Presently a fresh set of targets swing up—­of the bull’s-eye variety this time—­and the markers are busy once more.

III

The interior of the butts is an unexpectedly spacious place.  From the nearest firing-point you would not suspect their existence, except when the targets are up.  Imagine a sort of miniature railway station—­or rather, half a railway station—­sunk into the ground, with a very long platform and a very low roof—­eight feet high at the most.  Upon the opposite side of this station, instead of the other platform, rises the sandy ridge previously mentioned—­the stop-butt—­crowned with its row of number-boards.  Along the permanent way, in place of sleepers and metals, runs a long and narrow trough, in which, instead of railway carriages, some thirty great iron frames are standing side by side.  These frames are double, and hold the targets.  They are so arranged that if one is pushed up the other comes down.  The markers stand along the platform, like railway porters.

There are two markers to each target.  They, stand with their backs to the firers, comfortably conscious of several feet of earth and a stout brick wall, between them and low shooters.  Number one squats down, paste-pot in hand, and repairs the bullet-holes in the unemployed target with patches of black or white paper.  Number two, brandishing a pole to which is attached a disc, black on one side and white on the other, is acquiring a permanent crick in the neck through gaping upwards at the target in search of hits.  He has to be sharp-eyed, for the bullet-hole is a small one, and springs into existence without any other intimation than a spirt of sand on the bank twenty yards behind.  He must be alert, too, and signal the shots as they are made; otherwise the telephone will begin to interest itself on his behalf.  The bell will ring, and a sarcastic voice will intimate—­assuming that you can hear what it says—­that C Company are sending a wreath and message of condolence as their contribution to the funeral of the marker at Number Seven target, who appears to have died at his post within the last ten minutes; coupled with a polite request that his successor may be appointed as rapidly as possible, as the war is not likely to last more than three years.  To this the butt-officer replies that C Company had better come a bit closer to the target and try, try again.

There are practically no restrictions as to the length to which one may go in insulting butt-markers.  The Geneva Convention is silent upon the subject, partly because it is almost impossible to say anything which can really hurt a marker’s feelings, and partly because the butt-officer always has the last word in any unpleasantness which may arise.  That is to say, when defeated over the telephone, he can always lower his targets, and with his myrmidons feign abstraction or insensibility until an overheated subaltern arrives at the double from the five-hundred-yards firing-point, conveying news of surrender.