Bullets, Beer and Babes

The beer flows freely at Dom Żołnierza. Old acquaintances are refreshed, and new friendships are struck. As the night progresses I spy a group of German cops, bedecked in their green uniforms, sitting sternly by themselves in the corner of the hall. Drunkenly, I attempt to ingratiate myself upon them, however, the bitterness of 1966 remains and I leave them brooding over their steins. Mental note to self, “Don’t discuss soccer with the Germans, it’ll only end in tears”.
Its 4am by the time we stagger into our hotel room worse for wear after touring the hostelries of the old town. I turn to John and Andy and exclaim, “You do realise that we have to be up in two hours?” “WHAT?” “Well, we got to get a taxi from here to the barracks outside town where all the other competitors are billeted. We then have to have breakfast with them, get on their coach to the range, and be on parade for 7:45 in time for the competition start at 08:00”. “In that case we’d better get our heads down”, replies a pale Andy.
There’s a chorus of digital alarm clocks at 06:00. I’m first out of my bed, closely followed by a groaning John, then finally Andy out of the pullout sofa. No words are exchanged. No words need be exchanged. Still struggling with the laces on our combat boots and the urge to vomit we make our way down stairs to a waiting taxi.
Everything goes according to plan despite raging hangovers, and by 07:45 we’ve formed a line in the dewy grass along side all manner of military uniforms, most still clearly under the influence, in front of a Polish colonel and his entourage.
Having listened to range do’s and don’ts in what sounds like Klingon, Romulan, Cardassian and Ferengi we set about the competition.
I’m on form, and despite a friendly ribbing in the background from the Royal Navy team I blow the Norwegian entry away on the .177 round. Similarly, our team makes short work of the German army on the .22 rim fire rifle. I consider it prudent to refrain from drawing a similarity to a certain 1-5 victory in 2001. After all, they are armed Germans and look what happened in “39. Likewise, we hold our own on the AK47, Glauberyt 9mm machine pistol, and Dragunov 7.62 sniper rifle. However, as the day progresses the hangover that has kept me strangely alert starts to subside and my performance begins to tail off. This is evident in the poor performance on the PK 7.62 GPMG, the grenade throw and the standard Polish police issue p83 9mm pistol. Ah well, that was my excuse at the time.
By 15:00 the competition is well and truly over and we make our way back to the hotel, via the barracks, for a well-deserved sleep until dinner.
Come 20:00 we’re rested, washed, dressed in fresh designer garb, and ready to hit the town again. First things first though, the Pharaoh restaurant across the road for another super huge helping of steak, and chicken kebabs washed down with copious amounts of beer and vodka.
The rest of the evening is spent moving from bar to bar sampling various brands of Polish vodka, locally brewed beers, occasionally meeting up with other competitors and engaging in friendly drunken banter, and now and again upsetting the locals.
We stumble into the hotel lobby at around 06:00 much to the disdain of the night staff. I fancy I hear, “Bloody mercenaries”, as we fall into the lift. But then again that could be just the vodka.

Night blurs into day for a third time, and by Monday morning we’re ready to kiss the tarmac at Stanstead.