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Weapon
of Choice
The steel barrel smoked in blue. The wooden stock was sleek and
well worn with a familiarity to it. The cold steel melded with the wood as
if as one. Well it really was one;
he smiled at the thought. Cleaning the Thompson was sort of a love affair for one
Sergeant Saunders. You had to
treat it right. Just like you treat your girl right. You had to keep it
clean and adjusted. You had
to have it ready to go at a moment’s notice. The Sergeant remembered about how he came to carry the
Thompson. Up to that point
he’d just had a regular Army issued M1.
It was a good gun but just didn’t have the speed and heft that he
had seen in the Tommygun. It seemed like an efficient machine. The squad
had been fighting with other King Company squads.
A bullet had shattered the stock of his M1.
Leaving him without a weapon.
He jumped into the next foxhole and found the Tommygun.
The previous owner deceased. Once
he picked it up that was all he wanted to shoot with.
He always made sure he had extra clips in all the pockets he could
fit them into. His Tommygun like the Sergeant was a solid piece of fighting
equipment. The weapon was
almost always available when needed.
Saunders tried to keep it in the best of condition but in it’s
many uses sometimes it would choke. Just
as someone would choke in a restaurant after ordering an expensive meal,
the Tommygun would sometimes jam at the most vulnerable of moments.
There were a few times when Saunders had tossed the weapon in an
angry disgusted move and resorted to his 45 on his hip.
There were times when his own weapon was
turned on him. During those moments he often times had wished he’d stuck
with an M1. Fortunately for
the Sergeant the outcomes of the reversal of ownership of his weapon were
mainly good. Other times with
the sling around his neck the Tommygun made an excellent resting spot for
weary hands.
The Tommygun went where he went, slept
where he slept, worked when he worked and rested when he rested.
Saunders thought back to all the river crossings, mud, sand,
weather and usually the weapon would still work.
Sleeping in caves, on the open ground, inside a building the weapon
was always nearby. How many times had he been in battles, how many miles had he
walked carrying the heavy weapon.
Saunders wondered what it would be like
after the war. He wouldn’t
have to carry a weapon, at least if he didn’t become a police officer.
Would he miss it? Would he feel naked without it for the first few months?
He contemplated these last thoughts. No, he wouldn’t miss laying
his Thompson down at the end of the War. It would mean no more killings. A
grin came to his face. The end of the War. A nice thought. |