During my training (the first training, I mean) I was placed under the tutelage of a Great War veteran whose job it was to sit in the sap heads and wait for the Germans to raise
their heads just far enough above the parapet ... then
pop. Down they'd go.
Of course, owing to his prowess and some later scuffle over the command of a tunnel at Verdun, he was eventually released to the Royal Flying Corps where he flew with those first pilots and instead of losing his life, sacrificed his left arm in glorious battle. So, to call this gentleman gruff was a gross understatement. He was far beyond daunting (I'm quite sure I'd have stood cool-headed next to Winston Churchill had I got the chance), he approached intimidating and particularly
horrifying at times: but he was an excellent instructor.
"Margaret," he'd say to me with that crooked smile and motion toward the target with his chin. "Damn it, woman, shoot where he's going to be and not where he is." I don't know why it clicked with me but as it was, I was particularly successful when it came down to it. And if I'm good at anything in the world, I suppose it's shooting things.
Given that I now live in America, the land of the tommy gun, the showdown at the OK Corral and the semi-automatic, I would like to exhort you to do the same: shoot where they're going to be, not where they are. And for God's sake, don't use the whole
clip for a job that only takes one bullet.
In other news, some of your customs are still relatively curious to me. Customs such as why you watch
that neandertha football and eat turkey to otherwise celebrate the survival of a motley bunch of Puritans. No judging, though. Clearly I haven't got a horse in this race.
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