Concerning Machine Guns
“Vickers Light Automatic, ·303,” so saith the machine gun handbook. Further on, it informs the reader that the gun weighs 38 lbs. when the water jacket is filled. These statements have been the subject of many bitter outbursts, and not a few have wondered whether they had a pair of scales at the War Office (this unfortunate institution is, of course, responsible for everything that goes wrong).
There have been countless instances where a sweating, cursing Billjim, struggling up a scorching precipice with the said Vickers Light Automatic, would have betted all his deferred pay that it weighed at least ten times as much as the handbook implies. Even on such kindergarten exercises as gun drill, wonder has often been expressed that “they” had the blooming neck to print such a fib. Still another proof that the real weight greatly exceeds the official figures. Watch the hefty No. 2, capable of lifting an 18 pdr., as, after continuous firing, he gets the order, “Out of action!” In a flash, the pins are wrenched out, he seizes the smoking gun where the protecting piece of puttee, numnah pad or sock isn’t, and instantly drops the weapon to the ground. Isn’t that convincing?
There are other minor details about the machine gun handbook that are apt to be misleading. It states that there is a No. 1, who is the boss and only carries the tripod—a flimsy toy of some 48 lbs. of brass and steel; next, a No. 2, who juggles with a Vickers Light Automatic; also a No. 3, who has nothing to do but carry a few boxes of ammunition, these being mere tin cases no bigger than the handbag he used to carry his pyjamas in, and containing only one belt; then there are a few other superfluous hangers-on; a No. 4, who aids the No. 3; a No. 5, who aids him; and soad infinitumdown to that humble creature, the pack leader, who holds three horses during an action.
Thus far, the handbook is perfect, photographic plates and all. Where the discrepancy comes in, is that there is no advice regarding a hitch. It has nothing to say about this: A person is observed toilingalong with the tripod, a box of 250 cartridges hanging on each leg, straddled across his shoulders; some distance behind him wobbles another sagging individual, bearing the gun, more belt boxes, a pick and a shovel; while a third—sometimes—struggles on with still more belt boxes, range-finder, spare parts wallet, a can of water, steam escape tube, a bag to prevent dust at the gun’s muzzle, and a few other trifles; and down in some more or less protected hollow, three or four distracted pack leaders curse away their last remaining hope of salvation trying to keep untangled the twenty-odd hungry brutes that crane their necks to nibble at infinitesimal, dead grass stalks. Let us dismiss the handbook.
The machine gun can be put to many uses. As a seat, it is admirable, also as a clothes horse for small gear; and as a horse rack, providing the animal doesn’t pull it over, it stands alone. It has also been known to remove Turkish folks from their ration strength—but accidents will happen.
The gunner is at his best when using his gun as anti-aircraft. He reverses the position of the gun on the tripod in order to get a sharper angle, and lies down on his back beneath it, pillowing his shoulders on some soft substance, such as the spare parts box. The No. 2 crouches alongside to tuck in—at this angle—the reluctant belt; the Taube approaches at a reasonable altitude, and then ratta-tatta-tatta stutters the gun.
A heartrending episode occurred in the Jordan Valley one morning. The guns, at the top of the precipitous cliffs lining the Jordan, were being snugly tucked away in their little dust-proof positions for the day, when sinister humming in the sky was heard. Out of the woolly, cumulus clouds a flock of Taubes dived and began their fell work. In a twinkling, the guns were violently slammed on the tripods, fresh, full belts rattled into the feed-blocks, and the gunners flopped into their positions, grimly inviting the visitors to come a bit closer and “have a fly.” They did, and answered the prompt leaden stream with their own guns.
One gun had been firing merrily at the wheeling Taubes for some time when the prostrate, grim-jawed No. 1 uttered a wild, squealing yell, and writhed fearfully. “Good God, Percy is hit!” cried young Bobbie, the No. 2, and he turned in alarm to his friend, who was out-writhing any live wire.
The No. 1 gasped and stuttered in his agony, but managed to ejaculate: “Hit, be dinged! It’s the bloomin’ hot shells that trickled inside me shirt. Hop into ’em!”
I give this illustration merely to show the risks attached to machine gunnery.
The Machine Gun Squadron is regarded as a desirable unit. It has numerous advantages over the Regiments; notably, there are no duties or fatigues to speak of, except, perhaps, stables, watering, rations, cook’s, Q.M.’s, road-making, laying interminable miles of stones in line, whitewashing same, erecting this, that and the other, cleaning saddlery, polishing reluctant steel work, an odd guard or two (mostly odd), and a few other trifles, which the conscientious soldier performs with assiduity and alacrity.
There is little else about machine guns to learn, they are so perfect that a machine gunner is now made in six weeks instead of six years. They have performed some remarkable work during the war, moral effect being one of their greatest assets—observe the sprightly vigour with which the officer inspecting outposts bounds away from the front of a machine gun position, where he has wandered by misadventure, when the man on guard sings out, “Machine gun here, Sir!”
The boys will be sorry to say good-bye to their vicious, stuttering pets; and let us hope that, the guns, when they are returned to Ordnance, will cease to (metaphorically) curl their lips in disdain at their humble and erratic poor relations, the Hotchkiss rifles of the Regiments.
“SARG.”
“SARG.”
“SARG.”
“SARG.”