The Gun (32 page)

He’d said all of that loud enough for everyone to hear. I can remember the moment perfectly well. The general was in uniform, decorated with his medal, the star of a Hero of Socialist Labour. I think that it was very brave of him to think in this way. It was an act of great honesty, and indeed nobility—especially in view of the fact that he was one of the “favourites” of the regime.
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This story also shifted in its multiple tellings. Kalashnikov told a curator of the Smithsonian Institution, whom he befriended, that General Degtyarev made his declaration during the final testing.
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In another memoir, he recalled the moment differently. In this version, soon before the final tests, officials from the Main Artillery Department visited Kovrov.

Degtyarev gave a tired smile, as if under the pressure of an invisible weight. His movements seemed sluggish to me and he shuffled noticeably. However, he quickly became animated when he saw our prototype. “Well, let’s see what the young are up to now.” Degtyarev
started to examine each part, each component of the prototype which I was taking apart right on his table. “Yes, it’s a clever piece of work,” said Degtyarev as he took the bolt carrier and the receiver cover in his hands. “Your solution to the fire selector problem is certainly original.” Speaking aloud, Degtyarev did not conceal his opinion. At the same time, we were inspecting his assault rifle. It seemed rather heavy to us and more improvements could have been made as regards component interaction. But Degtyarev, after scrutinizing our prototype again, this time as an assembled unit, suddenly concluded: “I do not think there is much sense in sending our prototypes to the tests. The design of the sergeant’s prototype is better and more promising. You can see it with the naked eye. So, comrades,” he said addressing the officials, “perhaps we will have to send our prototypes to a museum.”… Degtyarev, a man of high morals, was most exacting and honest in everything.
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The varying accounts of a meeting that obviously held high significance to Kalashnikov are important for another reason: They diverge not only from each other but from the official Soviet version. The jumble hints yet again at the unreliability of the long-standing narrative of the AK-47’s invention and of many of its sources. In his memoirs, Kalashnikov said he had never met Degtyarev until this moment. In interviews with the curator,
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and in the Soviet account, Degtyarev was a presence earlier. Kalashnikov, in the Smithsonian interview, said he met Degtyarev in a competition for an automatic rifle for the 7.62x54R cartridge; this would have been at least two years before. The Soviet biography both contradicted Kalashnikov’s chronology and produced a sentimental vignette that propagandists spun around the designer for decades. In it, Degtyarev had a cameo, serving as a wizened Soviet hero offering advice to an armorer-to-be at a firing range on a summer day. The sound of grasshoppers rose from the fields. Kalashnikov was nearly overcome with excitement, but dared to ask a question.

“Comrade general,” the senior sergeant said suddenly, “What qualities in your opinion are necessary for a designer-gunsmith?”

Degtyarev turned toward him. “A gunsmith? Ah then, have you been chosen as a gunsmith, Kalashnikov?”

Surikov
^iv
pricked up his ears. So this was Kalashnikov! And it seemed that Degtyarev remembered his name. He looked first at Degtyarev then at the questioner, trying not to miss a word. The question was interesting.

“Gunsmiths are made of the same clay as everyone else. So let’s simply say: what qualities does a gunsmith need. I think that first of all it’s a love of work and persistence. I have spoken more than once of creative fiber. I’ll say this to you now: this fiber is a love of invention which gives a man no rest. Even in your sleep you see your machine as it would be if it were manufactured real . . .” Degtyarev paused and looked up toward the top of the pine trees. “I don’t know if you can develop this creative fiber. I have felt it since my very earliest years. But as to persistence it is possible and necessary to cultivate it. I discipline myself constantly.”

He was silent. No one wanted to break the silence.
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This was the sort of narrative that informed the West’s understanding of the AK-47’s origins. To a large extent, it still does.

