by Edward Vidri
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* C1, FM 23-65
FIELD MANUAL
No. 23-65
HEADQUARTERS
DEPARMENT FO THE ARMY
An Nasiriyah, Iraq 20 SEP 2007
BROWNING MACHINE GUN
CALIBER .50 HB, M2
1.1 TRAINING STRATEGY
The training strategy for caliber .50 MG marksmanship begins in selected resident training and continues in the unit. When deployed, this determination is made based on need. Instead of training everyone, the Commander chooses a select few to receive training. How this choice is made is unknown to me.
a. We spend months in Nowhere, Texas, in the heat, living out of dilapidated barracks. Someone complains that the birds’ nests that dot the outside of the building are causing an infestation of mites. Everyone is ordered to pack and move down the road to another living accommodation. We set up the two .50 cals in the middle between the lockers and beds and clean them after the select few complete training. The Army loves such morale-building exercises.
b. Once we have boots on the ground and it is evident that we have missions outside of the wire, everyone scrambles to get up to speed. The Texas National Guard trains us on vehicles and equipment that have been in service since the dawn of time. I receive my training from another soldier who is ready to leave. A few months later, we get a new man in our unit. I squat with him on top of our truck at the test-fire range before going out the front gate and show him how to pull the ammo belt from the metal can across the feeding mechanism, close the lid, rack the bolt, and squeeze the trigger. His volley launches into the dirt berm, and shell casings with metal links rain down and rattle off the vehicle with loud ‘tings.’ Later on, Iraqi Nationals who are allowed on base will come to the test-fire range to scoop up the brass and resell it as scrap metal.
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1.2 DESCRIPTION
The Browning machine gun caliber .50 M2 HB is a belt-fed, recoil-operated, air cooled, crew-served machine gun. The body of the M2 weighs 60 pounds, and the barrel weighs 24. The repetition of carrying both components each day—slinging them onto the truck hood, climbing up to seat the body of the gun into the mount, screwing the barrel in (three clicks back from fully screwed)—gives me lean muscles. I grip two 35-pound ammo cans in each fist and load into the truck, up to five total: one can open in the turret for firing, two nestled in spaces next to the jammer, and two in the backseats near the feet.
a. A man stops me when I’m at the airport, returning home for leave. We have to travel in uniform, so he recognizes me and asks me what I do. When he finds out I’m a gunner, he asks how we set the headspace and timing on the .50 cal, and I tell him we use a small, metal tool. He reveals he was in Vietnam, and they had to set it using their dog tags. This small moment of connection is brief but feels meaningful. Ever present. How many people in this man’s life know the intricacies of something so specific? How long has he waited to find someone who understands – who says we speak the same language? How long will it take before I finally feel like this is no longer a part of me?
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1.3 VEHICULAR MOUNTS
Eight trucks – a mix of mostly HMMWVs with some ASVs and 5 tons thrown in. Ten weapons – five .50 cals, two M249s SAWs, one M60, and two Mk 19s. The Commander signs for everything.
a. Truck Mount, M36. I pick at the rubber seal around the opening to the top of the gun truck and watch bits of rubber fall inside. I order some Gorilla Glue online through terrible satellite wi-fi, which the USPS dutifully delivers, and spend time applying it. I misjudge how little is needed, and the glue drips down in large, pink raindrops, solidifying in the air, held only by thin, wispy strings. The next time it rains, the poncho strewn over the netting on the gunner’s nest is enough to keep me from getting soaked and to keep the rain from pouring in. I rotate the handle on the turret, spinning it in short, quick motions like one would roll up the window on an old car and face my back to the worst of it.
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1.4 CLEANING, INSPECTION, AND LUBRICATION
a. It is unbelievable how much heat the human body can endure. There are days I drink water nonstop, and the only water that leaves my body seeps through the pores on my skin. The thin, amber CLP (cleaner, lubricant, and preservative) gun oil that has been the Army standard for some time melts under the intense scrutiny of the sun, causing jams and misfires. I prize the jar of LSA (Lubricant, Semi-fluid, Automatic weapons) I find and apply the white, buttery paste liberally. Dipping my finger into the can, I start with the moving parts underneath the hood, moving the mechanisms that pull the rounds through the gun to apply the lubricant and then watch the bolt group slide in its predetermined pattern smoothly as I mimic the action of the levers by hand.
(1) At the end of the day, I wipe cloth across the metal parts, cleaning the still-intact substance and the carbon from gunfire away in one go. Unscrewing the barrel, I pull a long, green bore snake through the 12.7mm opening of the tube. I had to petition a charity to send my platoon the bore snakes. Once the tub of LSA runs out, I wish I had asked for that too.
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1.5 AMMUNITION
a. The sergeant picks at the edge of the bullet with his knife. He holds the long, copper-colored casing in his hand and digs into the edge where the metal sleeve holds the long, solid slug in place. Judging from the tip color, it is ball ammunition used against personnel and light targets. Using .50 cal ammunition against a person seems like overkill. We sit for long hours during missions—before departure but after preparation and during stops in our route—and each soldier deals with boredom in their own way. We chat idly, fidget with knives and Leathermans, read the Stars & Stripes, listen to iPods, or sleep with fleece claps or neck gaiters pulled over our eyes.
(1) When the sergeant finally pries the slug from the head of the casing, he holds it up in two fingers like a kid showing off the rainbow middle of a jawbreaker. It is nothing now that it has separated from its home, just a weighty curiosity that will sit in his pocket. Slowly, he pours the contents of the brass tube into the palm of his hand. Tiny, dark pebbles settle against the white of his skin, giving off a sulfuric odor. We look at it with mild interest, never having set eyes on the substance before. He then brings his palm to his lips and blows at the pile, scattering the coarse powder to the wind.
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Edward Vidri is an emerging writer based in San Diego, California. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing and a B.S. in Criminal Justice from San Diego State University. He is a veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom and is currently working on his first novel, Untersberg, a work of literary historical fiction. When he’s not reading or writing, he enjoys spending time with his spouse and their four cats.
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