Truchsess, the brewer, as No. 4 of gun six, brought out the shrapnel very gingerly. How easily such stuff as that might go off!

The old hands had gruesome tales to tell of accidents that had happened during gun-practice. Once while being loaded, a gun had prematurely exploded backwards, making a great hole through gunner No. 3, right through his chest, a hole just the same size as the bore of the gun. As the corpse was being carried away afterwards the sun shone right through it; so that in the middle of the shadow cast by the body was a bright round spot exactly the same size and shape as the bore of a gun.

The brewer could not help thinking of this as he very cautiously pushed the shrapnel into the bore. Klitzing, however, shoved it vigorously with the rammer, so that its metal casing clinked against the inside of the gun.

"Now then, old fellow, easy on! The thing might go off!" whispered Truchsess.

But Klitzing only smiled, and the brewer sullenly thought to himself, "Well, if that clerk has no use for his life, I have for mine, anyhow!"

Carefully he pushed in the cartridge, and heaved a sigh of relief as the lock slipped back once more. At any rate, it couldn't explode at the back now and hit him.

The battery now started again and went on at an easy trot to the exercise-ground. In the midst of a luxuriant growth of heather they unlimbered. It was a wonderful picture, the guns and the scattered gunners on that peaceful sea of purple. The waves of blossom reached nearly to the axles of the blue wheels and above the knees of the men, and closed over the trail of the gun-carriage as it pa.s.sed. The men had to make their way through the heather almost as if it had been a wood.

"Open with shrapnel! Straight in front! At the battery before the guide-post at the edge of the wood. Third gun! Two thousand eight hundred!" commanded Lieutenant Landsberg. "Fire from left flank! Fire from left flank!"--that meant that gun six should begin; that of the whole regiment it was to have the honour of firing the first shot in this year's practice.

Klitzing, as gun-layer, set the sight in a twinkling to 2800 yards, got astride the box, and laid the gun in the right direction.

The enemy's battery was not very hard to find. The young officer had not been given too difficult a task. Far away over the heath, where the sand gleamed yellow in the distance, six dark, rather broad patches showed up against the light ground, each surrounded by smaller objects.

They were the six guns that were to be attacked, with the dummy men belonging to them. It was Sergeant Wiegandt's duty to verify the aim; he gave a satisfied nod, and then the word of command, "Gun six, fire!"

Upon which the men sprang out of the way of the backward recoil of the carriage, and Vogt, with a jerk of the body, pulled the lanyard and fired.

There was a loud report, and the gun rolled heavily back quite eight paces. In another moment it was moved into its original place again.

After a few seconds, far away on the heath, a light cloud of dust rose into the air, as if a giant's hand had stirred up the sand, and immediately afterwards--almost at the same moment--all the dark patches disappeared in a dense grey cloud of smoke. When this had cleared away, the dummies on the left of the gun had vanished, and the gun itself appeared to have been damaged, as it was leaning over on one side.

The first shot had hit the mark full. This simply showed that excellent aim had been taken. The actual distance had corresponded exactly with the calculation. Still, it caused great satisfaction.

Colonel von Falkenhein, on his big chestnut, was stationed near by. He had been watching the target through his field-gla.s.ses, and a scarcely audible exclamation had escaped him as he saw the splinters flying about through the smoke.

Turning to the battery he called out a short "Bravo, gun-layer!"

Wegstetten, who had dismounted near him, smiled. Well, at any rate, battery six was all right, even when commanded by a noodle!

The shooting went on steadily. Now the distance had been ascertained the shrapnels were fired off by means of time-fuses; and they exploded regularly each time over the mark, the little clouds of smoke showing up picturesquely against the dark background of the wood. Over there it was as if heavy raindrops were falling on a dusty road; everywhere little columns of sand were spurting up into the air.

After the first shot the men lost all nervousness. Even Truchsess took hold of the sh.e.l.ls quite courageously; and when the twenty-four that had been served out to them were used up, the men would willingly have gone on longer.

In the criticism of the result Landsberg came out well. He had had four good hits from one shrapnel--a very fair result; mainly due, of course, to the luck of the first shot, which by itself would have placed all the men belonging to one of the enemy's guns _hors de combat_.

The lieutenant's face took on a self-satisfied expression, which seemed to say: "Of course from me nothing less could have been expected."

Falkenhein, who always kept a watchful eye on each one of his officers, and who up to that moment had not heard much in favour of this young man, thought it best to take down his pride a little.

"You know, Lieutenant Landsberg," he said, "your commanding officer made things very easy for you. As the youngest officer in the regiment you had the lightest task. Remember that in taking credit to yourself; and let me tell you that they won't build such barn-doors for you to aim at next year!"

Upon which he turned pleasantly to Wegstetten and asked: "Did you ride over and see that target, my dear Wegstetten?--I mean the one that was. .h.i.t full?"

"Yes, sir; the shrapnel must have exploded almost inside the gun."

"I thought so. Capital thing, the very first shot of the year being such a good one. No one like you for that, Wegstetten!"

The captain smiled, much gratified, and modestly answered, "A bit of good luck, sir!"

But the colonel continued, more seriously: "Well, partly luck, perhaps.

