Chapter 141: Training

Arthur’s booming voice echoed across the open slope as another group of exhausted young runners scrambled over the high timber barrier.

​"Keep those knees high, Clarence!" Arthur shouted, pacing along the dirt trail with his thick arms crossed over his chest. "You look like a dying mule in a snowdrift! Drag him up if you have to, boys! If one man quits on this course, every single one of you scrubs the latrine trenches overnight with cold water and stiff brushes!"

​Near the back of the line, two skinny runners from the Mulberry Street tenements—Floyd and Elmer—turned back and grabbed Clarence by his shoulder straps. Clarence was gasping for air, his work boots slipping in the mud as he tried to find a foothold on the timber wall.

​"Get your foot on the knot, Clarence!" Floyd yelled over the din, strain evident in his voice. "I ain’t scrubbing no latrines tonight on your account!"

​"Push his rear end up, Elmer!" Clarence wheezed, heaving himself over the top rail just before his arms gave out.

​They tumbled down into the dirt pit on the far side, landing in a heap of dust and loose straw, but they scrambled right back onto their feet. The sight of Ricky standing down near the edge of the tree line—watching them with a quiet, approving nod—seemed to give the boys a fresh burst of energy. They pulled their caps tight and kept their boots moving down the trail toward the next obstacle.

​Ricky stood beside John Caldwell near the perimeter fence, watching the squad navigate the rope climb.

​"They’re taking to the conditioning faster than I expected," John remarked, taking off his hat and fanning himself against the cool midday air. "Arthur sure knows how to squeeze sweat out of street boys."

​"They need the lungs for it, John," Ricky said quietly. "Running down a dark Midtown alley with three armed hitters on your tail isn’t the time a man wants to catch his breath."

​He pointed toward an open, flat patch of ground near the northern tree line. "Over there—I want us to build mock-up structures out of rough pine boards. Simulated alleyways, tight door frames, and two-room apartment layouts."

​John looked over at the empty field, leaning his shoulder against a fence post. "Mock rooms? You mean framing out dummy walls without plaster or doors?"

​"Exactly," Ricky nodded. "Tammany’s hitters and Frank Knox’s remnants don’t fight out in wide-open fields. If we step into a saloon or a tenement hallway in the city, it’s going to be dark, tight, and crowded. The boys need to learn how to enter a door frame in pairs, cover each other’s blind spots, and move through a narrow corridor without shooting each other in the back."

​John jotted a quick note on a scrap of paper he pulled from his coat pocket. "We can have the carpenters frame those out as soon as the timber trucks arrive from White Plains tomorrow morning. I’ll have Arthur run ’em through room-clearing drills by Thursday."

​By twelve o’clock, the midday sun sat high over the valley. The five designated camp cooks—Otis, Earl, Chester, Bernard, and Ralph—carried three long wooden benches and two heavy iron cauldrons out from the main farmhouse, setting them up on pine crates outside the barn.

​The rich, savory aroma of hot beef broth and freshly baked bread drifted across the yard, instantly drawing the tired runners in from the fields.

​"Line up! Form a neat row and keep your paws off the tin plates till you’re called!" Otis barked, holding a heavy iron soup ladle like a baton.

​The men lined up, wiping sweat from their foreheads with their shirt sleeves and laughing as they jostled for position in line.

​"I swear my knees are fixin’ to explode, Elmer," Floyd groaned, slumping onto an upturned crate with a tin bowl of stew resting on his knees. "Arthur ran us up that ridge five times before breakfast."

​"Least you ain’t cleaning the latrines tonight, palooka," Elmer replied, tearing off a thick chunk of crusty bread. "I thought Clarence was gonna pass out on the timber wall."

​"Hey, I made it over!" Clarence interjected, sitting down beside them with a grin. "And I didn’t drop my cap neither."

​Otis walked down the line of benches, ladle in hand, eyeing the men with a smirk. "Eat up, you bums. Arthur says afternoon class is weapons training. If any of you drops a pistol slide in the grass, you’ll be on pot-scrubbing duty with me tomorrow morning."

​"What kind of iron are we working with anyway, Otis?" Raymond asked, leaning forward from the next bench. "We using those old police revolvers?"

​"Better than revolvers, Ray," Otis said proudly. "Brand new semi automatic pistols straight out of the crates. Sleek little devils."

​After the lunch break ended, the routine shifted. Corporal Miller and Ralph—two older camp members who had served in the infantry during the Spanish-American War—set out long pine trestle tables near the shade of the timber line.

​Arranged across the raw wood were rows of clean, blued firearms: black Colt Model 1908 Pocket Hammerless pistols chambered in .380 ACP, double-action .38 revolvers, bolt-action M1903 Springfield rifles, and heavy Winchester Model 1897 pump-action shotguns.

​The young tenement runners gathered around the tables, eyeing the weapons with quiet fascination.

​"Alright, gather round and keep your fingers off the steel until I tell you," Miller barked out, tapping the edge of the table with his knuckles. "Each man gets a sidearm and a long gun to maintain. Ammunition stays strictly off-limits until we march over to the firing range. Today you learn how to strip ’em, clean ’em, clear a chamber jam, and put ’em back together so they don’t misfire when you need ’em."

​Ricky stepped up to the table alongside Floyd and Clarence, taking a seat on an upside-down crate. Even though his personal physical attributes were exceptionally high, he knew he lacked actual hands-on mechanical practice with early 20th-century firearms.

​Miller picked up a Colt .380 pistol, holding it up so everyone could see. "Pay close attention to the recoil spring plug when you draw the slide back. You twist the barrel lock here—like so—and pull the frame free. If you let that spring fly, it’ll shoot thirty feet into the grass and you’ll be searching on your knees till sundown."

