‘Get the feel of it,’ he says, and passes it to me.
I like the feel of the ambidextrous design, which means I can reach the de-cocking lever by lifting my thumb over the hammer without having to loosen my grip.
‘Do what comes naturally,’ says H. ‘Remember the mechanism stays open after the final round’s been fired. When you put in a fresh mag, push down the slide stop to send a new round forward, and you can keep firing without having to re-cock. You can also change the mag release button so that it goes on the other side, if you want.’
He puts his hands over mine to demonstrate the correct grip when firing over the sights, and the en garde position for what he calls instinctive shooting with the arms straight and both eyes open, when the target is up to fifteen feet away. It’s a style of shooting that the regular army doesn’t teach: two rounds in rapid succession to the head of the target. The Regiment has an expression for it: double tap.
‘Take them all with you,’ says H, waving a hand over the AK and the pistols, ‘and practise with all three. If you can strip them in the dark, so much the better. We’ll test-fire them next week after you’ve had a chance to play with them.’ Between the running, I’m thinking. I ask where we’ll do the test-firing. ‘We could go down to the Fort, I suppose. Good range, but it’s a bit of a hike.’ He’s talking about Fort Monckton in Portsmouth, where young spooks go for their early training in firearms. ‘But it’ll be easier to get up early and have a go in the hills somewhere. By the time anyone’s got out of their pyjamas to investigate, we’ll be long gone.’ He picks up the sinister-looking book from the table and fans its pages. ‘I’ve marked a few other weapons you might want to look at. You can compare with the Beretta and the SIG and the HK. Let’s hope we don’t have to use any of them, but you never know.’
I can’t help asking if he’s comfortable with me taking a bag full of weapons to my home.
‘Just try not to get nicked on your way. I can’t keep them here anyway. Sally would kill me if she knew I had weapons in the house.’ His wife’s aversion to guns seems an incongruous thing in the life of a professional soldier. Perhaps it’s the secret of their apparent happiness.
By degrees my training is moving from the abstract to the very concrete. H is a gentle but thorough taskmaster, who never hurries or raises his voice, nor pushes me too fast with anything I feel unsure about. He shares his knowledge freely and without any trace of pretension. I much prefer his manner and method to the arrogant mystification of Seethrough, who seems to delight in making me feel ignorant.
We walk again the following day, pushing the pace a little harder. It’s overcast but mercifully dry, saving us the discomfort of getting soaked by sweat under our waterproofs. We take the same route to Pen-y-Fan, then leave the summit on the steep eastern side in the direction of the pyramidal face of Cribyn, crossing the valley by the reservoir and climbing onto the broad plateau above. After a further two hours’ walking, a long downward traverse puts us on the road a mile and a half from the car. I run this stretch in considerable pain while H mutters encouragement at my side.
In the afternoon we begin drafting notes for the tasks and routines we need to cover. Then, breaking for tea, H wanders outside and feels the grass on his lawn. It’s dry enough and he has an idea. It’s one thing to be on the right side of a weapon, he says, but finding oneself unexpectedly at the business end is another matter. It’s time to practise disarming techniques.
At the heart of the theory of disarming – jap-slapping, as it’s unofficially called by Regiment men – lies the notion that, if a weapon is pointed close enough to one’s body, it’s possible to knock it aside before the attacker can pull the trigger. It’s difficult to believe at first, so the point of disarming routines is to demonstrate the truth of it. Unless the belief is there, says H, you’re liable to hesitate.
We start with the pistol, using the Browning in the manner of a hold-up. I push the muzzle into the small of H’s back. His hands go up; he shuffles forward and begins to babble as if terrified, then looks at me over his left shoulder. I’ve agreed to pull the trigger at the first moment I sense alarm. I feel his body turn and am about to respond, but within the space of a second I find myself on the ground, looking up at him. His left hand is clenched around the shirt on my chest, which he’s pulled up at the last moment to prevent my head from hitting the ground too hard. His right hand is poised above me, ready to strike. The pistol lies on the grass. I’m shaken, and very impressed.
‘Easy,’ he says, pulling me gently to my feet. ‘Let’s break it down into stages.’
Everything depends on confidence in the key idea that the weapon can be deflected before it can be fired. The rest is more or less common sense, says H. It’s an expression he’s fond of, I notice. There’s an element of stealth – glimpsing but not fixing on the threatening weapon – and distraction – dropping one’s keys or wallet onto the ground at the moment before counter-attacking. The counter-attack comes in the form of a swift turn and, at the same moment, a downward blow to deflect the weapon and open the attacker’s body to further disabling strikes.
‘Better not to launch into it at the first instant,’ says H. ‘That’s when a gunman’s most tense because he’s expecting you to try it on. Choose your moment. Get him talking and his mind off the weapon. Then check the hand it’s in by glancing over your shoulder. Pushing against the weapon is useful too, because when you start to turn it’ll slide off-target. The downward strike is hard and fast. Follow up with an open hand to the chin and a knee in the groin.’
There are more precise methods for seizing a pistol without harming an attacker, he tells me, but they take too long to learn.
‘Forget about Jackie Chan. The aim here is to disarm and disable, not circus tricks. Besides,’ he adds with a solemn look, ‘anyone who puts a weapon on you deserves whatever they get.’
This is the first glimpse I have of the steel beneath the velvet.
We practise being held up from front and back, applying the same principles with slight variations. A pistol to the head, pointed in the manner of an over-zealous gangster, is in fact the easiest of all threats to counter. But no two attacks are exactly the same, says H, and we practise until the moves come without thought. After this, he demonstrates optional refinements such as breaking the attacker’s trigger finger or nose.
Then he goes into the house and returns with the AK. We run through a similar routine, as he explains that a rifle is in fact less risky to deal with than a pistol. The defender can move past the point of danger – the muzzle – and prevent the rifle returning to its target by moving in close and blocking it. The bulky foresight on the muzzle of an AK also makes it ideal to grab, and allows the defender to control the weapon. As the attacker goes down, a few jerks on the barrel is usually enough to break his grip.
‘Once it’s yours, you can decide what you want to do,’ he says.
We try this out from the front a few times, at increasing speeds. H recommends a succession of kicks to the attacker’s knee and sharp pulls on the barrel of the rifle. We move on to the variation from behind. He jabs the muzzle into my back and shouts, ‘Move it!’ and I turn and strike the barrel, feeling the outer side of my palm connect with the foresight. But I hit it too hard, and the skin on the edge of my hand splits open like a banana peel. I finish the move, but there’s blood streaming over our clothes. H shoulders the AK with one hand and squeezes the sides of the cut together.
‘Bad luck,’ he says, ‘but I think you’ve got the hang of it.’ He leads me indoors, still holding the bloody hand, which drips over the kitchen floor. He stretches a few surgical strips across the wound, then binds it up in a bandage.
‘Lucky the memsahib’s away for a few days. She can’t stand the sight of blood.’