SPORTI,NG ASPECT
Three Musketeers
By IAN CRICHTON THE white-haired old gentleman sat calmly waiting his turn beside me in front of Target No. 20, which was two hundred yards away. As he stared at the butts through thick spectacles he showed none of the impatience that I was feeling. He was not chattering, chain-smoking, or look- ing amusedly about him at the weird and wonderful costumes worn by his fellow-competitors, because he was himself one of the sights of Bisley, and had very probably been coming every year since before I was born. I felt that at all costs I must do better than this old veteran.
Though his dress would have caused delighted laughter any- where else, it was quite conventional for Bisley. His ancient, wide-brimmed bush hat, fastened down at the sides with thin strips of wood, and his voluminous raincoat and waterproof leggings, gave him the appearance of a bulky woman in a poke bonnet. His hands held his rifle in front of him, and it was obvious that he had looked after it for many years with loving are. This was all in great contrast to my hired Service rifle. i e had a groundsheet, elbow pads, a telescope, a private score- book, and a mysterious little wooden box.
I had none of these, and for a moment I wondered if his paraphernalia was merely a cunning attempt to reduce tyros like Myself to a pulp of nervous inferiority. Perhaps he had even written a little book on Shotmanship (or How to Win at Bisley Without the Aid of a Friend in the Butts). Certainly the com- petition for the Queen's Prize was fierce enough for such measures. About 1,400 competitors from all over the commonwealth were to be gradually eliminated until the last hundred-4 The Queen's Hundred '—would be left to compete for the biggest prize in shooting : a gold medal with £250. At last it was our time to start, and as we walked forward to the firing point I smiled to see the old man gathering his many belongings and placing them carefully beside his ground- sheet. I lay down and peered through the sights of my rifle. The targets seemed miles away. Flags on the range showed that a fairly stiff wind was blowing from the left, but I was ready. The veteran, however, was focussing his telescope, tightening the sling on his rifle, tidying his scorebook and pencil, and fiddling about with his little wooden box. Wb wig- .0 en joined on our left by a third competitor, whose white ......ai au.,hcd through one of the thickest and bushiest beards I have ever seen, as his mother called from behind us, 'Good luck, Robert.' He was very well equipped, and announced that he had been practising for days but had not improved in the slightest. I scored a point by remarking that I had not looked at a rifle for six years and had arrived from London only that morning. He seemed visibly impressed. I noticed that the wooden box was now open, and that all its secrets were revealed. There were spare pencils, holders for ammunition, cleaning cloths and oil, and a collection of little bottles. To my astonishment the old man was painting his sights with some black anti-glare liquid. As it had only just stopped raining I put it down to a part of some ancient ritual: he had blackened his sights every year since '09, and he was jolly well going to blacken them this year. An extraordinary gathering of individuals was preparing itself to shoot. One, a woman, stood out from the dull khaki and brown and blue around her, for she was dressed in a white track suit. Another lady competitor wore slacks and several layers of waterproofing. It was shapeless but admirably prac- tical. I heard the voices of Englishmen, Scotsmen, Welshmen, -Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders and Rhodesians. They were in a variety of wide- and short-brimmed hats, scarves and jackets. All wore their oldest and most comfortable clothes, with the exception of the many soldiers, sailors and airmen in uniform.
'Right. I'm ready,' quavered a voice in my ear.
The veteran handed me his official score card to mark, while I had to give mine to Robert. I was glad it was not my card that the old man was to mark, as this system seemed to present obvious Chances for making delicate adjustments to the score.
I took aim, and fired. Each of us was to have nine shots at this range, the first two of which were sighters ' and which would not count in the score. I waited for the indicator board to show whether I had scored a 'bull' (five points), an inner' (four points), a 'magpie' (three points), or an 'outer' (two points). Up came the board. My first was an inner. This was very satisfactory, and I waited complacently for the veteran to begin. Very slowly he squeezed the trigger, to be also awarded with an inner. Robert's first shot was an outer. Obviously there was nothing to worry about from him. Probably his beard got In the way.
None of us three had yet scored a bull's eye, and I was eager to be the first. But my second shot was only a magpie. When the board indicated another inner for the old man, the first faint tremor of alarm touched me. That was steady shooting. Could Ja4r6e any good, after all? Unthinkable, with those white hairs curling over his rifle-butt. A yard beyond him a beard parted to show huge teeth flashing with glee as the owner followed up his outer with our first bull. I looked at him coldly. 'Somewhat erratic,' he commented. Now we were in earnest, and every shot was to count. He and I each scored an inner, and the veteran a bull. Instead of showing signs of strain, the old boy was idly watching a bird—a dare-devil swallow swoop- ing in the air near the butts. Our second shots were all bulls. r began to feel that I was really getting into my stride. As far as I can remember, that was the last optimistic thought that crossed my mind for the rest of that terrible morning. It seemed that the gusts of wind worried nobody else but me, and had to take great care for my shots to hit the target at all. After the veteran scored his fourth bull 1 cursed the fate that had made me the one to write the monotonous row of fives on his card. After his fifth five I was desperately wondering if his little book would be of any use to me. It might have a chapter on such aids as coughing or sneezing just before one's neighbour pulled the trigger. After his sixth I lost interest.
When it was all over, I had scored a miserable twenty-five to the old man's perfect thirty-five. Even Rithert had been 'erratic' enough to get four inners besides three bulls. There was more shooting that day, at five hundred and six hundred yards. The second and third stages took place on the final day. when the Queen's Hundred shot at the incredible' ranges of nine hundred and a thousand yards. Naturally I was not there, but I have a feeling that amongst them was an old gentleman in a hat like a poke bonnet carrying a mysterious wooden box.
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