In many ways, it is easier to describe what the first AK-47 was, than to describe its origins. To understand how this automatic rifle worked, it is necessary first to grasp the operation of a more simple firearm. The process begins with a cartridge, which provides both the bullet that will fly out of the muzzle and the energy that will propel it. The bullet is at one end, crimped watertight to a metallic case. Inside the case is a granular propellant, known, in layman’s terms, as gunpowder, though modern smokeless propellants are much different from the true gunpowder of the nineteenth century and before. The propellant stores latent energy. Once a cartridge is seated snugly in a weapon’s steel chamber, the rifle is fired when its firing pin strikes a small primer at the bottom of the cartridge case. In a flash, the primer ignites the propellant, which is converted at nearly explosive speeds to gases. The release of energy liberates the bullet
from the crimp in a manner reminiscent of the way a champagne cork flies from a bottle. The bullet has nowhere to go but down the length of the barrel, so it accelerates through the open path toward the muzzle, pushed by expanding gases. As the bullet moves it picks up spin imparted by grooves in the barrel, known as rifling, that force the bullet to rotate on its central axis. The spin will stabilize the bullet in flight, reducing drift and allowing it to travel truer to the shooter’s aim. As the bullet leaves the barrel the excess energy that put it to flight is manifested in several ways—recoil, muzzle flash, noise, and a rush of gas venting into the air.

To make a rifle that will fire automatically using energy from the cartridge, designers must capture some of that excess energy and convert it to the work of clearing the spent shell casing from the chamber, reloading, and firing the next round. In the design chosen by the Kalashnikov team, the rifle bleeds a portion of gas via a diversion. This is done through a small port in the top of the barrel, about 5.5 inches from the muzzle, that slopes backward at a forty-five-degree angle. Each time a bullet passes the port, pushed by the expanding gases, excess gas rushes through the port into a tube seated above the barrel that serves as an expansion chamber. Within the chamber is a piston. The gas forces the piston backward, toward the shoulder of the shooter, in the split second before the bullet leaves the muzzle. The piston is integrated with a bolt carrier, and as this entire assembly moves backward it unlocks and withdraws the bolt from the chamber and extracts the empty cartridge case. As the bolt continues backward and clear of the chamber, the spring-loaded magazine, mounted at the bottom of the weapon, forces the next cartridge up and into place. The piston and bolt’s journey is meanwhile arrested by a return spring, which now, fully compressed, pushes the piston forward and seats the fresh cartridge snug in the chamber, where it is struck by the firing pin, restarting the cycle. The system is theoretically simple. In the AK-47, it was mechanically simple, too. To describe it today is to describe a well-known technology, like that of a lightbulb, a water pump, or the carburetor on a 1965 Ford. In late fall 1947, a weapon that could do these things reliably at this size was more than new. It was a product that fit the aspirations and carefully cultivated image of the Communist Party, and the army that served it, and the needs of soldiers in war.

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The Kalashnikov prototype would still undergo fine-tuning, but it was now the clear front runner. It was both imperfect and special at once. What made it special? Later, after extensive testing and considerable refinement, its simplicity and its reliability would become known. But even before those results were understood, both as a mechanical device and as a combat firearm, it marked a profoundly smart compromise. Whenever an army sets out to choose a rifle, it faces choices, and many of the choices inherent in rifle design are difficult. It is easy to draw up specifications, a wish list of what a rifle might do. The ideal rifle for a nation’s combat forces would be a weapon with a long range, a high degree of accuracy, and knock-down power against any man the shooter could see. It would be eminently reliable in a variety of climates and field conditions, light in weight, and small in size, with an intuitive, ergonomic design that would make it easy to master and comfortable in the hand. Soldiers would be able to move quickly with it through confined spaces, as when entering and exiting an armored vehicle, running though a doorway, climbing through a window, or rushing through underbrush. It would also be able to be fired semiautomatically (one round at a time) for shooting precisely at distinct targets, or automatically (in bursts) for overpowering close-in targets and for delivering a high volume of bullets to suppress an area or enemy force. When fired, this rifle’s recoil (or “kick”) would be light. Its muzzle rise would be minimal, so that when fired automatically its bullets could be fired level to one another, and not move gradually upward, first over the target, and with subsequent rounds, even higher, into air. Moreover, the ideal rifle would be easy to take apart, simple to clean, and a cinch to reassemble—so well considered that a user could put it back together intuitively. Not only would it have few moving parts, it would have no small or fragile parts that might be lost or broken when servicing a rifle at night, or in the woods, or in combat. It would resist rust inside and out, and would not tend to seize up or become sluggish when dirty, blackened with carbon, or coated in sand or mud. All of these traits would make it an ideal device for the infantry, or for arming civilians for civil defense. But it would not be enough for a rifle to be perfect in field use. The nation would have preferences, too. The treasurer would want the weapon to be inexpensive and long-lasting, so as not to be replaced for many years.
And the generals would ask that it be easy to manufacture, so that it could be available now and mass-produced quickly in the event of war.

