I still remember the day I met Sarah. I recall the
very moment my eyes first captured a glimpse of her. Having no way of knowing
how much she would come to mean to me or how she would change my life, it
wasn’t long before I affectionately referred to her as “The Mrs.” or “the Old
Ball and Chain.” Every day I woke up with a smile, eager to show her off to my
friends who’d undoubtedly never seen her rival. Amongst their flurry of
questions, though never the first, always one would emerge. They wanted to know
why I named my gun Sarah. I’d always smile in reply and answer, “Because nobody
doesn’t like Sarah Lee.”
The truth however is not so simple. As with any
lady of immense reputation, Sarah has become an object of desire and jealousy,
excitement and fear, love and loathing. She’s not your average firearm; she’s
big. To be more precise, she’s chambered in the fifty BMG (Browning Machine
Gun) caliber and as a Barrett 82A1, she defines combat-proven sniping
capability. She is legendary.
Just a number of months ago, I
walked into a friend’s house and was immediately asked, “How was the range?”
I replied, “It was awesome! I
started a fire!” Naturally, I regarded the statements to be as separate as they
were true. I’d only shot three tracer rounds that day, but I guess it was
enough. The unexplained and fascinating part was the fire’s location. It was
significantly to the right of my target and behind the berm I was shooting
into, unable to be seen when it started. Luckily it could be seen from a road
in the distance. A couple individuals charged up the firing range in a truck to
combat the flames and scold the fool who made them.
Not two years earlier, Sarah’s first
real target, her first victim was a tree in Washington’s Tahuya State Forest.
Before I fired that first bullet, I wasn’t certain if I would be able to see
where it impacted. I was throwing out armor-piercing incendiary, tracers
because they were the cheapest things I could find. I’d only recently placed a
scope on the rifle and I couldn’t even know where the bullet was destined to
land. The tree stood only a hundred yards away and at sixteen inches in
diameter, it couldn’t have known what was to come next. Not only did every
impact appear perfectly visible, many hits resulted in chunks of wood flying
out the other side. The tree didn’t stand a chance. As I heard it start to
crack and buckle under its own weight, I lost my composure and forgot my
military reserve. I shouted excitedly and threw my hands up, watching more than
forty feet of tree come crashing down. I approached the tree afterward for the
first time and stood atop it, victoriously.
Only weeks before my lumberjacking career, I fired
Sarah for the first time. She didn’t even have a scope, but I couldn’t wait.
I’d anticipated the moment for longer than I could remember, seeing images of
her brothers and sisters in old war movies from my childhood. I carefully
assembled the gun. I filled the magazine with each of the five dollar rounds I
owned. Flipping up the iron sights, I looked down the barrel intently for the
first time at a target. My hands trembled slightly, but I tried to hide it from
my two friends who were equally eager. Slowly I exhaled and pulled the trigger…
The safety was still on. I flicked it up and took
aim again. I focused on my breathing and tried to keep recoil out of my mind.
Just as I’d always been taught I slowly squeezed the trigger.
Click. I forgot to chamber a round. I reached up
and pulled back on the charging handle and then I pushed it forward again.
Embarrassed, I only glanced at my friends, less able to cover my second
mistake. Once more I lined up the shot, steadied my nerves, and tensed my
finger. I fought my instinct to close my eyes and concentrated on the target.
Click. “Oh, come on!” Evidently the charging
handle hadn’t gone all the way forward. The daylight was dying. I couldn’t
forgive myself three times. I found the problem, fixed it, sat down, stopped
caring about the target, pointed down range, checked the safety, shouldered the
gun, and hurriedly pulled the trigger.
Boom! Then and there I realized a lifelong dream.
I felt the wave of power that could never hope to be mimicked. In that instant,
I’d become a very dangerous man. Although I took a slightly greater degree of
caution in my aiming, I quickly discovered I sucked with iron sights. After a
few more awesome pulls of the trigger, it occurred to me how dangerous I was.
I’d heard ricochets before, but not like that. The sound itself was as loud as
it seemed comical, like a sound effect in the old cartoons I watched.
