As always, the sky was a depressing grey. The clouds tipped open and unleashed their dreadful payloads. Lines of men in khaki tunics and tin helmets marched, led by a man with a khaki jacket and mustard tie. They trudged through the mud and winced as the cool sludge entered their boots. Their older leader seemed perfectly at ease in such conditions. Drill sergeant Bumi was an old, tough man. He was clean shaven and wore a slightly goofy smile, bearing a thin veil of seriousness. The men slowed as they climbed up hill.
Bumi turned around and yelled, "Hurry up. Yes, I know, there is mud in your boots. There is mud in mine, too! You will learn to get used to it, just as I did in the Boer War, when I was a young man."
Bolin looked at Mako, who was adjacent to him, "What's this Boer War? It seems to have been very important."
Mako shrugged, "I don't know. But it seems dad was in it. I wonder why he never told us about it. It must have been bad."
"Oh it was bad," a foreign accent interrupted their dialogue from Mako's flank.
Bolin looked at him, "Who are you?"
Mako nudged him square in the ribs.
Bolin rubbed his chest, "Ouch."
"Nah, she'll be right," the foreigner said, "What's your names?"

Mako answered on his brother's behalf, "I'm Mako and that is Bolin, my brother."

The foreigner nodded, "Ah, I see. Call me Kai, because, well, that's my name, I guess."

"So you were saying about the Boer War?" Bolin almost tripped as he kicked a rock.

"It was a horrible war, that's all I was told. Dad answered the call and took one for the Empire."

Bolin frowned sympathetically, "You must be proud."

Kai smiled, "Yeah, I am. He lived as a great man and died as a great man."

Mako pulled his foot from the mud, "Forgive me for saying this, but you have an unusual accent. Where are you from? If you don't mind…"

"Nah mate, it's fine," Kai waved his hand, "I'm from Australia. Came here to fight for Avatar and country."

Bumi stopped and turned around when they reached the target range. He checked to make sure nobody had fallen behind. He inspected all the men as they stood in formation. He handed each one of them a wooden-butted rifle with a strap. "Right," he announced in a large shout, "this is the Short Magazine Lee-Enfield Mark III" he explained, "a standard British weapon."

Bumi pulled back the bolt of the rifle and slotted in ten bullets. He closed the magazine and aimed towards a target. He fired. The loud crack was ear shattering, but was something the new recruits would have to learn to deal with. He repeatedly fired ten times at a target 500 yards away. In 30 seconds, he was able to unload all of his bullets, plus a few extra magazines. It was hard to tell the exact number, but Bolin was convinced this was the machinegun he heard rumours about.

On Bumi's command, the soldiers grabbed their rifles from their backs and lay down, resting their barrels on a line of sandbags. Bumi looked at his pocket watch. "I'll be timing you, if you don't get at least 15 aimed shots in one minute, you aren't doing any fighting. We can't have the riff raff in the army. The British Army is the only one in Europe that is full of trained professionals, not untrained conscripts. Tiny Belgium may have a bigger army than us, but ours is better than the German and French Armies combined twice over.

The men fired and reloaded as many times as possible, getting faster as they progressed. Mako did extraordinarily well, pumping out the most accurate shots in the shortest amount of time. On command, they jumped to their feet, fixed knives to their barrels and charged down the range. They shredded their target scarecrows to pieces.

"Right," Bumi commanded once more "at ease! You're all being transported to Duke Skibbington's position!"