My Little Armalite (23 page)

But go in we did. The wheels spun in mud, bit again, took us deeper into green darkness. On the trees I began to notice small red-and-white metal signs saying ST
ELNICE. All of them had rusting bullet holes in them. Then we arrived at a compound of low wooden buildings. I got out, and straight away plunged my
foot lace-deep into a sucking puddle of oily mud. All around me was the sound of guns.

I'd never heard guns before. Why would I? I'm English. It was nothing like the noise on films. Not deep roars. High, thin cracks that whipped into your abdomen, followed by long, rolling, hissing echoes.

I did not like the place at all. I did not like the noise which made me jump and the mud which had me sliding. I did not like the cold that bit and the damp that clung. I did not like the dank wooden lavatory block that you could nose at fifty yards. I did not like the shaven-headed man who was sitting on the steps of the main shack, earphones pushed on to the back of his head like grotesquely menacing Mickey Mouse ears, drinking a bottle of beer and looking steadily at me with watery-blue abuser‘s eyes. I pulled my inadequate tweed tighter and tugged my ludicrous hat down over the tops of my ears. I must have been mad to come out here.

Ghosts seemed to nibble at the edge of this gloomily wet and woody world, the ghosts of so many Europeans driven out into forests at gunpoint to dig their own graves. I wanted to go to bed. I wanted to go home. This was not my world.

A platoon of the Russian Army crossed the compound in front of us.

—Christ, do the Russians use this place?

—No, that's just a local club.

—A club?

—Yeah. Local Slavonians. Not Czechs. The Czechs think of them like we think of the Irish. You know, thick and drunk and dodgy, ha ha! They dress up in Russian uniforms, they come here, they shoot Russian guns and drink vodka. It's some kind of Slavic Brothers thing. Don't ask me. Don't worry, they're
harmless enough. At least it isn't a Red Army club, eh? Ha ha!

—Gerry, look, I think perhaps I'm just too tired, I think perhaps …

—Here we are. Your teacher. George, this is Tony Bush.

I looked down at my mud-caked lecturer‘s shoes, trying to think what excuse I could use to wave the man away but still have a chance of getting some of my euros back. I just wanted to flee, to run from this nasty forest world that was so palpably not mine. I was a normal Englishman, for Christ's sake, what was I doing here? We don't do dark forests of dripping pine in England, thank God.

—No, look, Gerry, I'm really sorry but the thing is …

—Hello, I am very pleased to meet you, Mr Bush. My name is George. Is good joke, yes? Ha ha. I look forward very much to our special afternoon.

A delicate olive-skinned hand was stretched out to mine, and I looked slowly up from the ground. I saw light-coloured camouflaged combats with very neat sand-coloured boots, a US Navy Seals baseball cap and a big, loose, black-and-white chequered scarf of the sort made famous by the first generation of Palestinian terrorists (I had worn one myself for several years in the early eighties as a badge denoting general-purpose radicalism). Earphones nestled around a lightly bearded chin, high up in the folds of this scarf, looking not in the least absurd or unpleasant, for they framed the enchanting smile and dark, friendly eyes of quite the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

When George handed me the gun for the first time, he must have known that I was scared of it. I don't know if he actually saw my hand shaking as I tried to load the bullets into the magazine, making an awful hash of it (I tried to sort of slide them in, of course, not simply press slowly but firmly down). But if he saw my fear, he gave no sign of it.

—Sorry, I stammered. —It's just, I'm, it's a little bit cold out here, isn't it?

—You will grow warm. This jacket I like. Is very good, the English, how you call it,
tweedy
, yes? Is very tactical.

—Tactical? It is?

—Yes, yes. No noise when you move. This is very important, Toni. Most people do not remember this, I often have to tell these idiots, no Gore-tex! Think, Toni, you are in forest. You are hunting bad guy, but he is hunting you too, oh yes. What you do? You watch? No, no. You listen. You hear him long time before you see him, in forest. These ears, these are your early warning system, Toni. When a man dies, these are the last thing that go. Why do people sing around the bed when a man is dying, Toni?

—What? Oh, well, actually, you see, in England, we don't actually sing when people are dying.

—No? This is very foolish, Toni. The man who dying, he cannot move, he cannot feel, he cannot talk, but yes he can hear singing. So now you know. Next time you are with a dying man, your friend, you sing for him. You sing nice song for him to hear, goodbye, my old friend.

—Right. Right.

—So, now, you are in forest, Toni, you listen for your enemy, with all your ears. And he is listen for you, of course, oh yes, this bad man who wants to kill you, kill your sons. And now you are understand, yes, Toni? Yes, if he is wear black Gore-tex thing from Austria and you are wear this good green brown English tweed, I tell you, Toni, aha, you win. You hear him very good, then you see him, then you get him first.

—Well, I had no idea.

—But now you have idea, yes? Good. This is why I am here, Toni. To give you idea.

And he did.

Like a patient piano tutor, he massaged my grip into place, his fingers upon and over mine; like a kindly but strict ballet master correcting a girl doing bar exercises, he gently pressed behind my knee to angle my weight a fraction forward and downward; like a painter, he stood back to observe me and then, like a hairdresser, he moved in and laid the flat of his hand on my left cheek, so as to carefully set my right cheek against the plastic buttstock. Most of all, his soft voice was that of a man communicating undoubted expert knowledge of a thing he truly loved.

I was grateful to give myself over, body and soul, to his complete certainty. It was better than any holiday. At last, someone else was in charge of my life. It felt like the best four hundred euros I had ever spent.

—I see now you are a tall man, Toni. This is the shorter version of this gun. It is my favourite. For close work in urban environment is quicker, I show you afterwards. But perhaps if Gerry tell me before, the longer version would be better for you. Let me see. But no, I think will be all right. Yes, is fine. So. This is the safety switch.

