The Slingshot The Sergeant sat perched on a rock, his legs dangling over the edge. It was 1943, and the Sergeant’s company had just arrived at the training camp in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, where they would complete their basic training. The field stretched out before him, and the soldiers crawled through the tall grass, their khaki uniforms blending seamlessly with the landscape. The Sergeant watched them, his eyes sharp, his senses attuned to every movement. He knew that this was where they would learn the art of survival. In his hand, he held a slingshot, a simple contraption made from a Y- shaped branch and a strip of leather. He had become an expert marksman with his silent weapon. He could hit a tin can from fifty yards away without making a sound. As the soldiers crawled forward, Bill’s gaze fixed on a distant helmet rising above the grass. He plucked a small pebble from the ground, nestled it into the leather pouch, and pulled back the slingshot. The helmet rose above the tall grass, and the Sergeant released the rock. It sailed through the air. The impact was precise, the helmet jerked, and the soldier beneath it quickly lowered his head. The Sergeant allowed himself a small smile. The pebble could strike without warning. But just as he reached for another pebble, a voice interrupted his concentration. “Sergeant?” said the Captain stepping toward him. His eyes held a mix of amusement and curiosity. The Sergeant’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t expected anyone to witness his private training technique. “Sir,” he stammered “I am …” The captain raised a hand, cutting him off. “No need to explain, Sergeant, carry on.” The captain wasn’t reprimanding him. Instead, his gaze still fixed on the crawling soldiers. “You’ve got a talent, Sergeant. That slingshot of yours, excellent idea” The Sergeant, relieved “Thank you, sir.” The captain’s grin widened. “Keep it up. Better to have them hit with a pebble from a slingshot now than a bullet on the battlefield. The Sergeant nodded. He glanced back at the soldiers, still crawling through the grass. His slingshot rested in his lap, ready for the next target. The soldiers continued their crawl, unaware of the Sergeant with a secret weapon and a Captain who understood the value of unorthodox training skills. This story was shared by a Veteran Sergeant who was assigned to the Canadian Infantry Basic Training Centre #60 at Yarmouth, Nova Scotia during World War II.