Nonetheless, I didn’t find it funny. My heart and breath stopped. I stared out
into the darkening field, but I wasn’t looking at anything I was listening and
hoping to God the next sound wouldn’t be a scream.
After a few seconds of complete
silence, I managed to let my breath go. My heart started in turn. I took a
moment to look around, not moving nearly as fast as I had before. Sarah had
given her one and only warning. As always she spoke in tones louder than words.
It almost always surprised people that to buy and own such a powerful gun there
weren’t any special restrictions. I was twenty-one, three years older than the
minimum age required by law. For the first time I stopped to wonder if maybe I
was still too young, too inexperienced.
What I held in my hands wasn’t just
a gun, it was a weapon. It was conceptualized, designed, and purpose built to
end human lives. This cold, lifeless, mechanical monster only existed to seek
blood. In a society that makes heroes of soldiers, had my childhood dreams been
stained with the crimson of the battlefield? Why did I, or anyone else, need
such an instrument of war? I quickly learned that anyone in possession of a gal
like Sarah also carried a thin cloud of suspicion above his head.
Webster’s dictionary
defines bulletproof as an adjective meaning impenetrable to bullets, but when
John Browning scaled up the 30-06 into the fifty caliber, he unknowingly
redefined the word. The most fearsome aspect of placing such capability in
civilian hands has always been the dark cloud of thought that those were the
wrong hands. So-called armored cars might be reinforced against any and all foreseen
potential attacks. Yet underneath the military grade might of the BMG, only a
few ground vehicles in the world wouldn’t immediately fall victim. Of course a
gun is only as good as its ammunition. Much of the devastation the fifty
caliber is attributed with is due to the rounds it uses.
When I first began
searching on the web for fifty caliber ammo, I was very surprised to discover
that not only were armor-piercing incendiary (API) bullets available, they were
relatively cheap. With the same ease as ordering a pizza, a variety of deadly
capabilities availed itself to me. Yet even though I could buy boxes stamped
with the words “military surplus,” the most dangerous rounds are still illegal
for civilian ownership. Though the tantalizing prospect of purchasing explosive
rounds remains out of reach, there’s plenty Sarah and I can accomplish with
what is readily available.
The capabilities of the BMG stagger even the most
experienced of shooters. Barrett Firearms Manufacturing once said of
Sarah’s model, ''The compressor section of jet engines or the transmissions of
helicopters are likely targets for the weapon, making it capable of destroying
multimillion dollar aircraft with a single hit delivered to a vital area.''
(Wald) The tagline probably provoked more fear than it did sales and rallied
gun control groups to action.
In their campaign to ban
fifty caliber rifles the Violence Policy Center released a statement saying,
“This is not just a gun control issue. It's a national security issue.” (Kintisch)
Because obtaining the gun requires as much paperwork and the same background
check as buying a twenty-two at Wal-Mart, the thought of terrorism follows the
gun everywhere it goes. It’s an inherently terrifying weapon platform, making
no place safe to hide and nowhere far enough to run to. Yet I still sleep
easily enough.
For several reasons, it’s
not a preferred weapon of terrorists or criminals. Analysts argue if it’s
because of gun’s cost, ranging from two to ten thousand dollars; the gun’s
unwieldiness, weighing in the area of thirty five pounds; or the impossibility
of hoping to conceal it. For whatever reason, no analyst can present a record
of a crime that was conducted using the BMG. The fact doesn’t slow the spread
of fear though. Several jurisdictions within the United States have banned the
weapon, most notably California. Perhaps the preemptive measure was taken in
the knowledge that terrorists aren’t dedicated enough to drive across state
lines to reach their targets.
Certainly planes are
vulnerable to fifty caliber bullets… while their parked. What better to reach
out and touch something over a mile away than with the ultimate rifle? The
mechanics required to shoot a plane out of the air however, make it a
statistical impossibility. When asked if it could be done, Ronnie Barrett, a
designer and manufacturer, called the notion, “big time ridiculous” before
going on to explain how a shooter would have to aim above the plane to account
for gravity as the bullet traveled and then the plane wouldn’t even be visible
in the scope. (Wald) The possibility of that one extremely lucky or unlucky
shot doesn’t worry the Transport Security Administration, who has considered
multiple potential threats and ranks the fifty caliber low on the list.