Such a rifle does not exist. It probably never will. There are many reasons for this, but they all come down to compromises. In choosing one feature, designers eliminate other traits. Take muzzle velocity, which is an element of effective range. The instant a bullet departs a rifle’s muzzle, gravity and the environment work on it, and it begins to decelerate and to drop. To achieve the high velocities required for long range, barrels must be long enough for a bullet to build up speed. In this manner, they depart the muzzle at such velocity, say twenty-five hundred or more feet per second, that they do not drop significantly over the course of two hundred or three hundred yards. But as barrel length increases, more steel is used, and the rifle becomes heavier, more cumbersome, and more expensive. Want a rifle that has long range and loads itself between shots? Adding such features adds complexity. A manually loaded bolt-action rifle can be as straightforward in construction as in use. Self-loading abilities require new components, and choices of gas tubes, springs, pistons, and rods. Add automatic fire, and the rifle needs some sort of selector switch that lets the shooter choose between settings: safe, semi, and automatic. And adding automatic fire means that the rifle will be subjected to more strain and much more heat. This requires a stronger, heavier design to withstand these burdens and remain reliable and safe. This will drive up weight and costs, too.

Until World War II, when rifles were designed, they were designed to have some, but not all, of these traits. Then came the breakthrough couples—the 7.92 Kurz and the
sturmgewehr,
followed by the M1943 cartridge and the Kalashnikov design bureau’s final prototype. As compromises go, these cartridges and rifles represented a pair of design feats. And after the German models fell out of production, their Soviet offspring appeared. Like the 7.92 Kurz, the M1943 claimed the largely uncharted ballistic territory between pistol and rifle rounds. But it cheated a little toward the rifle. And the AK-47 prototype took its place between the submachine gun and the traditional infantry rifle. But it cheated toward the submachine gun in size and weight. The result was a weapon that had the necessary firepower within the ranges at which most combat occurred, and yet was, at last, light enough to be carried by one man, along with a robust load of ammunition. The numbers made it clear. Rifles often were
too big for the full range of uses. The Russian semiautomatic rifles in the Great Patriotic War, designed by Tokarev, exceeded four feet in length and weighed nearly nine pounds unloaded. The M1 Garand, the standard American infantry arm in World War II, exceeded forty-three inches and weighed almost ten pounds. Submachine guns were of a welcome size, but lacked range. The PPSh was thirty-three inches long and weighed eight pounds. The early American Thompson gun was almost a yard long and weighed nearly eleven pounds; a later form shed almost two inches but still came in heavy, at ten pounds and nine ounces. The Kovrov design bureau’s final prototype was just over thirty-four inches long and weighed slightly more than eight pounds—it was, at a glance, a weapon the size of a submachine gun that had much of a rifle’s power.

More than four years after the introduction of the M1943 cartridge, at last came time for the final field trials for an automatic weapon that would fire it. Tests began in NIPSMVO in mid-December 1947. Evaluating a proposed infantry rifle is an intensive process, typically involving engineering examinations, a series of firing tests for durability, accuracy, and reliability, and troop trials examining ergonomics and ease of use. The ballistics of the rifle and cartridge combination are also studied, including the so-called terminal ballistics—the effects the rounds have on objects they strike, from a wooden board to a car windshield to various parts of the human body, which can be determined, to a degree, by shooting large live mammals (adult pigs are a favorite; goats have often been used) or human cadavers.
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Rifles are subjected to extreme cold and heat, and subjected to firing courses at various ranges and rates of fire. Some weapons face lengthy firing drills while slicked with excessive lubricant, others with no lubricant at all.
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Testers try to break prototypes, and submit others to such extended firing, without rest or time to cool, that barrels can melt and wooden stocks can smolder, even burst into flames.
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Kalashnikov has provided few details over the years of the engineering testing of the weapon, and scant other details have been made public, though Western technical intelligence officials would conduct engineering tests on Kalashnikov rifles in the 1950s and early 1960s after defecting Soviet soldiers were dispossessed of their arms as they slipped through the Iron Curtain.
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Parts of the environmental testing have been shared.