In His Shelter: A Christian in the British Army

By Brendan Smith

Smith’s gripping and humorous memoir details his time in the British Army as a Humanitarian Aid Officer. The story follows Smith from day one of Basic Training to his last day in Afghanistan, a decade later. Thrilling accounts of surviving ambushes, riots and suicide bombs make In His Shelter an entertaining and inspiring tale of faith, adventure and friendship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brendan Smith
• Release date: Jan 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301708291

Brendan Smith

Brendan Smith was born in Zimbabwe and grew up in South Africa. He has an amazing life story, and many incredible accomplishments, including serving in the British Army, travelling the globe, and now educating the church. Brendan attended Maritzburg College before studying Business Finance at Pietermaritzburg University, South Africa. He then was a youth pastor at an Assemblies of God church, before being led by God to join the British Army, where he would serve for 10 years. Brendan attended the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, the British Army officer academy. As an officer, Brendan specialised in Civil Military Cooperation (CIMIC), NATO's Humanitarian Aid Division. He served in Germany, Norway and Cyprus, where he was an active member of the Armed Forces Christian Union, Military Missions International, and Alpha for the Forces. In 2006, Brendan was deployed to Afghanistan as a Captain, to conduct CIMIC operations. After back to back tours, he resigned his commission to pursue a life in full time ministry. He was employed as the Africa Director of The Barnabas Fund, a Christian charity organisation until 2010. Brendan is passionate about fighting injustice. He has traveled extensively throughout Africa, Europe ,the Middle East and South East Asia, supporting and encouraging the persecuted church, teaching on Islam, and fighting the root causes of poverty and oppression. Brendan has recently been involved with "Foundations for Farming" in Zimbabwe, and is currently on staff at His Church in Pinetown South Africa. He sits on the board of the Religious Liberty Commission of South Africa and Kwa-Care, a poverty alleviation charity in South Africa. He has written two books on Islam and one on his experiences in the British Army, entitled "In His Shelter"

Book preview

Chapter 1

Basics

One of the first things you learn when you join the British Army is: don’t get noticed. If you can play the grey man and blend into the background — if you can be one face in the hundred other squadie faces — then you are safe. If the directing staff (DS) know who you are, then your life is misery. Sure, there is a time and place to shine and be noticed, but day one of basic training is not the time. Unfortunately, no one ever told me this …

Already a big day for us, day one also included being issued our weapons. The procedure was simple and typically military. First, we stood in a line outside the armoury. Then, one by one, we entered into a room that smelled strongly of gun oil. In the room, a large — and equally oiled — staff sergeant slammed a rifle down on the counter in front of each squadie.

This is your weapon! the staff sergeant said. You may call it a weapon, or if you are that way inclined, you may call it a rifle! It is not a ‘gun,’ it is not a ‘gat,’ and it sure as hell is not a bloody ‘firestick!’ Now bugger off.

Yes, sir, I said.

Sir? Sir? the staff sergeant roared. Don’t you ever bloody well call me ‘sir!’ I am not a poncy officer; I am a senior NCO. I bloody well work for a living. Get out of my sight, you little piece of …

And with that, I tumbled out of the armoury — followed by a string of profanities. The door slammed shut.

Next! came the call from inside.

The eyes of the poor guy next in the line grew wide. He tentatively stepped into the armoury.

Bloody stand to bloody attention when you are in front of a bloody senior NCO, you bloody little …

The door slammed shut, saving the rest of us from the staff sergeant’s next stream of curses.

Once we had our rifles, we had to stand against the corridor wall while our names and butt numbers (weapon numbers) were taken down. This mundane duty had fallen on a soldier named Corporal Bee. He did not seem impressed with having such a duty. Corporal Bee was a tough-looking and rough-talking Scot from the backstreets of Glasgow. I only really understood every third word he said – and most of those were swear words. He had also recently lost a couple of teeth in a fight, which added to the gaps he already had in his teeth from previous fights. When he smiled, it was not out of friendliness: he wore his smile as a battle honour, with each toothless gap a badge of valour. Corporal Bee was quite small, but by some trick of the mind, he appeared far larger that day. I only noticed that I was a good half a foot taller than he was a couple of years later when I bumped into him on another base. During basics, I swear I had to tilt my head up to be able to look him in the eyes. To us, he was god-like.

That first day, Corporal Bee prowled down the corridor and took people’s names and butt numbers while we remained lined up with our newly acquired weapons.

