The Ross Rifle

My firearm education began when I was quite young: too young, I imagine, by comtemporary standards.  Forty years ago, there wouldn't be anything strange about a six year old being taught to handle his- or herself around a gun.  Now, it seems, if something has even the slightest potential to do harm, it must be kept out of the child's reach until they're mature enough to handle it.  Of course, by that time, they're past the point of learning about safety or sense, which leads, I would argue, to greater danger in the future.

Not that all children should learn their way around guns.  Knowledge about firearms and weaponry isn't exactly necessary for children.  In my family, it certainly wasn't.  It just so happened that Dad had an interest, and he didn't want that interest to be misconstrued or engaged with irresponsibly.  Hence, the education in rifles at such a young age.  Two things happened in my household when you turned six: 1) you got a Swiss Army knife, and 2) you fired a gun for the first time.  True, it was a BB gun, but still, we handled the bigger hunting rifles when Dad was illustrating was he said were three rules of firearms.

"First," Dad said, "you always check to make sure the gun isn't loaded."  At six years old, I was barely bigger than a toddler, so checking the barrel of a hunting rifle was pretty much impossible on my own.  Nevertheless, I had the open weapon in my hands and was staring down the empty barrel a second later. The way Dad talked about checking the barrel had me paranoid that guns could somehow load themselves when you weren't looking.  Every time I stared into the barrel, I half expected to stare into darkness, the pinhole of light at the mouth of the weapon sealed up behind a bullet.  That was never the case.

The solid click of metal as the gun sealed shut still gives me shivers.  I am still scared of getting my finger caught in the interlocking metal sheaths, slicing open my skin or creasing my flesh into blood blisters.  Every time Dad and I get out the guns, I have phantom pain in my fingers, small stinging spasms like the gun barrel has nipped me.

"Second," Dad pressed his index finger on the stock, "never put your finger on the trigger till your ready to fire."  I lived in gun culture, even then, so much so that I couldn't fathom not having my finger on the trigger if I was holding a gun.  Dirty Harry never held the stock.  Han Solo never stayed a hand on his blaster.  My finger felt useless on the stock.  The feeling was foreign.  I was so inundated with weaponized heroes that not holding the trigger seemed wrong.

"Third," and this was the rule that had Dad shaking the rifle at me for emphasis, "never, ever point this at anyone.  Ever."  Even if I checked the barrel, even if my finger wasn't on the trigger, I was not supposed to take aim in anyone's general direction.  I was to point the gun at the floor if I was going to point it anywhere, and never have it trained on my feet.

This past summer, I was reacquainted with my father's firearms after a long absence, but I still remembered myself.  I checked to make sure they weren't loaded, I kept my finger off the trigger, and I didn't point them at anyone.  Dad gave me a different lesson this time though.  He told me all about his Ross Rifles.

Ask anyone in a grade 10 history class...okay, not anyone.  Ask someone who's been paying attention what the Ross Rifle is and it's pretty much guaranteed they'll tell you that the Rosses were one of the biggest problems faced by Canadian soldiers during the First World War.  The bolt would frequently jam or backfire, resulting in the injury or death for the shooter.  The fact that it was endorsed by Sam Hughes didn't help the Ross's reputation.  I, like many students, was under the impression it was a poorly made weapon, and I considered the Ross to be an indication of military mismanagement during the First World War.

Trust my father to set me straight in this matter.  No, he didn't deny that the Ross had its problems, but unlike my Grade 10 history teacher, Dad contextualized it for me.  The Ross had a special kind of bolt that automatically turned and locked into the barrel, unlike most bolts which had to be rotated in order to lock.  This made loading and reloading easier over other models from the time like the Lee Enfield.  This bolt made the gun popular for snipers during the war, a fact I didn't realize until I read Joseph Boyden's Three Day Road and had this conversation with Dad.

Unfortunately, this innovative bolt proved to be the Ross's undoing for trench warfare.  If any kind of dirt got lodged in the barrel, the bolt would jam and be nonoperational.  The bolt threads could be damaged from foreign matter in the barrel, and even when they were cleaned, the bolt would close but not lock, meaning the round could still be fired.  Wikipedia actually has a fantastic picture of the Mark II and III Ross Rifle bolts on their site, including a close-up of the threads.

Having handled rifles in the past, I was marveled by the Ross, which handled beautifully in my clean, not-at-all-trench-like basement.  I didn't get to fire it at the time, but I had a new respect for the weapon from this conversation.  I wish my Grade 10 history class could have instilled the same kind of reverence for a Canadian produced firearm.  No offence, Lee Enfields.  I'm sure you were a better alternative for the trench-bound.

Below are two pictures of my dad's Rosses.  Both have been sportized, but the shape of the weapon is still there: