planck to march a section of eight men off to the rifle range. Inkmann rode ahead.
    Planck appeared to be functioning pretty well, considering he could barely stand upright the night before. Tom was surprised there was no hint of anything arising out of the incident. Planck was a solid man, burned brown by years of soldiering in far-flung corners of the Empire, and he kept up a running commentary on the shortcomings of the recruits. “Get in step, Ferguson. Didn’t they teach you to march in the Mounted Police? Pick it up, Johanson. You’re not behind the plow, boy.”
    The men marched grim-faced, trying to ignore the swarms of mosquitoes that still, this late in the year, attacked any exposed skin. Boots clumped a steady cadence on the gravel road, rifles over their left shoulders, right arms swinging high.
    In a few minutes they reached the rifle range. Tom could see Inkmann on his horse, a hundred yards down range toward the targets.
    Planck halted them and turned the section into line, so they were shoulder to shoulder. “Present—arms,” he ordered. Tom slapped his right arm across his chest to the stock of his rifle, pushed it upright, dropped the rifle into the “present” vertically in front of him, left hand on the pistol grip, right on the forestock, and slammed his right foot at a forty-five degree angle back of the left one. The boots of the other men in the section hit the ground at various intervals. Even Tom knew it wasn’t well done.
    â€œShoulder—arms.”
    â€œOrder—arms.” The rifles were lowered to the ground, right hands on the forestock, butts just clear of the right toes, left foot raised and stamped down into the attention position.
    â€œThat was a shambles.” Planck shook his head. He took them through the drills again, until at last they got their timing down so they were acting in unison.
    â€œStand at—ease. Now—pay attention to musketry detail.”
    Musketry? Tom grinned. Where are the ramrods and powder horns?
    â€œFind that amusing, Macrae?”
    â€œNo, Sergeant.”
    Inkmann had ridden up. Planck called the men to attention and saluted the lieutenant. “Squad ready for musketry practice, sir,”
    â€œCarry on, Sergeant.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Planck saluted again, then turned back to the squad. “Johanson—give me your rifle. The rest of you fall out, and pay attention.”
    When they were gathered round, Planck ran over the basics of the Ross rifle. A bolt action, .303 calibre repeating rifle with a built-in magazine, it was standard issue in the Canadian army. The Ross was manufactured in Canada, and the Canadian government had had much to do with its development.
    â€œNobody other than Canadians uses it,” Planck continued. “Extremely accurate. Winning rifle at Bisley in 1913. For those who don’t know, that’s a shooting competition that includes the whole Empire. Questions?”
    Freddie Martens, a short, muscular, nineteen-year-old whom Tom was just getting to know, spoke up. “My cousin is back home in Calgary, injured in training,” he said. “He says the Ross is a piece of crap. They always jam up. We should get some other rifle.”
    Sergeant Planck reddened under his tan. “That’s not for you to decide, soldier. Anyway, you can thank your own Canadian government for the Ross.”
    Ferguson interjected, his brogue a contrast to Planck’s English accent. “Why couldn’t the army buy Winchesters? That’s what I had out west. Perfect for mounted