"The rifle," was the answer.

"The crutch?"

"No, the rifle."

"I see that, boy, I see that! But, damn it, don't make a crutch of it.
You're a soldier now, my man, and not a crippled one yet."

Thus was the rifle introduced to us. We had long waited for its
coming, and dreamt of cross-guns, the insignia of a crack shot's
proficiency, while we waited. And with the rifle came romance, and the
element of responsibility. We were henceforward fighting men,
numbered units, it was true, with numbered weapons, but for all that,
fighters--men trained to the trade and licensed to the profession.

Our new friend was rather a troublesome individual to begin with. In
rising to the slope he had the trick of breaking free and falling on
the muddy barrack square. A muddy rifle gets rusty, and brings its
owner into trouble, and a severe penalty is considered meet for the
man who comes on parade with a rusty rifle. Bringing the friend from
the slope to the order was a difficult process for us recruits at the
start the back-sight tore at the fingers, and bleeding hands often
testified to the unnatural instinct of the rebellious weapon. But the
unkindest kick of all was given when the slack novice fired the first
shot, and the heel of the butt slipped upwards and struck the jaw.
Then was learnt the first real lesson. The rifle kicks with the heel
and aims for the jaw. Control your friend, humour him; keep him well
in hand and beware his fling.