Name and number? Corporal Bee asked one squadie.

Williams – A 45, Corporal.

The corporal went to the next man in line: Name and number?

Jones – D 34, Corporal.

And on he went until he got to the man next to me: Craig Terblanche, a South African like me.

Name and number?

Terblanche – B 34, Corporal.

Ter-what? I canna @#%& understarrnd a #$%^ word ya sayin’ there.

Terblanche, Corporal!

Wha’?

Teeerblaaaanche, Corporal!

Spell it!

T-E-R-B-L-A-N-C-H-E.

T-E-R …?

"T-E-R-B-L-A-N-C-H-E!"

T-E-R-B-L-A-N …? the corporal asked.

C–H—E.

T-E-R-B-L-A-N-C-H-E?

T-E-R-B-L-A-N-C-H-E!

Now that they had sorted that out, Corporal Bee took one step to his right and faced me.

Name and number?

I am still not sure what happened but I just couldn’t resist the urge that I felt in that moment. So I said, Smith. S-M–I–

Before I even got to the T and H, I was already counting out fifty push-ups on the floor at Corporal Bee’s feet. I thought it was quite funny, but, you know, some people just don’t have a sense of humour. When I eventually got back to my feet, Terblanche muttered under his breath: That is the dumbest thing I have ever seen anyone do.

I spent the rest of the month doing duties for the directing staff. The DS knew who Terblanche was but he seemed to get away with quite a bit. I don’t think that they ever worked out how to pronounce his name. But they sure as hell knew who Smith was, and apparently how to spell the name too.

The next day, we were marched into a classroom for Introduction to PT (as in, physical training). After we had all taken our seats, the door of the classroom blew open and in strutted Corporal Langdon, our new physical training instructor (PTI). He was easily the most well-tanned and well-built person I had ever seen. Still, knowing that it was only April and that I hadn’t seen the sun in the three months I had been in the UK, I wondered about the authenticity of his tan. Corporal Langdon oozed ego and nastiness And I was pretty sure that his perfectly gelled hair must have been against Queen’s Regulations. He wore a breathtakingly tight white vest with red ribbing and a badge with red crossed swords. He had matching and equally tight white shorts with a red belt, plus white socks and white shoes.

He pointed to his chest and said, Do you see these swords? They mean that I am a PTI. I am your physical training instructoooor. You will hate me. If you do not throw up during one of my lessons, I will know that you have not worked hard enough. You will wish you had never met me. It is my job to get you useless pieces of dirt into some kind of shape.

At that point, I could have sworn he winked at one of his biceps.

I know what I am doing, he continued. I am a professional. I have been training to do an ultra-marathon. It is supposedly the toughest road race in the world. It is 100 kilometres long. It is so hard, they only let the fittest people in the world run it. I cannot tell you just how tough it is. I have been training for the last year with one of the world’s experts on long-distance running.

He stopped and I was sure that he blew a kiss to his other bicep.

Yip! he said. This expert, Bruce Fordyce, has said to me that he has never seen such natural ability. So, in a couple of months, I am flying to South Africa to compete in the Comrades Marathon.

My hand went up. And although my brain sent warning signals to my mouth, they did not get there in time to stop me from saying, Corporal, please look out for my mother. She is running her eighth Comrades Marathon.

The entire class, which until then had been in awe of the PTI, sniggered and then burst out laughing. Corporal Langdon gave the class a look that shut them up in mid-laugh. Then came complete silence — except for the sound of me counting out yet another fifty push-ups.

Corporal Bee, who stood at the back of the classroom, grinned toothlessly and then so helpfully said, Corporal Langdon, his name is Smith, if you are interested.

Oh, I am interested, Corporal Langdon said, rubbing his hands together.

When I had finished my push-ups and returned to my chair, Craig Terblanche just shook his head and whispered, "Now that is the dumbest thing I have seen anyone do."

And that is how I started my British Army career: In two days, I had publicly embarrassed two DS members. For the next three months, they made sure my life was interesting. Whenever we were on a troop run and stopped for a break, I had to keep going and disappear into the distance to touch a far-off tree with the words Because of your mother, Smith! ringing in my ear. Still, it did help me keep fitter than everyone else.

