The Caves of Perigord_ A Novel - Martin Walker [112]
“It will kill at two hundred meters, even more. But you’ll never hit anything at that range except by accident. The sights are fixed at one hundred meters, and you can’t change them. A hundred meters is maximum effective range. Five meters is best. The closer the better. But remember, if you don’t hit your German, you’ll scare the shit out of him. Nobody, I mean nobody, remains standing when a submachine gun is being fired. They jump for cover because there’s a lot of lead flying in a very short space of time.
“If you want to make them keep their heads down even longer, here’s a useful trick. Take a wet cloth or towel, and wrap it round the Sten’s barrel. Pull the trigger, and it sounds just like a heavy machine gun. Only don’t keep firing too long or it overheats. But for the first shots of an ambush, or if you want to discourage a pursuit, I recommend the wet towel trick.
“The worst problem is that the Sten can jam, so only load thirty rounds. Never the full thirty-two. If it jams, clear the bolt, like this.” He tugged it back, the hard metallic sound cruelly efficient in the rapt silence in the great room. “If it still jams, hit the butt on the floor and then clear the bolt twice. If it still jams, throw it at the Germans. And you then have my permission to run.” He got the expected laugh.
“Now, throw me another Sten and a big handkerchief.” Malrand, grinning because he knew what Manners was about to do, took one of the big damask napkins from the table, and came around to tie it into a blindfold across Manners’s eyes.
“The most useful thing about the Sten is its ease of maintenance. It likes being greased and oiled and taken care of, but it will forgive you if you’re too busy fighting.” He laid the two Sten guns side by side, thumping them clumsily onto the table because of the blindfold. “Right, who has a watch with a secondhand?” Somebody shouted out that he did. “Tell me when to start, and then time me,” he said.
“Trois—deux—allez-y,” came the cry. And despite the blindfold, Manners’s hands moved almost too fast to see. One Sten, slip the magazine, release the bolt, withdraw, flick the sear, and release the spring. Lay them down, one by one. The next Sten, the same procedure. “Finished,” he shouted.
“Nine seconds,” came an awed voice.
“Right. Soleil, mix up the parts from the two guns so I don’t know which part comes from which gun.” He heard the clatter, smelled the garlic mixed with Soleil’s cologne.
“Good. Now time me again.” And still blindfolded, he reassembled the two guns. The spring, the sear, the bolt, the magazine. Safety on. Do it again. Lovely old Sten. Doesn’t matter which part comes from which gun, they all fit together just fine. “Finished.”
“Twelve seconds.”
He whipped off the blindfold. “Now, Soleil, which gun is yours and which is mine? You can’t tell. But take one of those two apart and put it back together. We’re not timing now. But Soleil will show you how easy it is. Who’s the youngest here?”
A dozen voices cried that Little Pierrot was the one, just sixteen. He came up and easily put the second gun back together.
“Who’s the oldest?” called Manners, stripping it down again. The elderly lawyer-type who had been speaking to Malrand rose hesitantly. “I have never handled a gun, monsieur, not in my life.”
“All the better—you’ll show them how easy it is.” Most of these men would be accustomed to firearms from childhood, shotguns and rook rifles, military service. The lawyer handled the parts gingerly, had trouble with the spring, but finally handed the reassembled Sten to Manners with a proud glint in his eyes. “Well done, monsieur.”
“Right, how many rounds do you load in the magazine?”
“Thirty,” they all shouted.
“What’s your best range?”
“Five meters.”
“What do you do if it jams?”
“Release the bolt. Bang it on the floor.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Throw it at the Germans.” They all roared, laughing now, delighted with themselves and the gun and with him.
“Enough. We’ll shoot some in the morning.” He turned, clapped