August 12, 1910 – Colonial Gun Club, Georgetown, British Straits Settlements
The flies were the worst part, followed closely by the steady, warm drizzle. Lieutenant (j.g.) Frank Waters lowered his .30 caliber Krag and wiped the latter from his brow, while doing his best to ignore the former. He also tuned out the incessant ticking of the event timer as he shouldered the rifle. Waters controlled his breathing, aligning the sights on the small black circle three hundred meters downrange. Breath paused, he gently squeezed the trigger and was rewarded with a sharp crack. He saw a dark tear in the white paper, just off the rim of the circle.
“Damn,” he sighed to himself as he cycled the bolt. He took a long breath, this time choosing to ignore the rain as well. He knew he didn’t have much time remaining to fire the last of his ten rounds. He settled the front post on the target again, the rifle already firmly against his shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Better, he thought. No visible hole in the white area this time, it looked like another clean hit.
“Times up, gentleman,” the referee called in an upper-crust English accent, and Waters lowered and cleared the rifle. He returned to the seat behind the firing line as Malayan porters ran downrange to retrieve the targets. He toweled off his face and grabbed a jug of water before turning to his nearest neighbor, an open-featured British Army Major with sweat marks darkening his thick tunic.
“Fine shooting, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the Major said, tipping his own cup toward Waters. “Where did a Yank Navy chap learn the craft?” he asked.
“I grew up in a corner of Pennsylvania that’s all hills and forest,” Waters answered. “My father and I used to spend the entire fall season hunting deer. I still practice every opportunity I get, though the weather the last few months has been no help at all.”
“Just so,” the Major answered. “And today is a whole lot drier and cooler than it was last week. Is that an old Krag-Jorgenson you’re using?”
“It is, sir,” Waters said with an appreciative nod. “It’s the Springfield version, and I’ve made a few changes myself,” he continued. “The stock is black walnut, and I’ve modified the trigger pull too. Ammunition has been hard to come by since the Army switched over to .30-06 so I’ve started loading my own cartridges. As it turns out, they’re more consistent than the factory rounds.”
The Major’s eyes had gone distant, clearly no longer interested in the fine details of Waters explanation. The 300-meter Standing shoot was the final event of a three-day competition, arranged by the Royal Navy’s port Admiral ostensibly celebrating the anniversary of the Treaty of The Hague. So far, it seemed to Waters more an excuse for a series of lavish parties.
The porters had gathered at the scoring table with the targets, and the judges were poring over the stack of torn paper. The Flusser’s team had entered this event a distant fourth, behind the German cruiser Hamburg, powered largely by Waters performance in earlier rounds.
The panel conferred and an elderly, patrician Brit in a boater and linen suit walked over to the large scoreboard. He removed the top five teams from the board, and Waters sagged a bit then started packing up his rifle. He knew he hadn’t shot as well as he’d have liked, but he had been hopeful that the hard-drinking European teams had suffered from the previous night’s festivities. When he’d finished tidying up and looked at the board again, his spirits soared and he forgot the rain. The Hamburg had slipped to fifth, the French cruiser Chazny had slotted in at fourth, and the Flusser’s name was in third place.
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Waters leaned back in his chair sipping an gin and tonic, liberal on the gin and poured over ice. The Brits really did understand a good drink for the heat and humidity, he mused, and now that the competition was over Waters was happy to enjoy a couple. His freshly presented bronze medal looked garish and completely out of place with his summer dress whites, but he didn’t figure anyone would argue. The Flusser’s CO and XO were both about a sheet and a half to the wind, enthusiastically participating in celebration of their team’s surprise podium finish.
“Do you mind if I join you?” drawled a midwestern voice. Waters looked up to see tall US Navy Lieutenant wearing a silver medal of his own, and recognized Harris Laning, the captain of the cruiser Detroit’s shooting team. He gestured to the chair beside him, and seeing Laning’s empty glass signaled a waiter for two more gin and tonics.
“That was an impressive display, Mister Waters,” started Laning. “Most destroyers just don’t have enough real shooters on board to scratch together a good performance.”
“Thank you, sir” demurred Waters, “but it certainly wasn’t a one-man show.”
“Call me Harris,” said Laning, “and it was from what I saw. The others helped, but without your shooting Flusser isn’t even in the top six, let alone on the podium.”
The two men sat quietly watching the sun set over the Penang anchorage. The rain had moved on, and while it was still humid an onshore breeze had sprung up and the evening was tolerable, particularly with a cool drink in hand.
“So,” the senior officer asked after a few minutes, swirling what remained of his ice. “What do you think of the peacetime Navy.”
Waters considered a moment and answered “Honestly, it’s pretty dull. I commissioned straight into the invasion of northern Norway, and the last year of the war was non-stop action. I stayed on because my other choice was joining my father’s law firm in Pittsburgh, and I’ve seen a good bit of the world, but there are times that I’d rather be home.”
“I can certainly understand that,” Laning agreed, “though it’s not dull everywhere”. He nodded across the room at two German officers, each wearing a stiff white jacket and a resplendent mustache. “It’s not so obvious here in the tropics, but last winter I was in the Mediterranean and those guys behave quite a bit differently in their own neighborhood. The Kaiser landed troops in Albania and the Italians partially mobilized in response.”
“I read a little about that,” Waters responded. “As I understand it, the Royal Navy’s Mediterranean Fleet sortied with very vocal French government support, the diplomats worked furiously, and everyone settled back down. It would seem no one’s quite ready for a repeat of the last war.”
The two men lapsed into silence again for a few minutes, the sky darkening and lights coming on in Penang, across the strait. Laning looked sideways at Waters. “From what I hear you’re spending your free time cross-checking BuOrd’s gunnery tables?”
Waters looked sheepish, wondering who Laning had talked to. “Only the three-inchers and three-pounders,” he responded with a shrug. “When I was on Jersey City I noticed the long-range figures for the three-inchers were off, I figure BuOrd never tested them much beyond five thousand yards. When I got to Flusser I just kept working on the three-pounders too.”
“You need a hobby,” Laning chuckled. “What do you know about the Olympic rifle team?”
“Not a thing, sir,” answered Waters, a bit surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, if you find the time to practice shooting instead of editing command guidance, and you can get yourself to San Francisco, the tryouts for the Navy team will be in January. You should give it a bit of thought.”