/////

I had been a part-time youth pastor during my final year at university, and I seriously considered going into full-time ministry once I had finished my studies. But something — or, more like, Someone — led me to join the British Army, much to everyone’s surprise — including mine. Many people have asked me why I joined the army. I have never really been able to explain it. The urge to join gripped me over a few months, until I could not ignore it. I just knew that God had told me to join, and so I went.

I had no idea what to expect or where to go. I wrote a letter to the army asking how I could join, and they mailed some forms. I filled them in and waited. A few months later, I was on holiday with my family in Zimbabwe when our house-sitter in South Africa phoned and said that a letter for me had arrived from the UK. The letter stated that I was invited for an interview in London in a week’s time. In less than a week, I was in the UK. I attended the interview in London. They told me that although I was applying to join as an officer and attend the prestigious Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, I would have to spend a year as a private soldier. The reason for this was that although I was a British citizen through my mother, I had never set foot in the UK. I needed to be, in their words, anglicised before I would be allowed to attend Sandhurst. So a few weeks later, I arrived at ATR (Army Training Regiment) Winchester, a wide-eyed and nervous young basics recruit.

I soon learnt that the British Army is not a very Christian place. While we were getting processed in the first few days of basics, the staff asked for details for our dog tags. We had to give our name, number, blood type, and religion. When asked for my religion, I said Christian.

You can’t just say Christian, the staff member said. You have to say what flavour Christian.

I felt like saying rum and raisin flavour, but by that time, I was learning to hold my tongue.

So I said, What do you mean, what flavour?

You know, Roman Catholic, Church of England …

Oh, then I am AOG.

What?

Assemblies of God.

Assemblies of God? What is that?

Um, it is a Pentecostal church.

Pentecostal? Well, okay, thanks. Next!

A few weeks later, I got my dog tags. I was quite excited to get them. I always remembered playing with my dad’s dog tags as a kid, and now I was getting my very own. I looked at the two pieces of stainless steel disks on which was engraved:

SMITH BRT;

249682967

O Pos

OB

I had no idea what OB was. It really puzzled me. I just couldn’t figure it out. I thought it must be some army code that meant something to someone. The more I thought of it, the more it bugged me. So I went to one of the admin staff.

What does OB stand for? I asked, showing him my tags.

OB stands for ‘Other Beliefs.’

It turned out that the British Army’s admin system did not have any way of capturing any religious data other than Roman Catholic, or the Churches of England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. The person entering my data had no idea what AOG or Pentecostal was, so instead, he had entered OB, which by definition meant that I was not Christian. I did have my tags changed a few years later to read PENT (for Pentecostal). I could never get them to just say Christian.

Then, on one of our first days in the army, we were divided up into sections of about fifteen people who all stayed in the same room. Five other South Africans were going through training with me but I was the only one in my section. They had deliberately separated us.

Part of the anglicising process, we were told.

Just as we were about to be marched off, our platoon sergeant arrived and stopped us. For some unknown reason, he pointed at one guy in my platoon and told him to swap with another — and then pointed to Craig Terblanche. Craig moved into my section. The sergeant then turned around and walked off. No explanation was given. The corporals looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and then called us to attention to march us off again. Just then, our platoon commander arrived and stopped us.

Right, he said, we have to let you know that there is chapel on Sundays for anyone who believes in that kind of stuff. So which of you guys are Jesus Creepers?

I heard some sniggering amongst the ranks. I stuck up my hand. More sniggers. I looked around. I was the only one with my hand in the air – the only Christian out of 100 people.

Then I heard a voice behind me: "Don’t worry, bro. You are not alone."

I looked to the rear, and there stood Craig Terblanche with his hand up too. It is amazing how God knows your needs and meets them. The Lord had arranged that the only two Christians in the intake were put into the same section. Later, though, the sergeant found out that we had two South Africans in our platoon and he came storming into the barracks.

I hear that there are two South Africans in the same platoon, the sergeant shouted at the corporals. How on earth did that happen?

They looked at each other and one said, Sarge, um, you moved them.

Oh, he said. Well, there must be a reason for it.

And then he stomped off.

Looking back, I am not sure if I would have been able to get through basics without Craig. He and I were never too outspoken about our faith but we never denied or hid the fact that we were Christian. We got up early to read the Bible. We went to chapel and we encouraged each other. And we did need the encouragement …

A couple of guys there really did not like us. It started when we were sitting in a small shelter waiting for our turn on the firing ranges. The soldiers were talking, and being soldiers, they were talking about sex. I kept out of the conversation. One soldier, who we’d thought was quite a good guy and who was quite friendly toward us, suddenly asked me, So, Smith, how many women have you shagged?