—Ah, that one.

—You see, with your thumb, is very easy. Like this, safe. Like that, live.

—Is that all you have to do, to make it safe? Just that?

—Is all, yes. Now you can drop it, kick it, nothing happen.

—Right. Oh well then. Ha. God, that's so easy.

—Oh yes, is very good design. So, yes, this is
safe
and now you click this and now you are
fire
. Do not worry. What can happen? Still nothing. Your finger on the trigger now please. Not with the hook of the finger, this will spoil your aim. Just the first part. No, no. There. Yes. Very good. Now, listen and look like I do. You breathe in, you breathe out and then just when you finish to breathe out, before you breathe in again, you press, softly, smoothly, yes? But wait, my friend, first you put on your ear-protectors, yes? Or else you never hear a girl sigh again in your ear, poor Toni!

—Right, yes, sorry!

—Now you go.

—Right, um, I suppose it will, you know, kick back at me?

—This gun kick? No, no, Toni. Not she. Not if you hold her close.

—Right. Sorry. OK. Breathe, right.

—Good, Toni. And now you shoot.

—Right. Now I shoot. OK.

BANG!

I blinked with disbelief. Then I remembered that I needed to breathe in again, and did so.

It was impossible.

I, a mere liberal Englishman, had just fired an assault rifle with live ammunition and nothing spectacular had happened. I had not dropped the gun shamefully from the kick-back. There had been, indeed, hardly any kick-back at all. I was not deafened. My finger had not been taken off. No burns had seared my face. The world turned as normal beneath my feet. Normal, that is, considering that I was in a shooting range and had just fired an assault rifle.

—Perfect. Again. No, too fast. Again. Very good. Again. Again. Now we check the gun. Always, this is very important.

As George came to stand beside me once again, I forced myself to stop smiling like an idiot. I bit my lip, furrowed my brow and made myself listen and watched with all my concentration.

—First release magazine, here, with your finger. Yes, here.

—Oops, sorry, dropped it!

—Yes, it drop fast. You see, for speed of change this is very good. If you are in moving firefight, maybe you let it fall and leave it. But be careful how many you have left! If you drop all clips, what you do then when you need to reload?

—Yes, gosh, I see.

—Good. Now, you look in here, yes? This is very
good with AR-15, at end of clip the chamber stay open, you can see. So now you look. Is there thing inside the chamber?

—Um, no. Nothing.

—So, is clear. Very Good. Now roll the gun this way. You see this? Now you just, how you say, you hit this button with this flat part of your hand. Not hit.

—Slap?

—Yes, very good, slap. Not too hard, but hard enough. Just like you slap your girl on the ass when you show how you like her. Slap! There. Very good. You see? You hear this click? Exactly. Now you must make the safety shot to be sure one hundred per cent. You point at safe place or at ground if ground soft. You make the shot, yes. Nothing, you see. So now you are all safe.

—Safe, right.

Yes, safe I was. Totally safe now. And God it felt good.

—So now we try again, from start. You see? Already you know the gun, now you are not so nervous. Is much better. Now the gun she is your friend.

—Um, George, sorry, I was just wondering, if, I mean, if there was actually a bullet left in the gun, sort of stuck, or if you were halfway through a clip?

—Oh, this is very good question, Toni. Stupid me, I do not tell you. From start I know you are special pupil. It is very easy. First you make sure is on safe, yes, here? Then you just do like you cock it again. You see? Now the chamber is open again. If there is round in, now you can just turn the gun, she fall out so easy, you catch. Or you can pull her out with these fingers if she stuck bad. But I do not think this happen to you ever with good ammo like I give you from United States. Maybe with Belgian ammo or Czech ammo. Sorry, my
new country, but this is true. So sad. So, now we shoot again, yes?

Bang
.
Bang
.
Bang
.
Bang
.
Bang
.

—How that is feeling, Toni?

—Ha ha, it feels, I mean, well, it felt better that time, I think.

—I also think. So now we check the gun like I show you. Good. Very good. And slap, yes. And safety shot. Very good. Now we see how good you have shoot, yes? Come, Toni.

—Right.

I pulled the earphones down around my neck. The plastic conches made a strangely comforting collar around my jugular veins.

So now I knew. I could make my Armalite safe in a few seconds. How easy it all was! How absurd that I had not known. But now I did, so all was well.

I could leave now, really.

But then again, I had paid, I was here, they were getting me to the station and, well, consider: if I went away now it would seem extremely weird. Certainly it would. Who knew if Gerry might decide to tip the police off about this curious last-minute student with the (surely the idiot had seen?) blatantly false name and ridiculous hat, who suddenly upped and left right at the start of an expensive class? I'd stick out as clearly as an Arab in Florida asking to learn just how to
steer
a Boeing. And George was so warm and enthusiastic. I was, it seems a strange thing to say, but it was true, I was actually moved by his simple desire to tell me what he knew. And every bit of knowledge is a good thing, surely? So why go now? Why insult him?

We walked slowly up the range, to where fresh paper shapes of symbolic human forms had been taped over the targets. But there was no sign of damage to them. I
felt deep shame, compounded by the vague feeling that I was treading on cursed ground, and wished once again that I was somewhere warmer, drier and safer, far from all guns. But George chatted companionably away.

—You see how there is no kick-back at all, Toni, hardly any at all, like I tell you? Exactly. You think it will kick, it does not. That is why I like this gun, I think she best in the world. They say she jam too much, always we hear this, but I say, here is not Vietnam, if you treat her right she will be good for you. I think you like too, yes? The AK-47 jump much more. Too much I think. There. This is good. You see?

—Good God. I hit it!