“Good fuckin God, you’re a bleddy danger lad”.
Dagda was more than a mere danger, and knew that, having held a shotgun to his shoulder for as long
as physically possible he had made an affinity of game hunting. He’d followed his father hunting at the
abhainn mor and through various woods and fields for as long as his memory spanned, patiently
awaiting such a day he might hold that illustrious weapon. He joined the FCA to shoot things, inanimate
or otherwise, but there had been no opportunity to shoot with the rifles up until now. The new set of
boots, however, had been the more immediate incentive to stay as his latest pair of shoes were nearing
three years old and being so, were tight-fitting, uncomfortable and broken. There’d been non-effectives
he’d heard stories of who, upon receiving their boots and drilling uniforms, turned and ran. He’d wished
he could have done the same before, but his family was known in the nearby town and his father would
take the brunt of this misdemeanor. Besides, something like this would undoubtedly follow him for
years, he knew well that the Djinnish found even the little things hard to forget. Even so, this was what
he signed up for, this was what he had patiently waited months to do, he was going to show his prowess
in marksmanship as best he could. He was going to show up these pensioners and old men at their own
game.
“err thanks a million sir”. Dagda fleetingly spoke, somewhat taken aback to be addressed so
unpretentiously by a higher-ranking officer. Realizing that this concentrated vitriol was now being
focused entirely on his self appraisingly, Dagda respectfully awaited a response which seemed to be
caught in the suddenly dense air , officer’s strict features betrayed no attempt to whose features were
failing to conceal his excitement. This man was experienced, and looked as though he’d trained men of
the PRA for at least a decade, his hair and beard were stark white and impeccably combed, but his
demeanor was more alike of a teenager. Dagda would have expected a rougher bark of a voice, but this
man spoke fluidly and quietly, pausing, despite his evident revelry in an attempt to examine Dagda
thoroughly and maintain a semblance of composure.
“No, you call me Joe, Joe Murray, what was your name private?”
“MacOglin, Dagda”
“Have you been to the barracks before, Dagda? Actually, are you even old enough to be here, you’ve
barely got hair on your chin”
This man wouldn’t betray him, he was too impressed, too excited to care about anything other than
Dagda’s marksmanship
“ Well, I’m very close to seventeen so my drilling officer let me join, we err, only have a small regiment
sir”
“Sound, there’s no point taking that gun away from you anyways, you’ve a better handle of it than most
of these lads, can you hit that 800 yard mark?”
“I haven’t tried, but I can give it a whirl”
AK was a near impeccable hunter with his shotgun, but this was an easier deal, he was nothing less than
deadly with the rifle held in his hand, and now he knew it.
AK immediately reset, adjusting the lee Enfield on the uneven ground trying to better stabilize it.
Shooting with this rifle had its own complications, primarily because the rifle kicked like a donkey and