Um, none.

Everyone stopped talking.

So you have never been with a woman? he asked.

Christians don’t agree with sex before marriage.

So you have never been with a woman?

No!

Then this guy got so angry that he picked up a stone from the gravel floor and threw it at me. It hit me just above the eye. I put my hand up to my eye and felt blood. I stared at him.

Dude, what the hell! I said.

Then I was hit on the side of the head by someone else. And then another stone-hit me and then another. Suddenly, all thirty guys from the platoon were throwing stones. It was crazy. The stones themselves were not all that painful, and only a few actually drew blood, but it was the humiliation of it. I thought of Stephen being stoned in the book of Acts, and I felt like I had a tiny glimmer of what he must have gone through.

Thankfully, Craig was outside on guard duty, and he heard the commotion and came in. He saw me crouching down, trying to cover my face while getting hit all over. He pulled me out, went back inside, and closed the door.

You bloody cowards, he shouted at them, if you want to throw something, throw it at me.

Craig was and still is one of the toughest guys I know – short but tough. Not one guy dared throw another stone. I found a quiet place to just sit for a while. No one ever apologised to me.

I have to confess that I did get a little revenge later in a manner that was not very gracious or forgiving. We were on exercise — in other words, playing soldiers out in the field. We had dug in for the night in what is known as a harbour in a forest. The three sections of the platoon laid themselves out in a defensive triangle. We were in enemy territory, so discipline with noise and light was essential at night, otherwise, the enemy can spot you and kill you, as we were told. The inside of the triangle was marked with a piece of string or cord so that in the dark of the night, we could feel our way around the harbour without making any noise or having to use light to see where we were going.

Sometime during the third night of this particular exercise, we were bumped (attacked) and we had to bug out (evacuate quickly). As I was on the edge of the escape route, I was the first out. I sprinted toward the RV (rendezvous) point, which was about 500 metres away. About 100 metres out, I felt as if my legs were lead. I got slower and slower. It almost felt like something was pulling me back. I pumped my legs harder, but I just could not get them to carry me. I was wondering what the hell was going on when suddenly something grabbed me from behind and jerked me back with such force that I was completely lifted off my feet. It folded me in half and catapulted my body five or six metres backward.

I stood there, really confused. I had no idea what had just happened. I initially thought that someone had run past me and pulled me back, but I was still the only one who had managed to get out of the harbour area, and I was standing in the field all alone. I got up and started running again. After a few metres, something jerked me back again. I suddenly realised that whatever was pulling me was attached to my Bergen (rucksack). I took my pack off, and soon I found that as I was bugging out, one of my poncho shelter bungees had hooked on to the harbour guiding string. I had essentially run against a huge elastic cord which stretched 100 metres back. Eventually, the pull had become too much for my legs and I was shot backward. I began to laugh so hard at the situation that I had to sit down. Just then, Craig emerged from the harbour — the second one out. He saw me laughing my head off on the ground and stopped to find out what was going on. I showed him what had happened by pulling the cord tight. As I did, I felt and heard a twang from the string, and then a confused and painful exclamation from someone just coming out of the harbour. Then came a horrible dull thump as the soldier hit the floor.

Who was that? I asked.

Wooley, I think, Craig said.

Good. The bugger deserved it.

Wooley had thrown the first stone at me the week before. Then an idea hit Craig and me at exactly the same time.

Who is next, I wonder? I asked.

Craig and I looked at each other, and I could see his eyes glinting in the moonlight.

I pulled the string tight again. Then came the twang, a cry, and a thump.

Evans! we both said together.

We spent the next few happy minutes pulling the string and trying to guess whom we had just clothes-lined based on the sound of their yelps of pain and confusion. If they weren’t being knocked down by us, they were tripping over each other as they came out of the harbour. The DS were chasing the slower ones by throwing thunder flashes at them. It was chaos. Eventually, Craig and I called it quits and ran off to the RV. The DS were waiting there, and we were the first to arrive.

Where the hell is everyone? they asked.

We shrugged our shoulders innocently.

The platoon arrived in dribs and drabs, all rubbing some part of the bodies.

What the hell happened to you lot? the DS asked.

