Like A Hole In The Head

'Let's go over to the range and have a talk.'

     Beyond him, I saw the truck moving away from the shooting gallery and head towards the distant palm trees.

     We walked in silence to the gallery and entered the cool, dim leanto. Away from us were the targets, a hundred yards out in the hot sunshine.

     By one of the wooden benches were two cases of ammunition and a rifle in a canvas case.

     'This your gun?'

     He nodded.

     'Sit down and relax.'

     He lowered himself on to the bench as if he expected it to collapse under him. His thin swarthy face was covered with sweat beads. His hands shook and jerked. He was as fit for a morning's target practice as an old lady who finds a burglar under her bed.

     I've had them before: the guys who hate guns, who hate the noise a gun makes, who can't see anything exciting in using a gun well. There are two ways of handling them in the Army. First, the sympathetic approach, gentling them along as you gentle a nervous horse. Then if that doesn't work, you scare the crap right out of them, and if that doesn't work, you forget them, but I knew I couldn't forget Timoteo. He wasn't a man : he was a fifty thousand dollar bond.

     'I've an idea you and I will get along together,' I said. I sat on the other bench and took out my packet of cigarettes. I offered it.

     'I don't smoke.'

     'That's fine. That helps. I shouldn't smoke, but I do.' I lit a cigarette and drew smoke right down into my lungs, then breathed out slowly. 'As I said, you and I will get along : we have to.' I grinned. 'You have a tough job ahead of you, but I want you to know I'm here to help you. I can help you, and I'm going to help you.'

     He sat there and stared towards me. I couldn't tell his reaction. The goggles hid the expression in his eyes, and men's eyes are important to me when I'm sounding off.

     'Can I call you Tim?'

     His eyebrows came together, then he nodded.

     'If you want to.'

     'You call me Jay . . . right?'

     He nodded.

     'Well, Tim, suppose I take a look at the gun your Dad has bought for you?'

     He didn't say anything. He shifted on the bench and looked helplessly towards the gun in its canvas case.

     I stripped off the case and examined the gun. As I knew it would be, it was a beautiful job. Weston & Lees don't produce anything but beautiful jobs. If he couldn't shoot with this gun, he wouldn't shoot with any gun.

     'Very nice.' I broke open one of the boxes of ammunition and loaded the gun. 'I want you to look at the first target on the left.'

     He turned his head slowly and stared across the hundred yards of sand at the target.

     'Just keep watching it.'

     The gun wasn't built for me, but in the Army I had to use a lot of guns that weren't built for me nor for anyone else. I braced myself. To me, it was easy shooting. I fired off six rounds. The centre of the target came away and fluttered to the sand.

     'You're going to shoot like that pretty soon, Tim. Hard to believe, isn't it? I assure you you will do it.'

     The black goggles gaped at me. I could see myself in their twin reflections. I saw I was looking tense.

     'Will you do me a favour?' I asked, forcing myself to relax.

     There was a long pause, then he said in husky voice, 'A favour? I've been told to do anything you say.'

     'You don't have to do anything I say, Tim, but will you take those sun glasses off?'

     He stiffened and reared back, his hands going protectively to the goggles that were forming a wall between us.

     'I'll tell you why,' I went on. 'You can't shoot behind sun glasses. Your eyes are as important as your gun. Take them off, Tim. I want your eyes to get used to the light here which is pretty strong.'

     Slowly, his right hand reached for the goggles like a virgin taking her pants off in mixed company. He hesitated, then slowly the goggles came off.

     Now I saw him for the first time. He was younger than I thought : maybe around twenty, not more than twenty-two. His eyes altered the whole of his face. They were good eyes : direct, honest and without guile : the eyes of a thinker, but right now they were also frightened eyes. He was no more like his father than I was like Santa Claus.

     I was sitting by Timoteo's side, explaining the parts of the rifle to him when Lucy appeared in the doorway.

     I knew I was wasting time going over the rifle with him, but I wanted him to relax, to get to know me and