Post by hawkins on Sept 18, 2008 2:10:21 GMT
A swift breeze cut through the crisp British air that quickly made its way through the forest behind the targets at the firing range. Corporal Conrad Hawkins had come out alone with his Enfield rifle to get in a bit of target practise before he was required to actually fight the Huns. Pulling out a ten-round stripper clip, Corporal Hawkins caught up his rifle and quickly pushed the rounds into the chamber of the rifle. Locking the bolt, he brought the rifle up to his shoulder and aimed down the iron-sights at the small target that stood 50 metres away. Breathing out, Conrad pulled the trigger and the sound echoed down the range and bounced from the trees back to him.
Holding his rifle to the side, Conrad pulled out a pair of binoculars he had borrowed from Lieutenant Harding, the resident junior officer. Looking down the range, he was dismayed to find he had not hit the centre of the target. Setting the binoculars down, he pulled his rifle back up to take another shot. He let another round off, and followed it with four more rounds at a slow speed due to the bolt action. Setting down the rifle, he looked down the range to find that three of his shots had hit the centre. Perhaps the first one had been a fluke; however, if he had been in battle, the inaccuracy of his shot would have meant death.
He finally fired off the five remaining round in his rifle before sitting down to admire the weather that he, honestly, would miss once he was on the continent. He loved his homeland of England and wished to good that he would see the beautiful place again. Sitting deep in thought, Conrad missed the new man that appeared.
Holding his rifle to the side, Conrad pulled out a pair of binoculars he had borrowed from Lieutenant Harding, the resident junior officer. Looking down the range, he was dismayed to find he had not hit the centre of the target. Setting the binoculars down, he pulled his rifle back up to take another shot. He let another round off, and followed it with four more rounds at a slow speed due to the bolt action. Setting down the rifle, he looked down the range to find that three of his shots had hit the centre. Perhaps the first one had been a fluke; however, if he had been in battle, the inaccuracy of his shot would have meant death.
He finally fired off the five remaining round in his rifle before sitting down to admire the weather that he, honestly, would miss once he was on the continent. He loved his homeland of England and wished to good that he would see the beautiful place again. Sitting deep in thought, Conrad missed the new man that appeared.
