As the saying went, a good marksman was fed on bullets.
...
Across the many ranks of the Nationalist forces, apart from a tiny handful of core divisions, nearly every unit faced a desperate shortage of guns and ammunition—the classic predicament of being "raised by a stepmother."
Consequently, though local troops expanded their enlistment year after year, their pathetic stockpiles of arms left their recruits poorly trained and their combat effectiveness sorely lacking.
For this training of the Staff Corps, the Nationalist government had earmarked special funds and granted exceptional approvals, making every effort to supply all the firearms and ammunition required.
For the corps' hundred-odd trainees, issuing a Zhongzheng rifle to every man posed no problem at all—an armory roughly sufficient to equip a full reorganized company. During training, each trainee could draw about six stripper clips of practice rounds a day: a full thirty cartridges.
And that did not even include the assessment rounds and blanks used for daily evaluations.
Compared to recruits in other units who could only dry-fire their rifles each day, this was vastly more satisfying.
The firing range was built against the ridge of Qingliang Mountain. Directly behind the targets stood a sheer cliff face, shielding the range as much as possible from strong glare or high winds during shooting practice.
Laid out broad and open, the range could accommodate twenty standard targets side by side, positioned roughly two hundred meters from the firing line. At that distance, a target shrank to a tiny black speck in one's field of vision—and this was the "extreme" range at which Chinese troops would fire on the Japanese invaders.
He Zhifeng cradled a Zhongzheng rifle as he strolled to the center firing lane, with the trainees crowding around him.
"Shooting relies on the eye, but it also relies on the heart," He Zhifeng said, raising the rifle across his right chest with his left hand supporting the fore-end. Aiming toward the distant target, he flipped up the rifle's rear sight leaf, nudged the slider slightly to adjust it, chambered a round, and instructed, "For targets beyond two hundred meters, you can use the sight leaf to line up the rear sight, front sight, and target. Then..."
*Bang!*
Birds scattered in all directions.
A few inattentive trainees nearly jumped out of their skins. A wisp of gunsmoke drifted skyward from He Zhifeng's side. As he worked the bolt, an empty casing ejected and dropped into the dirt nearby.
"Someone go call the shot!" He Zhifeng gave a smug grin and shoved Song Mingyang, who was standing beside him.
Song Mingyang sprinted most reluctantly down the range toward the target. He stared closely at it for quite a while without calling back.
"What are you doing, laying an egg? Call the shot!" He Zhifeng slammed the rifle onto the bench and roared.
Song Mingyang turned around and jogged back toward the formation, shouting, "Brilliant, Instructor! Simply brilliant! Seven rings!"
Fang Wenjian almost burst out laughing. Terrified He Zhifeng would notice, he sidled behind Zhu Shiqing and chuckled silently, prompting the men around them to press their lips together and stare up at the sky.
He Zhifeng's dark face flushed red. Just as he was about to offer an explanation, Song Mingyang trotted up and gave a thumbs-up. "Captain, hitting seven rings from this far away—you really are something!"
He Zhifeng's flushed face darkened again. Shoving Song Mingyang back into ranks, he lectured, "Whether a shot is accurate depends on humidity, wind speed, bullet manufacturing quality, and many other factors. But in the end, once you have your sights aligned, you have to feel it out for yourselves!"
When he finished, no one made a sound, leaving the silence rather awkward.
"Did you all fucking hear that or not?!"
"Heard, sir!"
"Follow what I just said and get a feel for it. Anyone whose average score is under six rings can forget about dinner!"
With that, He Zhifeng took his beloved rifle and went to sit at the back. Several veterans he had brought along stepped forward to explain the details and correct the trainees' stances.
Zhu Shiqing quickly claimed a firing lane and properly mimicked He Zhifeng's stance.
"Stock against the chest... flip up the sight... support the fore-end, work the bolt, chamber a round..."
Reciting every step they had just been taught, Zhu Shiqing loaded the cartridges, took a deep breath, and aligned his sight picture down the Zhongzheng rifle toward the round target in the distance.
*Bang!*
The recoil jolted Zhu Shiqing's hands numb, and his chest felt as if it had been stabbed with a knife—a piercing ache! His feet nearly gave way, but fortunately a roving veteran caught him in time. Looking at the target, there was no need for anyone to call the shot: not a single bullet hole was in sight.
"Brother, you can't shoot like that." The stubble-faced veteran steadied Zhu Shiqing, took his rifle, and demonstrated. "You have to plant your body and steady your feet. The Zhongzheng rifle doesn't have huge recoil, but if you don't lock down the stock and barrel, you'll never hit anything even if you don't fall over."
*Bang!*
The veteran squeezed the trigger, hitting dead center.
Secretly amazed, Zhu Shiqing hurried to thank the veteran for the instruction. Taking back the rifle, he practiced locking down the weapon to keep it from shaking upon firing, planted his feet wide to brace his stance, and aimed at the target once more.
Seeing this, the veteran smiled. "Right, right, just like that. New recruits just need to shoot more. Within a week, you'll be used to it."
*Bang!*
Zhu Shiqing fired again. This time the rifle did not wobble, nor did he stumble; aside from the numbness in his hands, everything went smoothly. Squinting at the target, he could not make out which ring it had hit, but there was a black speck!
The final check confirmed: four rings.
His excitement was instantly doused. Looking down at the weapon in his hands, Zhu Shiqing couldn't help feeling that his earlier sensation of being "at one with the rifle" had been rather childishly dramatic.
Fortunately, the men around him were just as frustrated. Zhu Shiqing slung the Zhongzheng rifle over his shoulder and strolled along the firing line, only to discover that very few had managed to hit the paper at all. Even those who had boasted beforehand about handling guns every day only managed scores of around five rings once they actually fired.
Yet one person caught Zhu Shiqing's eye. Stationed at the far right corner lane, unlike the others taking turns, he stood quietly in the corner. Two empty stripper clips rested on his bench, and the target paper directly in front of him had been turned into a virtual sieve.
*Now that's a real marksman!*
Zhu Shiqing drew closer and finally got a look at him: a lad with a long face, his eyes faint and vacant, like a cold, mechanical shooting machine. The skin on his face and hands bore slight chilblains, suggesting he was from the north.
What was even more striking was that his shooting stance and grip were identical to the veteran's from earlier.
As Zhu Shiqing was pondering this, a sharp whistle pierced the air.
He Zhifeng's assembly whistle gathered everyone back together. Standing before the formation, he randomly divided the Staff Corps into five squads of about twenty men each, which would train as small units from then on.
The brief taste of free-fire practice was over; what lay ahead was systematic, rigorous marksmanship training.
"Each squad will elect a squad leader and an assistant squad leader. Decide amongst yourselves. Those chosen will have a far better chance of being named outstanding trainees at the end of the month and when the entire training concludes. Boys, take this seriously!"
Before the day's training ended, He Zhifeng had undeniably handed each squad a thorny dilemma.
Zhu Shiqing turned his head to look at his teammates. Fang Wenjian, Song Mingyang, and Lai Tianyou had all been clustered together just now, so naturally they were in his squad. But what proved truly terrible was that Zhong Yifeng—that harbinger of bad luck—was also in their ranks, currently glaring at him with vicious eyes...
Enemies really did cross paths on narrow roads...
And not far behind Zhong Yifeng stood that northern shooter whom Zhu Shiqing had been about to greet. Just as during shooting practice, he stayed far from the crowd, silently staring toward Qingliang Mountain, lost in thought over something unseen.
Chapter 24