But no one could explain. I can only wonder what they thought was happening to them. Quite a few of them had lost pieces of equipment while falling to the ground. One guy even lost his rifle. That was the final straw for the DS, and we spent the rest of the night getting bumped and bugged out. That was not fun, but I must admit that it was worth it.

One guy in particular gave Craig and me a really hard time. His name was Boyles. Craig and I felt that there was something spiritually wrong with him. In our first weeks in basics, he took out an Ouija board that he had brought with him. Everyone in our section seemed keen to play, except for Craig and me. Out of the fifteen squadies in the room, we were the only ones not comfortable with this. I got angry that evil was going to be openly conducted into the room in which we slept. I explained to everyone the dangers of messing around with the occult. However, it seemed to just excite everyone more. I only grew angrier. So I walked toward my bed to pray. I did not know what else to do.

On my way to my bed, I saw my Bible lying open on the bunk of a friend who had asked to borrow it a few weeks before. I picked up my Bible and then knelt next to my bed to pray. The others sat around in a circle on one side of the room while Boyles laid out all the pieces of the board.

Lord! Help! was all I could pray.

I knew something evil was in the room, and I could not pray any more than that. I then looked down at my Bible. It was lying open to Psalm 37 (nkjv), so I read verses 1-10:

Do not fret because of evildoers,

Nor be envious of the workers of iniquity.

For they shall soon be cut down like the grass,

And wither as the green herb.

Trust in the Lord and do good;

Dwell in the land, and feed on His faithfulness.

Delight yourself also in the Lord,

And He shall give you the desires of your heart.

Commit your way to the Lord,

Trust also in Him,

And He shall bring it to pass.

He shall bring forth your righteousness as the light,

And your justice as the noonday.

Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him;

Do not fret because of him who prospers in his way,

Because of the man who brings wicked schemes to pass.

Cease from anger, and forsake wrath;

Do not fret — it only causes harm.

For the evildoers shall be cut off;

But those who wait on the Lord,

They shall inherit the earth.

For yet a little while and the wicked shall be no more;

Indeed, you will look carefully for his place,

But it shall be no more.

As soon as I had prayed that little prayer and then read that portion of Psalm 37, one guy sitting in the circle suddenly stood up and said, This is stupid. And he walked out of the room. Then another guy stood up and left, and then another and another, until Boyles was left sitting on his own in the middle of the floor, looking very foolish.

I went up to him and said, My God is stronger than your board.

Craig and I were actually quite kind to Boyles and helped him before inspections with shining, cleaning, and ironing his kit. We helped him write letters to his family and girlfriend (like most of the soldiers with us, he was quite illiterate). We realised that he was a troubled young man so we tried to show him Christ’s love. He was friendly and smiling to our faces when we helped him, but as soon as our backs were turned, he became nasty. Boyles went out of his way to make our lives miserable. Although he could barely write, he wrote letters to the staff accusing us of all kinds of fabricated things. He even got a petition signed by the whole platoon to get rid of us.

Boyles also found other ways to try to get under our skin. We had inspections every day. We never dared to sleep in our beds because they took so long to make. We had to iron the sheets and then fit them so tightly on the bed that you could literally bounce a coin off of it. But, while Craig and I were away polishing the bathroom brasses just before an inspection, Boyles would come in and empty the rubbish onto our beds, jump on them, and then run out again, laughing his head off. He did it quite a few times. Man, in the army, you don’t touch a guy’s weapon, girlfriend, or bed. For some reason, though, we were never picked up for the state of our beds.

Another time, we went away to help at a military fair for the weekend, and when we returned, we found that our lockers had been broken into. Plus, there was graffiti all over our lockers, walls, and kit. Our irons had been turned on and held up against a black bin, so they were covered in melted plastic and were now useless. We were so angry. I remember having to restrain Craig, who did battle with his temper sometimes, from going to Boyles and hitting him.

Boyles also almost cost me my place in the army with one of the most infuriating things that he did. We were building up to our final rifle test. If a soldier didn’t pass, he was back-squadded, which meant that the staff would put you back six to eight weeks so that you could have another go at it. Because I was striving to get into the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, I knew that I had to perform to the highest standards. If I failed at anything, or even if I was not in the top percentage of the platoon during basics, there would be no way that I would be considered for Sandhurst.

