Cadet Candidate Yakov (3)
Firearms training was scheduled for the afternoon.
The cadet candidates gathered in one of the lecture halls. On the long tables set down the middle, rifles lay at even intervals.
"The rifles placed before you are the enemy's standard-issue weapon—the Mosin rifle, the Vintovka Mosina, Model 1891."
Instructor Savelyev walked the rows of tables as he spoke.
So that's the Mosin-Nagant…
It was the new standard rifle the Russian army had designed after tasting the limits of single-shot weapons in the Russo-Turkish War. Captain Mosin, then head of the Tula Arsenal, had produced it with help from the Belgian firearms engineers, the Nagant brothers—a bolt-action piece fitted with a tangent rear sight, and a fine weapon in its day.
"I don't know how many of you will end up political officers, but if you think a political officer never has to fire a rifle, you're living in a fantasy!"
Savelyev picked one up. The barrel alone ran past a meter; with the bayonet fixed, the whole length reached almost to the instructor's chin.
"If you mean to stand proud in front of soldiers, you at least have to know what they're holding! Today you'll learn the disassembly and reassembly of the Mosin. First I'll demonstrate—watch carefully."
With a quick, economical motion he laid the rifle on the table, then broke it down right in front of us. His hands were clean and practiced, but to cadets who had never touched a Mosin-Nagant it looked like sleight of hand, finished in a blink.
"Everyone see that? I'll show the reassembly too—don't miss a step!"
A brief explanation, a clap of the hands, and the cadet candidates scrambled for the rifles in front of them.
"Uh… uh…?"
"…How did that part go again?"
"Oh no—I dropped the bolt!"
Bolts and trigger groups began rolling across the floor. It was my first time handling the weapon as well, and my fingers fumbled on the first try. Only for a moment, though. The act of taking a rifle apart and putting it back together was something the body itself remembered.
So I'm doing full rifle disassembly here, of all places…
Ten minutes or so passed. I had reached the point where I could strip a Mosin with my eyes closed. So I closed them, called up Savelyev's sequence, and began.
— Click. Click.
Bolt free, cover off… Hands had stumbled once, so once more. From the third attempt they moved on their own.
"Hoh…"
When I finished both disassembly and reassembly and opened my eyes, every gaze in the room was locked on me. Instructor Savelyev's too. He had come up behind me without my noticing and was stroking his chin in open admiration.
"You've got quite a touch, Cadet Svanidze."
That single remark may have been the spark.
"Instructor."
Across the table someone raised a hand.
"Speak, Cadet Valentin Kuzmin."
"We've all got the feel of it by now. What if we pick representatives from each yacheika—the basic cell of the organization—and put them against one another?"
"A contest? To decide who's fastest?"
"Exactly. Sitting at a desk memorizing ideology is trivial. Handling a rifle is different. Political officers are soldiers too—they ought to be good with a gun."
Every eye swung to Kuzmin.
"Hmm… a contest, is it…"
He had just slighted political study. Most of us expected him to be torn to pieces, but Savelyev was actually weighing the proposal with a serious face.
"Not a bad idea. But we have three yacheiki here, so someone would get a bye. That wouldn't be fair."
"Then grant me permission to face a cadet from another cell."
"Hmph. So that was the real aim all along."
Savelyev snorted and jerked his chin.
"All right—say it. Who exactly do you want to waste my training time on?"
"Naturally, the cadet you just praised—Cadet Svanidze."
…Me?
The stare of the cadet called Kuzmin settled on me. Looking properly, I recognized him: the same one who had picked a fight during the ideology lecture earlier.
"Hoh…"
Savelyev turned to me, clearly intrigued.
"Well, Cadet Svanidze? Care to take Kuzmin on in a disassembly-and-reassembly match?"
"…"
I had no particular objection to competing, but the reason puzzled me.
What grudge does this guy even have against me…?
Kuzmin was burning with some unaccountable competitive fire. I had neither grounds nor excuse to refuse, so I accepted the nuisance of a proposal.
"Understood."
"Hoh, this is turning interesting… Fine! Svanidze, Kuzmin—over here!"
I followed Savelyev with Kuzmin. He kept his eyes on me the whole way, glaring. Mildly irritated by the attention, I spoke first.
"Something you want to say?"
"…"
He jerked his head away without answering. I was not warm enough to keep talking to someone who refused conversation, so I faced forward again.
We faced each other across a single table. One Mosin-Nagant lay in front of each of us. The other cadets formed a ring around the match. Gailis stood at the very front, fists clenched, cheering me on.
"Rules are simple."
Instructor Savelyev clasped his hands behind his back.
"Full disassembly, then reassembly. First one to seat the bolt properly and lock it home wins. A half-assed fit doesn't count—make sure of it."
I ran my palm over the Mosin on the table. The smell of metal and gun oil rose to my nose. Kuzmin flexed his fingers and flicked a sidelong glance at me. He looked more composed than I had expected.
"Just so you can't claim later that it was unfair—unlike you, the technical-school graduate, I've already got the Mosin in my bones."
…? Had I ever said I came from a technical school?
"I won't go easy. Brace yourself."
"…Do we know each other somehow? Why are you—"
— Tweet!
While I was still speaking quietly, Savelyev blew the whistle. Kuzmin ignored the question and set his hands flying. Bolt up ninety degrees, drawn back, trigger pulled free—the motion was clean, no wasted motion. I was not standing still either.
I followed the sequence Savelyev had shown, twisted the cocking piece, and separated the bolt. Doing it bare-handed without tools left my fingers stinging, but a contest made the pain bearable.
"They're almost even on the strip-down!"
"This is getting good!"
"Isn't Kuzmin from the Red School? There's someone faster than him?!"
We reduced our rifles to heaps of parts at nearly the same instant, drawing murmurs of admiration from the circle. The real contest, though, began with reassembly.
The biggest difference between a Mosin-Nagant and a K2 is bolt-action versus automatic. More precisely, you have to reseat the bolt and fit the cocking piece so the spring tension is exact.
— Click. Click.
Hands are honest. As long as you refuse to hurry, you can reassemble faster than someone whose hands are merely quick. While I was fastening the upper and lower covers to the receiver, Kuzmin—who had raced through every step and was trying to pin the spring—grew impatient. His hand slipped and the bolt clattered to the floor.
"Wha—!"
He scrambled after the rolling part. In that same span I locked the retaining rings securely around the receiver, then calmly lifted the bolt group and drove the spring home. I pulled the trigger as I slid the bolt into the chamber—
— Clack.
It seated true.
"Finished."
I set the rifle on the table. The lecture hall went quiet. Kuzmin's hands froze.
"…Svanidze wins."
Savelyev's verdict was short; then he snorted and added,
"Cadet Kuzmin. You don't shoot a rifle with your mouth. Next time, be a little more careful."
— Pfft.
Someone burst out laughing.
"Hahaha…! You've gone pure boiled lobster!"
Gailis beamed as he mocked Kuzmin.
"Hey, Yasha! Look at this guy's face—bright red!"
"…Shut it, Gailis."
"Ooh, scary. The lobster's waving its claws!"
At Gailis's needling, Kuzmin's ears went scarlet. He looked ready to charge, but one sharp glance from Savelyev made him gather the parts quietly and step back.
"Yasha, did you see? Look at that loser's miserable face!"
"…Enough, Gili."
Part of me wanted only to pretend to restrain him, but the pitiful sight stirred a little pity. More than that… why on earth did Kuzmin hate me so much?