skills to a much higher level. Now, which one of you four thinks he’s hot stuff ?’
There was a second’s silence before Paul spoke, ‘Marc’s probably the best shot, sir.’
Marc knew he was best, but scowled at Paul for putting his name forward. Sam nodded in agreement with Paul, while Luc, who hated Marc’s guts, just stared into space.
‘Let’s see what you’ve got then, young man,’ Goldberg said. ‘Targets are lined up at forty-yard8 distances: eighty, one-twenty, one-sixty and so forth. Take a rifle, lay yourself down and aim for the furthest target you feel confident about hitting.’
There was a strict safety procedure for picking up a strange weapon. Marc couldn’t remember half of it and expected Goldberg or Henderson to yell as he grabbed a No 4 Mark 1T British army rifle, fitted with a telescopic sight.
‘You’re familiar with the weapon?’ Goldberg asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Marc said.
‘Take your shot slowly, it’s not a race,’ Goldberg said, as Marc lay on his belly in the short grass. ‘Which target are you going for?’
‘Number three, a hundred and sixty yards,’ Marc said.
After checking that the cartridge was full and pulling the bolt to load a bullet into the chamber, Marc focused the optical sight on the target, made tiny corrections for wind and trajectory and pumped a bullet straight into the target, missing the swastika by less than five centimetres.
‘Not bad,’ Goldberg said, smiling as he studied the target through binoculars. ‘Now, double your range.’
‘Sir?’ Marc said curiously.
‘Three hundred and twenty yards,’ Goldberg explained. ‘Take it slowly. Give it your best shot.’
Marc pulled the bolt, ejecting his spent cartridge. He then reloaded, steadied the gun and held his breath before taking another shot.
It was too far for Sam and Paul to see where Marc hit, but they both saw the target quiver and erupted in a little cheer. Goldberg seemed less impressed at a bullet that had merely grazed the paper target’s outer edge.
‘Now double up again,’ he said. ‘The furthest target. Six hundred yards.’
Marc glanced back at the other boys. ‘I’ll have a go, but I barely hit the last one, sir.’
Marc swung his rifle towards the furthest target. At this range, the minutest jiggle of his rifle sent the view through his sight from one side of the target to the other. Even if he could get a steady view through the sight, Marc knew he’d have to aim off – adjusting for the wind, and the fact that bullets fly in a curved arc, not a straight line.
This was beyond Marc’s skills, so he pulled the trigger and hoped for the best. As he was shooting over the length of five football pitches, only Goldberg with his binoculars got any idea where the bullet landed.
‘You blew up a tuft of grass more than thirty metres shy,’ Goldberg said. ‘Trajectory decays rapidly at distances over four hundred metres. What are your chances of hitting the target if I give you another shot?’
‘Remote, sir,’ Marc said. ‘If I correct any more, I’ll be aiming above the target, so I’ll have no reference point.’
‘Would you bet me a dollar that I can hit from that range?’ Goldberg asked.
Marc laughed. ‘I’d have thought not, sir. But since you’re our instructor and you’re willing to bet, I’ll keep my money off the table.’
Goldberg laughed. He gave Marc the binoculars before taking the rifle. ‘Watch that target.’
As Marc stared through the binoculars, Henderson and the other three boys watched Goldberg perform an intricate ritual. He began by lying flat in the grass, making minute adjustments to his position. He then altered his telescopic sight, took a long white feather from his pocket and studied the movement of its fronds to judge the wind.
There was deliberateness to his movements, as if he was slowing time and cutting out the rest of the world. After a final adjustment, Goldberg held his breath and gently squeezed the trigger.
‘Whoa!’ Marc said, as he watched the swastika bull’s-eye get torn in half. ‘That’s impossible.’
To prove the shot was no fluke, Goldberg reloaded the bolt action rifle. His second shot was weaker, but still only missed the bull’s-eye by two inches. The third flew perfect and punched a hole through the centre of the swastika.
As Goldberg stood up, Marc passed the binoculars to Henderson, who briefly inspected Goldberg’s handiwork before passing them along to Luc.
‘Who wants to learn how to do that?’ Goldberg asked.
‘That was awesome,’ Sam said keenly. ‘Who wouldn’t want to learn how to do that?’
‘It’s a mixture of