For quite some time now the .50 caliber has been the bullet of choice for long range target interdiction. It has served very well. Its maximum range is around five miles, maximum effective range much shorter than that, but still quite adequate. This round has been around for a very long time. The primary weapon using the round was and is the .50 BMG (Browning Machine Gun) designed by John Browning. Affectionately called Ma Deuce by the troops (the official nomenclature is M-2), it was first used extensively in WW II and continues in service to the present day. In its machine gun configuration it is an area weapon, that is, its beaten zone (where the majority of the bullets will strike) is reasonably large. You want that in a machine gun - it makes little sense to send one bullet after another into the same target. However, it was also noted by sharp-eyed users that the bullet, which because of the relatively slow rate of fire of the M-2 could be shot single fire by trigger manipulation, was inherently very accurate on its own. Field expedient modifications followed. In my camp in '66 we bolted a hunting scope side-saddle on the M-2 and used it to engage targets in the mountains surrounding the camp. It made the enemy much more cautious about exposing themselves. Hit directly, I don't believe there are any survivable wounds from the .50.
Which brings up a point. Common (incorrect) wisdom has it that use of the .50 as an antipersonnel weapon is forbidden in the Geneva Convention. I used to believe that as well, so we justified its use by saying we weren't shooting at the person, but at the military equipment he was carrying. Later on I talked to a high-ranking Pentagon lawyer who assured me that the common wisdom was mistaken.
Anyway, a very smart weapons maker named Ronnie Barrett decided that what was needed was a precision rifle designed for the .50. In this there was precedent - antitank rifles shooting the .50 were used by U.S. and British forces as far back as WW II. The first problem was the recoil. Build a light enough weapon for a soldier to reasonably be able to carry and the recoil from the .50 is punishing, to say the least. A broken collar bone would not be unusual. To offset the recoil Barrett designed a muzzle brake that redirected the expelled gases to the rear, thus offsetting the ferocious recoil. The second problem was to design a weapon that was sturdy enough to handle the effect of what is, in reality, an explosion of some force, while still maintaining a weapon light enough to carry. The result was the Barrett .50 in various configurations (semi-automatic, single shot, bolt action) that met those parameters, but was still no lightweight. Tests followed, Special Operations Forces and the Marines were early customers, but the weapon didn't really come into its own until the Global War on Terror.
And therein came the next problem. As stated, the weapon itself, with scope, accessories, etc, is no lightweight. The ammunition itself is quite heavy. Add this to the equipment the shooter is already carrying (anywhere from 80 to 100 pounds), put him at 8,000 feet or more in the Hindu Kush, and you've got a problem. As mentioned in an earlier post, the standard military precision weapon until recently was in .308, good out to 600 meters. The enemy quickly learned to engage at distances past that with machine guns and mortars. .300 Winchester Magnum, recently adopted, will carry you out to a thousand, but oftentimes the engagements are far past that range. The .50 was the only answer.
Until the .338 Lapua. And that was the real story at this year's SHOT Show. But more about that in the next post.
Another story. If you spent any time at all in Special Forces, you were sooner or later going to be sent to language school, generally at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California. Most of us welcomed the assignment - it was a six month to year break (depending on the language) from deployment or the incessant training that took place between deployments. My first language was French, then Russian, and finally Spanish. With any luck you got an assignment thereafter that let you use the training. Sometimes you did not, and inevitably the proficiency degraded.
After retirement, and finding out very quickly that the civilian world didn't have a lot of use for my peculiar skills, I accepted an assignment training a special battalion in Saudi Arabia, staying there for three years. Most, if not all, of my fellow instructors were former S.F. Old friendships were renewed, new ones made. Two in particular, whom I'll call Brooke and Billy, and I hung together. At one point we decided to take a short break and caught a flight to Bangkok. We flew on Saudia, which was an interesting experience since most of our fellow passengers were Saudis. At one point I smelled something burning, only to observe one of our fellow passengers firing up a CampingGaz propane stove in the aisle, boiling water for chai.
Billy had been delayed for a day, so Brooke and I headed to the Presidential Hotel, an old S.F. hangout from the Vietnam War. Presidential it was not. To say it was third world would be giving it a lot more credit than it deserved. Geckos prowled the walls, serenading us with their mating call, which sounded for all the world like F... You. Bet you don't see that on Geico commercials.
Anyway, our first job was to fill up tanks sorely depleted from months in a place where alcohol was totally prohibited, and we did a fine job.
The next morning we were feeling it. All I wanted to do at that point was to sleep it off, and maybe steam it out of my system in the baths that helped make Bangkok famous. It was not to be. Billy arrived like a whirlwind and demanded that we get our sorry asses out of bed, and that the medicine to make that happen was beer. "I'll order it from room service," he said. "I speak Thai."
Billy gets on the phone and raps off a string of Thai. I was suitably impressed, enough that I was looking forward to the six Singha beers he'd ordered (two for each, of course). Shortly thereafter room service knocked on the door, carrying a tray loaded with six glasses of milk.
"It's the tone," Billy insisted. "Just got to get the tone right."
Later in the day we were in a bar (imagine that!) and Billy struck up a conversation with one of the young ladies who frequented the place. The next thing any of us know Billy says something in Thai and the young lady draws back ready to slap the hell out of him. The bartender calmed her down and she left in a huff. "I was trying to tell her that she was my horse if she never ran a race," Billy said.
"What you said was, you're my dog even if you don't walk fast."
Despite Billy's problems with tone, we survived the trip.
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