Copenhagen Sharpshooter Training Ground.
Rhodes stood at the edge of the target area, the young people watching him struggle to adjust the scopes on their rifles — ten men older than him were frantically tweaking their scopes.
Indeed, although these soldiers were the best marksmen of their units, the age gap was too vast. Rhodes even noticed the eldest of his squad — yes, really an old man, with white hair, a face wrinkled from wind and snow, and calloused hands.
Could such an old man really be a sharpshooter? Was he really not just brought in to make up the numbers?
He was the slowest one to adjust the scope and the only one who gave up, the old man put down the four-time scope and picked up his ten-shot rifle: "Lieutenant Sir, may I use the mechanical sight."
