Rex Stout - Target Practice

One morning — last Monday it was, the 5th of October — the orderly came to the gun room where I was to say that there was a visitor in the office asking to see me. I followed him, wondering who it could be.

It was my brother Théodore.

I had not seen him for nearly a year, and we embraced each other joyfully. I thought he had been to Paris, and asked about mother, but he said he had come straight from Frankfort, through Switzerland. He said he hadn’t seen any of the fighting, having passed south of the lines.

“It was the only way I could make it,” he explained. “And since I had to pass within fifty miles of Toulon on my way to Paris, I thought I might as well make a detour and see you. I was drafted for the German army a week ago in Frankfort, and I had a hard time to escape.”

As he said this his eyes refused to meet mine; but I thought it was because he had to confess being a deserter, though I could see no shame in that.

Could I blame my own brother for refusing to fight against France?

Of course the first thing I thought of was that he should enlist in the coast defense here in Toulon in my company. But he refused, saying that he wanted to go to Paris first and see mother, and that when he did enlist he wanted to go to the front.

I could understand that well enough, so I didn’t press the matter. We talked for an hour or so about the old days together, then I asked if he wouldn’t like to look around the fortifications.

“Yes, that would be amusing,” he replied, without showing any particular interest.

I went off to get permission of the officer of the day, who happened to be Captain Janvour, a good friend of mine.

“You know, Bonnot,” he said, when I had saluted and made my request, “the colonel has given very strict orders about visitors. Everyone is under suspicion in time of war. But I suppose — you say he is your brother?”

“Yes, sir. My brother Théodore.”

“You will vouch for him?”

I hesitated a moment; after all, Théodore was from Germany. But I shook the thought off impatiently. Bah! My own brother!

“I will vouch for him, sir,” I replied.

“Then it’s all right. You are a man to be trusted, Bonnot. Here, orderly! Give Bonnot a ticket.”

It so happened that I was free till the two o’clock watch, so we had plenty of time. I took him first to Embankment A, the one on the right with the disappearing guns.

It didn’t seem to me at the time that he was very much interested, asking very few questions and talking mostly about the old days in Paris; but I remembered afterward that his eyes kept darting from one side to the other like a searchlight.

From there we crossed the traverse over to the main embankment, stopping to look at the new orillons that have been built in since the beginning of the war. He asked some questions about them, and I explained how they had been substituted for the old extension of the bastion face to guard against an enfilade of the second tier of gun rooms.

By eleven o’clock we had been all over the fort from one end to the other, even including the decoy embankment by the — but that is not for you to know, monsieur. I took delight in explaining everything, for Théodore had always been so much brighter than I that I was proud to show I knew something, too.

I telephoned to the barracks to arrange for him to eat with me at the gunners’ table, then we went to my gun room to wait for noon mess.

There are three 42-centimeter breech loaders in the room under my charge. They are the kind with the Reffye mechanism — the best guns in the fort, monsieur. I had two gunners and five privates under me, and we had the best record in the battalion.

I explained the guns to Théodore, unlocking the breechblock and showing how the projectile and charge are lifted from the loading-carriage and inserted in the bore.

He got upon the sighting platform and looked through.

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, “I had no idea they were so big! Why, a man could crawl in there, and he wouldn’t have to wriggle much, either.”

“Not I,” I replied, laughing. “I’ve tried it. But you might.”

You see, monsieur, Théodore was a little fellow compared to me; for I am of a good size.

Then we climbed upon the parapet together like two boys, and looked out across the sea with my glass. Just as we jumped down again into the gun room I heard a footstep at the door, and looked up to see Chanin, a gunner from Embankment A.

He looked a little surprised at sight of Théodore, then turned to me.

“Been looking for you all over the barracks, Bonnot. The captain has sent orders to stack up in the magazines for two o’clock practise. Come on if you want to finish before noon.”

Chanin trotted away, grumbling something about the captain always finding a job just before messtime.

“What’s up?” asked Théodore, grinning.

I explained that we had to prepare the ammunition for afternoon target practise. “It won’t take long,” I added; “half an hour at the most. You can come along if you want to.”

He said he would rather wait for me in the gunroom, so I went off alone after promising to return to take him to mess.

In the magazine I found a squad of privates and three or four gunners filling up the loading-carriages and wheeling them into place.

“Who’s your friend?” asked Chanin, as I crossed to the projectile rail and began loosening the hold screws.

I told him it was my brother from Paris.

“Your brother? Didn’t know you had one. How long is he going to stay?”

I swung a projectile into place as I answered:

“Till this evening.”

“Well,” said Chanin, who was a good-hearted fellow, “if I had known that I wouldn’t have bothered you. We can handle this alone, can’t we, boys? You go on back, Bonnot, and visit with your brother. I’ll load your carriages for you.”

I protested a little just to be polite, but he insisted; and some of the others did, too.

So I got permission from the lieutenant in charge, put on my shirt and jacket, and went back to join Théodore. I had been gone about ten minutes.

I was a little surprised to find that the door of the gun room was shut tight, for I was certain that I had left it open when I left. But, not thinking much about it, I pushed it back and entered.

As I did so I heard a little cry of surprise. It came from Théodore.

He was standing in the corner by a block of concrete, facing toward the wall, only his head was turned to the door. His face was flushed, and there was a queer expression in his eyes. One hand was thrown back against the wall, and in the other — the right — he was clutching something white.

Something — I guess it was the look in his eyes — seemed to tell me everything in a flash. And then suddenly they changed, and I saw that he was aware that I knew.

For a long time we stood looking at each other in silence, neither one of us moving a muscle. He looked straight in my eyes, and I looked straight back; but I felt something coming up into my throat and choking me, and he seemed to be a long way off.

When I spoke my voice sounded strange and queer.

“Théodore,” I said, “what have you got in your hand?”

He didn’t answer. I made a step or two forward, then stopped. All the time we were looking straight at each other. His cheeks had gone white, and his lips were drawn tight together. Then suddenly his face relaxed, and he came forward, holding out his hand.

“There,” he said calmly, “you may as well look at it.”

I took it — a small pad of white paper with a leather back. A glance was enough. There were notations and abbreviations in German, but I understood the diagrams and figures: “3-35X10 — 4-20X8 — 30 paces — 6-25X15 — 40 paces — 7-15X15.” And so on. Two pages of the pad were filled.