So if we’re not
terrorists, what manner of person is drawn to the fifty caliber BMG? Given the considerable
investment of a couple thousand dollars or more, one answer might be the
financial elite. I am testament to the falsehood of that answer. The simplest response
might say enthusiasts and to that I’m inclined to agree. A true firearm
enthusiast loves all guns, not equally, but in the same way. He doesn’t view a
gun as a piece of machinery, rather a piece of art. Each is crafted to a
specific shape to achieve a balance of comfort and function, paired with a
specific cartridge to determine power and recoil, and sighted for appropriate
range and accuracy. Just the smell of Hoppes Number Nine gun oil solvent will
force an enthusiast’s mouth to salivate. Still, many don’t buy into the simple philosophy
that bigger is better. It takes something more to open a wallet that far.
Within every fifty
caliber owner is a marksman, a nature striving always toward the ideal of
perfection. Marksmen are meticulous in their preparation in addition to being infinity
patient in their execution. The huge caliber becomes desirable to eyes which
want to achieve the otherwise unachievable. Though I haven’t always been able
to be described as such, over time, Sarah has had an impact on me (and not just
my shoulder.) I’ve heard it said that the clothes make the man, but I would contest
it with the notion that the gun builds his character.
In much the same way
Harley owners immediately recognize each other, fifty caliber owners belong to
an unspoken brotherhood. I’ve been fortuned enough to have met two others who
share my passion including Dr. Gary Zimmermann. I called us ‘a very dangerous
few,’ but the good doctor added, “Many of us aren’t as dangerous as the average
shooter because we tend to use more caution when firing. We know how bad it
could be if we make a mistake… Besides we’re usually pretty nice guys.”
(Zimmermann)
Every time I head out to
the range and assemble Sarah I turn around to see who else is gawking at her
beauty. I’m more social there than anywhere else, approaching strangers and
answering their questions about her. Sarah, in particular, loves to make people’s
day. To everyone I meet who’s never shot a fifty caliber before, I usually offer
a free round of ammo. Whenever they ask for it, I let them keep the brass from
the round they shot to commemorate the event. I honesty tell them I think
everyone should fire it at least once in their lives. The entire feeling is indescribably
awesome.
Rounds of ammunition aren’t merely fired off;
they’re detonated. A visible concussion wave radiates from the rifle’s muzzle
and, in my experience, forces a smile onto all of the faces within the blast
radius. A deafening boom loudly proclaims that greatness has just been
established. Wisps of gunpowder linger in the breeze, filling the nostrils with
a tale of victory. The reason recreational shooters flock to the BMG isn’t just
for the extended range or elevated wind resistance, they can’t get enough of the
rush they feel when they unleash projectiles over three thousand feet per
second to do an unreasonable amount of damage to a target.
Yes, it is excessive… wonderfully so. To me, Sarah
is the embodiment of the American Dream, the culmination of my hard work, and
my worthy reward. Americans too are called equally loud, demanding, obnoxious,
over-sized, and dwelling in excess, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather live
and there’s no gun I’d rather own. A lot of things have been said about the
fifty caliber giving it an atmosphere of danger or awesomeness. I would
encourage everyone who doesn’t know it, to forget their preconceptions and just
try it. If you ever see Sarah and me at the range or in the woods, she’ll be
happy to set the record straight.
“Though poets’ song and
artists’ brush may strive to tell of bliss, one need only pull the trigger to
know how close he is.
Works Cited
Kintisch, Eli. "Easy
Shot." New Republic 228.2 (2003): 18-20. Academic Search
Complete. Web. 16 Apr. 2012.
Wald, Matthew L. "Threats
and Responses: Airline Safety; Citing Danger to Planes, Group Seeks Ban on a
Sniper Rifle." New York Times 31 Jan. 2003: 13. Academic Search
Complete. Web. 16 Apr. 2012.
Zimmermann, Gary. Interview.
11 Apr. 2011
