Weapon of Mass Destruction

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.       -Nate Lee

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