One thing that I seemed to have no problem with during basics was shooting. It is something that I have always been relatively good at. The rifles that we used made things quite easy, as they were accurate, and the instructions given by the staff were superb. I enjoyed going to the ranges, and my scores always came in either first or second out of about 100 people. The day before our final practise, and two days before our final test, I was called to have a meeting with an officer about Sandhurst. I had my weapon on me and could not take it into the camp headquarters. So I gave it to one of my platoon mates to take to the armoury for me. As I was leaving, I saw Boyles taking my rifle from the guy I’d given it to. It surprised me a little that Boyles was volunteering to do something good for me, but I did not think much of it.

The next day, we went to the range for the final practise before the test. It would be almost exactly like the test itself, with each soldier shooting from 100, 200, and 300 metres from different positions: standing, kneeling, and prone. The test would be timed, so you had to be both quick and accurate. Although this would only be a practise, if a soldier didn’t pass it, he wouldn’t be allowed to take the final test.

So I lined up at the 100-metre mark for the first shoot.

Prone position at 100 metres! the range manager said. Ten rounds! Targets will be up for five seconds. Targets will fall when hit. In your own time, go on!

The targets popped up, but when I shot, they would not fall down. I could not understand it. I could shoot a grouping of five centimetres with ten rounds at 100 metres. The range staff could not understand why my targets were not falling, either. He got on his walkie-talkie to check if my target was broken, but it was working fine. It was me. He came over and asked what was wrong. I couldn’t tell him. By that stage, another ten targets had gone up, and I had missed every single one. I missed the next ten, too. That was thirty shots, and we only had seventy shots in which to score thirty-six hits to qualify for the final test. At 100 metres with an iron sight, it was easy to hit the targets, but when standing at 300 metres, it became a little more difficult. We usually banked on the 100-metre shots and then expected to miss a few of the 300-metre shots. But I had missed all thirty at 100 metres. And I had tried everything: shooting high, low, left, and right — but I could not hit a thing.

Naturally, by this time, I felt quite nervous. At the 200-metre mark, one of the range staff members stood behind me.

What are you playing at, Smith? he asked me.

I have no idea what is going on. I just can’t hit a damn thing today.

Check your sights, he said.

I looked down at my sights and noticed that they sat completely over to the right. They had been moved — purposely! The sights on our rifles were robust, and we had to use a special tool to adjust them.

What? I shouted. Bloody Boyles! Arghhhhh!

I could not believe anyone could be that vindictive. When he had taken my weapon back to the armoury, he had adjusted the sights — and thus I had no idea where I was shooting.

Well, the range staff said, there is nothing we can do about it now. You have forty shots to score thirty-six.

There is no way that I am going to be back-termed because of a stupid little squirt, I thought.

Then I recalled the verses from Psalm 37 that the Lord had shown me a few weeks before. The Lord would not allow this person to prosper over His plans. So I mentally said a quick prayer: You have to help me. I have forty shots to score thirty-six, and I have no idea where I am shooting.

I am still not sure why I told God all that, because I am sure God can count.

The next set of targets popped up. I shot and missed. Thirty-nine chances left to score thirty-six. The staff moved behind me and said that he would look for where my bullets were landing in the sand bank behind the targets. I shot again and missed. Thirty-eight to score thirty-six …

I saw your bullet splash, the staff said. It is about three targets to the left. Readjust three targets to the right.

I readjusted my aim and shot again — and missed again.

You are still half a target to the left. Aim half a target to the right.

Lord, I thought, in case you have lost count, I have thirty-seven shots to score thirty-six.

I readjusted my aim again and waited for the target. The target popped up. I did not even have a fixed reference point. I was aiming at an imaginary point three and a half targets to the right. My own target was not even in my sights.

Lord, You are God and I trust in You.

I squeezed the trigger. I could not even see if the plate fell but as soon as I shot I knew that I had hit it.

Smith, you got it! the staff shouted.

I did not dare move my eyes from my imaginary reference point. The targets popped up again and I hit again and again and again – from 200 metres and then 300 metres. I did not miss a single shot after that. I scored thirty-seven out of seventy. I had passed with one shot to spare.

Afterward, the staff who had been with me came up to me in front of the whole platoon, including Boyles.

Smith, the staff said, that was the most incredible shooting I have ever seen. It is a bloody miracle you passed.

I had to agree: I knew it was not me but God. I could have said something to Boyles but I didn’t. I knew that God had said enough.

Although the practise shoot was over, the real test came the next day. We had to score fifty-six out of seventy-five. I did not have time to recalibrate my sights properly, so I moved them to where I thought they should be.