​The tenement boys struggled at first, fumbling with the small steel pins and stiff internal springs. Elmer accidentally let his recoil spring fly, sending a small metal cap popping into the dirt.

​"Whoa! Flying brass!" Elmer gasped, ducking.

​"Find that plug, Elmer, or Miller’s gonna have your hide!" Floyd snickered.

​Ricky picked up his Colt 1908, examining the receiver, slide, and locking lugs carefully. As he focused on the mechanism, the mechanical logic of the weapon clicked into place.

​With quick, fluid motions, Ricky twisted the barrel lock, slid the receiver off the frame, set the recoil spring neatly on the table, and laid the component parts out in a clean row. A second later, he reversed the process—snapping the barrel back into place, aligning the slide rails, and cycling the action with a sharp, clean clack-click.

​Floyd, who was still wrestling with his own pistol slide, stopped mid-attempt and stared at Ricky in disbelief.

​"Sweet mother of God, boss..." Floyd mutters, his jaw slacking slightly. "Did you grow up working in an armory or something?"

​Ricky offered a calm, humble smile, setting the pistol back on the pine table. "It’s all simple mechanics, Floyd. Don’t fight the spring. Feel where the steel guides naturally sit, and the slide will seat itself without forcing the pins."

​Clarence leaned over, inspecting Ricky’s neatly reassembled sidearm. "Look at that, Ray. Didn’t even scratch the bluing."

​Seeing their boss handle the weapon so effortlessly motivated the rest of the men to settle down and focus harder, easing their frustration as Miller and Ralph walked down the line correcting grips and helping clear jammed slides.

​An hour and a half later, the company marched down a cleared dirt path to the firing range, where an earth embankment had been dug out against the base of a hill, lined with paper targets pinned to wooden posts.

​"Fifteen men on the firing line at a time!" Miller announced, handing out brass cartridges from a wooden crate. "Pistols first! Targets set at seven, ten, twelve, and fifteen yards!"

​The first squad took their places at the seven-yard mark. Miller stepped behind them, correcting their postures with a stiff tap to their shoulders.

​"Stand bladed to your target!" Miller instructed firmly. "Turn your shoulder sideways, extend your right arm straight out, and keep your left hand tucked firmly into your trouser pocket or behind your back! That’s the proper Army stance!"

​The men lifted their heavy revolvers and Colt pistols, aiming one-handed. Shots cracked across the valley—BANG! BANG! BANG!—kicking up small clouds of dirt around the wooden posts. Most of the paper targets remained completely untouched, with only a few stray rounds tearing through the outer margins.

​"Blazes, this thing jumps like a skittish colt!" Raymond cursed, shaking his wrist after his revolver barrel kicked high into the air.

​Ricky stepped up to the firing line for his turn, taking a stand at the ten-yard mark. He drew his Colt .380, but instead of turning sideways and putting his left hand in his pocket as Miller had instructed, Ricky stepped forward, setting his feet shoulder-width apart. He brought his left hand up, wrapping his fingers tightly around his right hand, locking the grip in a solid, balanced double-handed stance. He leaned his shoulders slightly forward over his boots.

​He squeezed the trigger smoothly. BANG.

​The pistol fired, but with both hands locking the frame, the barrel barely rose. The bullet punched a neat hole dead-center through the black bullseye.

​Ricky smiled faintly. It was the first time in his life he had ever fired a handgun. He reset his focus, squeezing the trigger four times in rapid succession—BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!

​Hot brass casings bounced into the grass. The shot grouping spread slightly from the rapid fire, but all five rounds landed tightly within a three-inch ring around the center mass.

​John Caldwell, who was standing a few feet back holding a box of ammunition, blinked in sheer surprise. He walked over to Ricky’s lane, looking back and forth between the tight holes on the paper target and Ricky’s hands.

​"How in the world are you keeping that muzzle so dead flat, boss?" John asked, genuinely amazed. "Every marksmanship instructor in the state teaches the single-handed bladed stance."

​"Put both hands on the weapon, John," Ricky explained patiently, stepping back from the line to demonstrate the grip. "Wrap your left hand around your right, locking your fingers over the guard. Lean your body weight into the shot instead of leaning back on your heels. The single-handed stance works fine for target shooting on a quiet range, but if you’re in a dark alley or a tight hallway, you need full control over the recoil so you can put multiple rounds on target fast."

​John stepped up to the lane, holding his .38 revolver with both hands, bracing his feet just as Ricky showed him. He raised the gun, squeezed the trigger three times, and watched three clean holes cluster right in the center of his target.

​"By God..." John muttered, staring at the paper in disbelief. "It’s steady as an iron vise!"

​June, a young runner standing in the adjacent lane, quickly shifted his hands to mimic John’s stance. He raised his Colt, let off two quick shots, and hit the bullseye on his very next attempt.

​"Hey! Look at that! I hit the mark!" June laughed out loud, holding up his target. "Two hands does it!"

​Within ten minutes, the rest of the men on the firing line abandoned the classic single-handed Army stance, adopting the two-handed grip. Gunfire echoed down the valley in rhythmic, controlled bursts as accuracy across the entire line jumped dramatically.

​Miller walked behind the firing line, inspecting the new shooting posture with raised eyebrows. He pulled his own revolver from its holster, tried the two-handed grip himself, fired six rapid rounds into the center ring, and gave a slow, appreciative grunt.

​"Well, I’ll be damned," Miller said, looking over at Ricky with newfound respect. "That ain’t in the drill manual, but that’s practical street shooting right there."

​Ricky reloaded his magazine, watching his men build their confidence with every round fired. Teaching a modern shooting posture decades ahead of its time was a simple adjustment, but out here in the woods, it gave these young men a practical edge that would keep them alive when the fighting finally started.