Jason Elliot - The Network

On the final portion of the return climb, just before we re-emerge on the ridge by the Obelisk, I can feel my thigh muscles wobble in protest. The big blisters on my heels are now at the final stage of fattening up before bursting. But we’ve kept up a decent pace. Six hours later we’re back at the car. I’m freezing and tired. H asks how I’m feeling.

‘Never better.’

‘Good man.’

I throw the soaking Bergen into the back of the car, and H retrieves a Thermos of deliciously hot coffee. We drive back to his house, change into dry clothes, and H fries up a late lunch. I light a fire at his request from a neat pile of logs stacked by the fireplace. We eat as we warm our feet by the flames. As dusk falls, H pours two generous whiskies, and we talk over the scope of the operation ahead of us, wondering when we’ll get the go-ahead from London.

‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ says H. ‘We get sent to Afghanistan to train them how to use our kit, and then get sent back ten years later to tell them they can’t have it any more.’

‘Blowback,’ I say. ‘That’s what the CIA call it.’

‘Blow job, more like. Anyway. Best not to talk about any of this from now on.’ Then he leaves the room and returns a minute later with a boyish look of mischief on his face.

‘When was the last time you saw one of these?’

His right arm swings up, and with it the barrel of an AK-47 assault rifle. This is an unaccustomed sight in rural England, and I splutter a reply through a mouthful of whisky.

‘It’s been a while.’

‘Know how to use it?’

‘Never really had to.’

‘Well, if you do ever have to, you might as well know how. Let’s sit on the floor.’

He takes two cloth bundles from the map pockets of his trousers and puts them on a small table. Then he sinks nimbly to the floor on his knees and rests the weapon like an offering across the open palms of his hands.

‘AK-47. Gas-operated assault rifle with selective fire, 7.62 calibre.’ He waves a hand up and down its length. The blueing on the metal glitters darkly in the light thrown from the fire. ‘Most successful assault rifle in the world. Any Soviet weapon with a K in its name means a variant of the Kalashnikov. There’s an AKM and an AKS, both modified versions of the AK-47, a PK light machine gun, and the smaller-calibre AK-74. The Soviets designed the rifle and its ammo so that, in theory, their invading army could use captured Western weapons, but not the other way round. Pretty simple weapon, really, and that’s its virtue. It’s an assault weapon, so you wouldn’t want to use it much over 300 metres, though it’ll send a round much further. If anyone’s firing at you with an AK from further than 300 metres, you shouldn’t be too bothered.’ A wry smile suggests he doesn’t mean this too literally.

He bounces it gently in his hands as if to weigh it. Perhaps he’s reminiscing. Then he squeezes the serrated edges of the rear sight and slides the range selector back and forth on its rail.

‘The sights are adjustable from 100 to 800 metres. Anything up to 300, just use the battle sights. Remember it fires high and right.’ He taps the muzzle. ‘Later models have a different-shaped muzzle to compensate. Looks like the tip of a Bowie knife.’ I’ve seen these in Afghanistan. ‘Some have a bayonet on a hinge under the barrel. You can stick this in the ground to stabilise the weapon if you want.’

His finger moves to the selector lever.

‘All the way up – safety on.’ He pulls on the silvery lug of the operating handle to show that the weapon can’t be cocked. ‘It inhibits the mechanism.’ Then there’s a loud metallic click as he slides the lever down. ‘One click down for automatic fire. When you’re in a hurry and you need it. Good for scaring crows.’

He wrinkles his nose as if automatic fire is only for films and books.

‘Two clicks for single shot. The only problem with the safety on an AK is it’s bloody noisy, so don’t do it unless you mean business. There’s no bolt-stop device, so the bolt moves back into the chamber after the last round’s been fired. You have to re-cock when you change mags.’

Then he tucks the wooden butt under his armpit as if to fire. ‘If someone has the weapon on you, try to get sight of the selector. There may be dust or dirt around it. A lot of blokes carry AKs for the prestige and they’re not really ready to use them. Check the position of the lever. If it’s all the way up, it might give you a bit more time. Right, let’s have a look inside.’

He takes the smaller bundle from the table and unfolds a triangular piece of cloth over the carpet. Then he removes the magazine, cocks the weapon to clear the breech, and pulls the trigger.

‘If you have a piece of cloth with you, you can spread the pieces over it in order, then gather them up in reverse. A shemagh is perfect.’

‘The Afghans use something called a pattu,’ I say, and describe a few of the near-universal applications of the Afghan woollen shawl, without which life in Afghanistan would be unmanageable.

‘We’ll pretend it’s a pattu then. This is the top cover.’ He taps the uppermost metal surface of the weapon, then pushes in the serrated catch at its rear and slides it off, exposing the innards. A long and snake-like recoil spring emerges. Then comes the bolt, sliding back into the receiver track with a clattering sound like a miniature train crossing a junction. At its far end is a long silver rod. ‘That’s the piston. It’s attached to the bolt carrier.’ He points out the curved surface, called the camway, on which the bolt rotates, and then the firing pin and the extractor attached to the bolt itself. Then he detaches the forward section of the wooden handguard to reveal the gas chamber. There’s also an easily removable rod beneath the barrel for clearing jammed rounds. But that’s it. Mr Kalashnikov’s brainchild, laid bare.

‘I’m amazed how simple it really is,’ I say.

‘That’s the secret of its success. Makes it less accurate than other rifles, but the clearances give it a lot of tolerance. When it really starts to fill up with rubbish, the mechanism won’t return fast enough and you get a second round coming up and jamming. That’s why you keep your weapon clean. Best way is to dump the whole thing in a pan of avgas.’

‘Aviation fuel?’

He nods. ‘But petrol will do. It cleans the dirt out and leaves the surfaces dry. Issue cleaning fluid usually comes in a fiddly little bottle, but a switched-on soldier will usually have something like this.’ He reaches over to the bundle, pulls out a green plastic insecticide bottle, and mimics spraying the rifle’s insides. Then he takes the head of an inch-wide paintbrush and waves it across the metal. A pull-through, stored in the butt, is used to clean the barrel. He drops it into the breech and gives a tug on the oiled strip of cloth from the other end, then closes an eye and peers into the muzzle. ‘If you put your thumb in the breech, it’ll catch enough light for you to see what’s going on. Want to have a go?’

He reassembles the parts, then reminds me of the golden rule. ‘Before you hand a weapon to anyone, clear it.’ He takes off the magazine and pulls back the bolt to make sure the chamber is clear.

I strip the weapon in the manner he’s shown, lining up the different parts, then fit them back in reverse order.

‘Right,’ says H, ‘now have another go.’

I repeat the process.

‘Again,’ he says.

And again, as my hands grow in confidence.

‘Now do it in the dark,’ he says, and instructs me to close my eyes. After several repeats, he says we’ve come far enough for the moment, and I put the weapon aside, resting it against the table.