Just one thing more, my dear Wegstetten. That gun-layer who made the lucky shot--has he been ill? He looked pretty bad to me--like a perfect death's-head."

Wegstetten gave as many particulars about the man as he himself knew, and Reimers added some information, Landsberg meanwhile standing by in silence.

"It is really you, Lieutenant Landsberg, who ought to be telling me all this," said Falkenhein with some warmth. "You trained the recruits, and therefore ought to know all about them." Then, turning to Wegstetten: "If the man is as capable as I hear," he continued, "you might manage to make things a bit easier for him."

"Yes, sir," the captain hastened to reply. "I had been thinking of employing him in the autumn as a.s.sistant clerk."

This was not true. To think of such details so long beforehand was impossible, even for the commander of the most efficient battery in the whole army-corps. But it served its purpose. Falkenhein nodded pleasantly: "Quite right, my dear Wegstetten. You have hit the bull's-eye again! You see one can never deal with men all in a lump; you must take them separately. Some best serve the king with their st.u.r.dy arms and legs, but your gun-layer with his eyes and pen." He then raised his hand to his helmet, and the two men parted.

As they all repaired to their respective quarters they had very different thoughts in their minds. Reimers was full of admiration: "What a man is that," thought he, "who, with all his heavy duties, yet occupies himself with the insignificant destiny of a poor devil of a gunner!"

Wegstetten's face wore a rather self-satisfied smile. "One must speak up for oneself, and not hide one's light under a bushel! Better say too much than too little. In doing one's superior officer a small service, one may be doing the greatest of all to oneself."

Landsberg said to himself, with a sneer: "The man prates about that whipper-snapper of a gunner nearly as much as about my splendid firing.

And so that's the celebrated Colonel von Falkenhein!"

Next day almost all the men would have liked to go on with the sh.e.l.l-firing; but the subsequent cleaning of the guns was not at all to their taste. The smokeless powder left in the bore of the gun a horrid, sticky slime that must not be allowed to remain there. This meant sousing with clean water again and again, washing out with soft soap, and then going on pumping and working with the mop until the water came out again as clean as it had gone in.

"Now, boys," Sergeant Wiegandt used to say, "if you don't feel inclined to drink the water as it comes out of the gun, then that means it isn't clean enough yet. So go ahead!"

And then the drying afterwards! They had to wrap rags and cloths round the mop until it was so thick that it would scarcely go through the muzzle of the gun. If this were not done the inside edges and corners remained wet; and one spot of rust on the bright metal--well! that would be almost as bad as murder! So they had to push and to twist, to pull and to drag, till the perspiration streamed from their foreheads.

Finally the barrel was thinly oiled; and the next day the firing took place once more, and then there was the drudgery of the cleaning all over again.

Yet the men endured these exertions far better than the garrison life.

This was partly owing to the variety of the work; but, above all, the greatest torment of a soldier's life had been left behind,--that monotonous drilling under which all groaned, and the object of which no one could ever pretend to understand. Even the dullest--to say nothing of Vogt with his simple, sound common-sense--could see that the gun-practice here in the practice-camp was the most important part of the whole training. What the men had already learnt was now found out practically. But where did the parade-marching and all the other display drill come in?

Here was Klitzing, who in the garrison had been looked on as the most feeble soldier of the lot, now all at once distinguishing himself! Vogt shook his head as he thought it over.

He often felt glad that at any rate he was an artilleryman, for others had a much worse time of it. A few days earlier an infantry regiment had moved into the neighbouring barracks; and looking through the palings of their parade-ground they could see the battalions exercising.

There was a yellow, dried-up looking major who was never, never satisfied. He would keep his battalion at it in the sun till past noon; and then after a short pause for refreshment the same cruel business would begin all over again. The devil! How could a couple of hundred men be as symmetrical as a machine?

The artillery-drivers had climbed on to the fence. They were polishing their curbs and chains, and laughed at the spectacle before them. But to Vogt it did not seem amusing. What was the use of making those two hundred men do such childish things there on the parade-ground? Would they ever march into battle like that? He thought of how those dummies had all been riddled by the bullets when a single shrapnel burst in front of them. Why, it would be sheer madness! They would have to crawl, to run, to jump--then to crawl again! That wasn't what they were doing when every morning on the parade-ground one heard a continual tack--tack--tack--tack, as if a thousand telegraph clerks were hard at work. What was the good of all this senseless show, which only aggravated the men?

Their comrades of the infantry looked very far from cheerful, and darted glances full of suppressed hatred at the yellow-faced major. And when, dead-tired, they had finished the drill, and were putting away their guns in the corner, they would curse the very uniform they wore as if it had been a strait-waistcoat.

Certainly it was not necessary to agree in everything with a social-democrat like Weise; but there was no doubt what-ever that he was perfectly right about some things. In the evenings, when the non-commissioned officers were sitting in the canteen, the men took their stools out on the open veranda that looked over the forest; and then Weise would begin to hold forth, his comrades, either smoking or cleaning their clothes and accoutrements, grouped round him listening to his orations. When some of the men, fresh from the country, complained of the hard work there, the endless long hours, and the small pay, he laughed outright.

"Why do you allow your landed-proprietors to treat you so?" he scoffed.

"Why are you so stupid? Of course if you won't utter a word of protest you don't deserve anything better."