Years later, at age 24, I had forgotten all this. I stood in a field on a farm in the middle of nowhere and held a gun for the first time. It was a weathered Soviet rifle, manufactured in 1942, and it was heavy. I couldn’t believe I was about to press this rusty, old thing against my shoulder, let alone pull the trigger. The sound was unlike anything I’d ever heard. The concussive blast shook every molecule of my body, and more importantly, changed my whole perspective.